“She didn’t mean to break the statue. In fact, I think she was partially asleep. It would be nice, however, to know more of her background.”
“I looked through her backpack before you took it to the hospital. Five hundred pounds, about twenty euros, a fancy music system, and a pay-as-you-go mobile phone with no saved numbers and the history deleted. No university identification, either.”
“Doesn’t that tell you something is wrong? Too much cash, no identification. I hope she’s safe. She seemed vulnerable.”
“As long as she remains in the house, she’ll be fine.”
…
As soon as Alex heard the last roars of Henry’s car driving off, she made her move. She’d spoken too freely to a man she barely knew. And though she wanted to trust Henry, what did she know about him? An anthropology professor, more likely an assistant professor, with a few million dollars’ worth of art, running a battered women’s shelter, and living with a guy who looked like a bodyguard, knew his way around a kitchen, and acted more like a fraternity brother than an employee. Sure they seemed trustworthy. So did successful criminals.
Instead of following her instincts, she’d do the opposite. Don’t trust Henry; run from him, as she should have done with Luc. Then perhaps her life could start moving toward a comfortable future.
She entered the bathroom, tossed her color contacts, and then found a pair of scissors. A blunt cut at the shoulders would be easiest to manage. Pink hair fell to the sink in chunks. She refused to give herself bangs, preferring to hide her face. The back would look pretty uneven, but she didn’t have time to worry about perfection. As she snipped away inches of hair, she gained hope. Saying a quick good-bye to her grunge persona, she flushed the strands down the toilet and coated the remaining hair in the black dye she’d saved for just this purpose.
A short time later, dressed in a bright blue floral sundress and a heavy wool cardigan as her only protection against the chilly March air, a black-haired woman with brown eyes, short pink nails, and red running sneakers departed from Henry’s house, never looking back.
She took an old bike from his garage and flipped her backpack over her shoulders. The bike needed a tune-up, but she managed to pedal it through rows of old stone buildings and traffic circles. A slow drizzle of rain slowed her pace. She’d changed the bandage on her hand before she left, but now it was soaked and made her fingers ache. When she arrived at the train station, she’d have to remove it.
Reaching the city limits, she coasted past fields and the dark silhouettes of farmhouses and stone walls. And then the sky opened up and released a torrential wall of rain that only a woman with nothing left to lose would try to navigate. Her tears blended with the rain, and the tension in her body stiffened as the cold leeched through to her skin.
One quick phone call and she’d be seated in the first-class section of the next plane to Boston and home, but that call would also bind her family to her nightmare. She wouldn’t risk their safety. She’d never been the best daughter or sister, but she refused to be the worst.
She headed south of Oxford toward Abingdon. She could catch a train at the smaller station, and no one would follow her. Hopefully. The drama of the past two days combined with the downpour made the strenuous pedaling even more difficult. Darkness and rain hid the imperfections of the road, and she struggled to keep the bike upright. She tried to ignore the tingling in her hands, but focusing on physical pain made all that emotional crap disappear.
One lucky break, was that so much to ask for?
The road continued on forever, but her legs had found their rhythm. The faint lights of Abingdon appeared on the horizon, beckoning her forward. She picked up speed, but didn’t see the broken curbing until the tire buckled. And she fell to the ground.
Chapter Six
Simon and Henry arrived at Club Napa in Covent Garden in time for cocktail hour. Located in an old gymnasium, the club catered to the young, the famous, and the well connected. Victorian woodwork, large oak floors, and crystal chandeliers provided the place with an old-world feel. Mobile phones remained in everyone’s hands, constantly available for the big money shot of a drunken actress, a singer high on heroin, or a newly minted reality star flashing her breasts. Scantily clad women in black, always black, milled about trying to attract the attention of a potential billionaire. One unplanned pregnancy and money would flow in their direction, no marriage necessary.
“Drink?” Simon asked.
“The usual.”
“I’ll be back.” He disappeared, leaving Henry alone between several groups of people discussing impressive things to make themselves seem more impressive.
A too-familiar heavyset gentleman garnished with a large graying mustache covering both his upper and lower lips lumbered toward him. As always, Uncle George wore his black tuxedo jacket open, unable to button it over his rounded stomach.
“Henry. Nice to see you here.” He clapped Henry’s shoulder.
“You look well.”
“As well as can be expected, I suppose. You’ve most likely heard my bill to create a tax-free zone in the shipyards stalled in committee. Three years of work in the loo. Disappointing.”
“I would imagine.” Henry scanned the room for Simon. No luck. He turned back to his uncle.
Uncle George’s election to the House of Commons allowed him to bore his companions with a one-way stream of drivel and enough ammunition to belittle every one of Henry’s life decisions. Although he wasn’t following his family into government service, Henry would be leaving his mark on the world. If he could get the original painting back.
“How is Aunt Mary?”
“She stays busy with her charity outreach. How’s your little charity thing going? Homeless women, isn’t it?”
“Battered women. I need more financing and a few corporate backers, but otherwise, it’s moving along.” Henry looked over his uncle’s shoulder and across the crowd.