Unpredictable Love

  “Seems I was wrong.”

  “Well, you can’t delete it. It’s embedded in you.”

  “Dreams and nightmares doona mix.”

  “Tavish, I can’t promise you your nightmares will go away, but I can say dreams soothe. Let this dream transmute itself into your reality.”

  “To think a dream can become reality—”

  “I didn’t say that.” She laughed kindly. “Isn’t it funny that people only hear what they want instead of what is said?”

  He exhaled, annoyed. “Beatrice, philosophy doesn’t fit in here.”

  “Oh!” she mocked. “Nietzsche is turning in his grave.”

  “Are you going to pester me today?”

  “Not as much as I wish. We’re almost over.” With gentleness, she said, “Beauty is the balm for hopelessness. To be able to see it—in any way—it’s a confirmation we’re alive, that we didn’t surrender. The best way out of pain and hurtful experiences. I like that you have found it in her and that she sees it so easily in you.”

  He sighed.

  “My dear, what you desire most is what you fear. If you were able to see her light, it’s inside you,” Dr. Cecil said. “You can blow out the candle.”

  He inhaled sharply and turned his haunted eyes to her. “I canna.”

  “Of course you can,” she insisted. “Blow the candle, Tavish.”

  “I—I . . .” He ran a hand down his face. “I . . .”

  Dr. Cecil watched him swallow hard a few times.

  Tavish fixed his eyes on the flickering flame, took a deep breath, and blew.

  And when there was no more light in the room, he saw his inner sun come out.

  Warwickshire

  7:18 p.m.

  Alejandro Langley pursed his lips, annoyed, as he walked out of the bar toward his brand-new Jaguar. He had waited for more than an hour for the contact, but no one appeared. He was opening the car door when his mobile buzzed, startling him.

  “Shit,” he muttered, as he recognized the number on the screen. He leaned on the Jaguar and answered belligerently, “News flash! The time you’ve paid for has ticked away.”

  The male voice on the other side of the line was soft and polite, the apologies profuse. Alejandro hummed noncommittally, leaving space for another proposal, which came immediately.

  “That’s a whole new job, man.” Alejandro’s lips opened in a smile. “I can reconsider. Depending on your offer, of course.”

  His hand ran over the hood of the car as he listened to the man on the other side of the line make a very good proposition of what would be the easiest job in his life.

  “I’m your best option, if not only. Double it, and I’m back on your payroll.” He laughed dryly. “Ah, Mr. Kinsella . . . don’t bother to call me back if you can’t match my figure.”

  He ended the call before an answer could be heard and headed back to the bar. He asked for a beer, then sat himself behind a computer, waiting for the e-mail he knew would be coming in at any minute.

  London, The City

  The City of London Bank headquarters

  Sunday, October 26, 2014

  7:30 a.m.

  Tavish pulled his iPhone from his pocket and glanced at the message. “Let’s go.”

  Laetitia chewed on her lip. “Have they . . . ?”

  He couldn’t lie. “They already know she is dead, but they want to meet ye before they agree with Alistair Connor’s idea to cede ye the right tae use their daughter’s name.”

  “Is that even possible?” she asked.

  Tavish fisted his hands. “Nae, but Alistair will make it possible. We need some time tae arrange it with them and then with the authorities.”

  I’d have never opened my door. Never. From the garage to the top floor of the posh and elegant building where the MacCraig family bank was housed, many scenarios passed through Laetitia’s fearful imagination: from the mother screaming that she was a fake, to the police coming to cuff her and take her to prison.

  The building was virtually empty but for the few floors where business deals were being closed in multiple places all around the world.

  The elevator doors opened, and instantly two huge men straightened from the wall, then relaxed again. “Mr. MacCraig. Miss Galen. Good morning.”

  “Zareb. Steven.” Tavish greeted Sophia’s personal bodyguards.

  “Good morning,” Laetitia said.

  Tavish’s heavy footsteps and Laetitia’s high heels echoed in the elevator halls of the floor, but then, a moment later, they were walking over a fluffy carpeted reception room.

  It seemed to take an eternity, but when she stopped outside the tall door of the main meeting room, Laetitia squeezed Tavish’s hand, hard. “I need more time.”

  “I doona think you have it, Little Elf.”

  She looked at her shaking hands. “What am I going to say?”

  “The truth. We are in this together, Laetitia. Whatever ye decide, whatever ye want, I’m here to back ye up. But doona forget. If things get out of hand, let Alistair Connor deal with them. Sophia is good with people, too. If you need tae leave, just look at me.” Before he opened the tall, wide door to the main meeting room, Tavish lifted her hands and kissed them. “You can do it, Little Elf. I believe in ye.”

  Yes, I can do it. I’ve been doing this all my life. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. “Thank you.” Today, I have a . . . partner. Whatever that is supposed to mean.

  Laetitia squared her shoulders, breathed deep, and stared up at him. In his sea-green eyes, there was that turbulence that did not reflect on his face but told her he would be ready to do battle for her.

  She breathed again, relaxed her shoulders, and smiled.

  Laetitia knew the value of putting a smile on a sad face—it told others that life was good, that nothing was bothering or paining her, so they wouldn’t notice or ask what she was feeling. Sometimes, it made her feel that she was really happy.

  With courage it was different. Courage didn’t need to be worn outside but felt inside. And right now, she was not feeling very courageous.

  “Perfect. No one can resist this smile of yours.” He held the door open for her.

  The room was huge and made to impress: a long mahogany table with tall comfortable chairs; expensive paintings hanging on the walls; and, at the end, tall ceiling-to-floor windows overlooking the Thames.

  To Laetitia, the room narrowed on a man and a woman with reddened eyes sitting at the far side of the table.

  She felt Tavish’s hand on the small of her back, encouraging her, and advanced.

  “Mrs. Galen. Mr. Galen.” Alistair rose. “This is—”

  The woman stood up abruptly.

  Laetitia gasped, turned, and buried her face in Tavish’s chest, shaking her head, her hands gripping his cardigan.

  Claire Galen was wearing a long-sleeve white shirt imprinted with a photograph of her daughter when she was small, and Laetitia felt as if she had just murdered the little girl.

  “Laetitia, it’s OK.” He held her against him when her legs gave way. “It’s OK.”

  “No, it’s not.” She was going to hurt those parents unnecessarily if she told the truth. And she was going to be hurt even more if she didn’t. “It’s not OK. It has never been.”

  “Miss.”

  Claire Galen was beside her, but she couldn’t look at the woman’s face or at the photograph of her daughter.

  “Please, no. I can’t do this.” She continued to shake her head, small sobs racking her body. She wanted to curl on herself and sleep and forget everything. “How could I have done it?”

  “What have you done?” John Galen crowded her by the other side. “What have you done!”

  “Back up!” Tavish pushed at the man. Putting an arm under her buttocks, he hoisted her up and retreated a few steps. “Stay right where you are. I’m taking her away, Alistair Connor.”

  She broke out in sobs, pounding her fists on Tavish’s chest. “I have done nothing. Nothing.” br />
  “Let her speak! It’s my daughter she’s talking about,” John shouted.

  “She’s dead.” Laetitia buried her face in his neck. “There was nothing I could do. There wasn’t.”

  “Mr. Galen.” Alistair stepped in between them and put a hand on the man’s chest, keeping him in place. “Shouting will get you nowhere. She is distressed. Give her a minute.”

  “Miss, I’m Claire. Laetitia’s mother.”

  “Mrs. Galen, please sit,” Sophia asked, taking the woman by the arm.

  Claire shook Sophia off her and advanced, not afraid of Tavish, not afraid of Alistair; she had nothing to be afraid of anymore. “Have you met her . . . was she your friend? Please, miss, I need to know.”

  “I have done nothing . . . I was as dead as she was . . .” She heaved a shuddering breath and then another. Hugging his neck, she whispered, “I was dead, and she gave me life, Tavish. She deserves to know. I have to tell her. It’s the least I can do after so much Laetitia has given me.” And so much pain I’ve caused her parents.

  “Are ye sure?” Tavish asked in a whisper.

  No. “Yes, I am,” Laetitia answered, her face still buried on his neck. “I—I need a moment, just a moment.” A moment for the rest of my life.

  “Tavish Uilleam,” Sophia said, “she might like to wash her face.”

  “Aye.” He stared down at Claire, and his voice was too quiet when he said, “If ye wish tae know something about your daughter—anything—you’ll be right here when I come back and with everything settled, every single detail agreed to.”

  CHAPTER 42

  8:01 a.m.

  “She was scared when she arrived—very much so. But . . . she was a good kid, easygoing, nothing like me.” Laetitia let out a half sob, half laugh. “As time passed by . . . she . . . forgot and adapted. I’m sorry, Mrs. Galen, Mr. Galen, I didn’t know you were looking for her.”

  They had moved into Alistair’s private office. The Galens sat huddled together on a sofa in front of Tavish, Laetitia, and Sophia, with Alistair in an armchair between them.

  Sophia had provided water, tea, coffee, and cookies, which remained untouched.

  “There were other children—women who shared the motherhood. She . . . it was not that bad there, you know?” She took a trembling, aching breath into her chest, which didn’t seem to be working properly anymore. “If you obeyed the rules.”

  “And what were the rules?”

  Laetitia felt the father’s eyes on her. “I guess they exist in every family. Hours to do things, hours to eat, shower, pray, well, I don’t know, I was not very welcomed there. Everything I did . . . it was . . . they had rules there. Laetitia followed them.”

  “Oh, John, what did they do to our baby?” Claire sobbed.

  Laetitia wiped the back of her hand against her eyes. “It was not that bad, Mrs. Galen. Not that bad.”

  “How did she die? When?”

  “In her sleep.” Laetitia balled Tavish’s handkerchief in her hand, and her shoulders hunched even more, making her look like a fragile child. “But I can’t tell you why, not even when. Around eight years ago. I can’t be of much help. I don’t even know . . . how old I am. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to apologize, Laetitia.” Tavish growled and pulled her closer to his body. He wanted to take her out of there, to whisk her into his apartment and keep her there forever, taking all the doubts away from those beautiful violet-blue eyes, which shone with tears of pain instead of love.

  “How old do you think you are?” Alistair asked, speaking for the first time since they had moved into his office.

  “More than twenty-three. Perhaps twenty-four, even twenty-five.” She looked at Claire. “Laetitia would have been—”

  “Twenty-two, last August,” whispered Claire.

  “How did you keep track of your age?” asked Alistair.

  She put a hand on Tavish’s knee, and he covered it with his. “By the dates on the graves. When I learned to read and write . . . I put . . . each year, when one girl died, near the same date of one the year before, I would chose one and write my name there. That’s how I kept track of time. With the dead, in the cemetery.”

  “Did girls die there frequently?” Alistair was now on the edge of his seat. “What was your name?”

  “The first time, it was on Angela Martin’s grave. It was there that I buried The-girl-who-has-no-name and became Angela. In the following year, it was on Carmen Garcia’s, where I wrote Angela’s name.” Laetitia shrugged, feeling small as she had never felt in years. “Then I became Lauren, Kara, Marselle, Josephine . . . I am Laetitia because—I mean, I’m using Laetitia’s name because hers was the last grave—”

  Tension radiated from Tavish, tight and edgy. It was shredding him to see her so humble and guilty of a horror that she had also been a victim of, and he could do nothing about it. “Alistair Connor, you settle the rest with the Galens—”

  “Hold on, Tavish Uilleam,” Alistair ordered. “Did girls die there frequently, Laetitia?”

  “Babies, girls, women, sometimes men. Some from overdosing on the tea, some from doing it, others from childbirth. Natural causes. There is a big community living there. Whole families. Once or twice, one of the visitors had a problem, difficulty breathing and all that, mostly because of the tea, and the visions . . . they are mind altering . . . but . . . well, there were doctors attending them.”

  Sophia looked into Alistair’s eyes and then put a soothing hand over Laetitia’s knee. “Laetitia, did they deal in human trafficking?”

  “Human—?” Laetitia’s head snapped up. “My God! Do you think . . . ?”

  Years ago, in some book she had read, there was a theory that postulated that the human mind was little different from a computer, and one of the primary functions of sleep was downtime to integrate new program files, run backup subroutines, defragment, and dump minutiae, so one could start fresh the next day. She had been starting fresh since she left Ireland, throwing away all detritus that didn’t—couldn’t—fit inside.

  “Did children, women, and men appear sometimes without explanations?” Sophia insisted. “And disappear, suddenly? Or perhaps, when someone visited?”

  “I—” She put a fisted hand on her mouth, her mind accessing buried, trashed data, allowing her to see what she would have seen much sooner if she had not been blinded by her own inner chaos. “No, not disappeared, just died. But, yes, babies were brought in. But not kids. Laetitia . . . Laetitia was . . . one of the oldest.” She looked to Sophia, as she heard a sudden buzzing in her ears. “I’ve always thought I was an orphan. It is a monastery, after all. And they told us . . . at least me . . . no one wanted me. The others, they were wanted, cared for.” The buzz grew louder. She put a hand on her forehead, her mind suddenly processing everything that had stayed buried for years, her mouth very dry, her heart very cold.

  “You’re tired,” Tavish said. “We can finish this another—”

  “Yes, I am tired, but I’d rather end this now. I’m certain you’ll be able to make some sense of it or discover more after—” She shook her head and gazed around, sure of what she wanted. She squared her shoulders. “I won’t answer any more questions. I’m telling what I know, now, the way I know, confusing as it is.”

  The Galens started to protest; Sophia, to reason; Alistair, to order.

  Tavish simply raised his palm and waited until the room was quiet. “Ye doona have a choice. It’ll be as she wants. Or not. Agreed?”

  The expressions on their faces clearly said they disagreed, but, one by one, they nodded.

  “Very well. I was not a part of it, I mean, the religion . . . Geoffrey, the leader, he didn’t like me. There were women and men . . . sometimes teenagers, who were eager to become brothers and sisters, happy to work and live peacefully in the middle of nowhere. I guess the opening of the mind was a strong call. It was strange, a life lived as if in the Amazon: they hunted their food, produced their own medicines and poisons, dres
sed in clothes produced locally, yet lived in a luxury monastery, which received guests in lavish parties.” She took a deep breath, producing the only sound in the room. “There was—is this . . . tea, or cocktail they drink, and their prayers and their rituals, purifications for those who stayed for a time, and baptisms for those who . . . moved there. I knew they happened often, but I was young and afraid . . . I saw them only once. They used blood . . . the barn owls . . . and . . . and there were—I—”

  She looked around. Five shocked pairs of eyes were glued to her wet face, but the only ones that could ground her were Tavish’s.

  She let herself be surrounded by his turbulence, let herself feel the power of his hands on her shoulders. He is here for you.

  She moistened her dry lips, tasting the salt of her tears on her tongue, feeling them as they came faster. “And there were human offerings, kind of a contemporary virgin sacrifice, a ritual of passage, willing or not, complete with iron branding and all that. I was one of them. On that night, I ran away with the help of . . .” The lesser of the devils, that’s with whom I’ve made a bargain.

  “Of?” Tavish spit out.

  “I ran away with help.” She lowered her head and said no more.

  Tavish MacCraig’s apartment

  12:11 p.m.

  “Christ. This is like those stories you read in shitty newspapers. Sophia is dumbfounded. She doesn’t rule out the possibility of it being some sinister cult, with a trafficking ring to serve its own purpose.” Alistair paced the length of Tavish’s living room, raking a hand through his black hair. He sat down, resting his face on his palm, and observed his brother. “How are you feeling?”

  Like shit. Tavish didn’t feel like answering. He felt like brooding. He thinned his lips into a white line.

  Alistair rose and started pacing again. “Do you need . . . ?”

  “Nae, I’m not taking drugs anymore.” Tavish rose and grabbed a bottle of whisky and two glasses from the bar. “A dram will do.”