“Well, we’re done.” She sat heavily in the chair by my bed with a long sigh.
It’d been a long day...for both of us.
“The results of your blood work will be back tomorrow, and Dr Annaz is getting a second opinion on your internal examination.”
I wanted to ask why they needed a second opinion...what’s wrong?
But she continued, “For now, you’re patched up from your recent injuries, and another officer has interrogated the culprit who hurt you. His girlfriend is pressing charges, but as there are two other witnesses who aren’t, we’ll hold off writing you up for another twenty-four hours until we have confirmed reports and know where to go from here.”
Taking a sip of her coffee, she added, “Seeing as you’re still in my custody and by your own admittance have nowhere to go, you’ll spend the night here. Rest, have some dinner, and I’ll come get you first thing in the morning.” Her eyes met mine. “A guard will be posted outside your door so you don’t run.”
“I won’t run.”
She smiled. “I know. You’re a good girl, Tasmin. We’ll get this mess straightened out.”
No matter how many times I’d been called Tasmin today, it still sounded wrong.
I was Pimlico...for better or for worse.
Carlyn finished her coffee. “Once we get your results back tomorrow, and know where we stand with the case, it might be time to start tracking down a family member, don’t you? Find a way to get you home—if we can just chalk this incident up to a misdemeanour.”
Home.
Free.
Safe.
Even though it was bittersweet.
Even though I wished it was Elder taking me the final way.
Even though there were so many unknowns.
I burst into tears of gratitude.
Chapter Seven
______________________________
Elder
I COULDN’T FIND her.
Out of all the cities in all the countries in the world, I preferred Monaco the best and not because of the tax haven and rich safety surrounding the French Rivera. I loved it for its air of individualism and respect. No one had to bow to anyone.
Now, the place was on my shit list.
How could Pimlico vanish so spectacularly?
Not one café worker had seen the girl I described.
Not one shopkeeper admitted to seeing her loiter on the streets.
I travelled to train stations and ferry terminals and the airport.
Between Selix and I, we covered most areas I could think of...and nothing.
Darkness had fallen, and I finally had to admit that my body needed sustenance and my mind needed sleep.
This missing her devoured me from the inside out, and if I didn’t start being smart, I’d lose her for good.
My phone buzzed.
Selix: In the business district. A security guard said he saw a girl matching Pim’s description being shoved into a police car.
Christ!
I was an imbecile.
Why hadn’t I thought to check the police stations around town? It should’ve been as obvious as checking the points of exit in this damn country.
Clutching my phone, I prepared to charge back into the night and ransack every precinct I could. Only...
Why do the leg-work when I had a better way?
Chapter Eight
______________________________
Pimlico
THE NEXT DAY brought the results of my medical tests.
It was not a good day.
Dr Annaz was the one to deliver the news.
At the start, I listened remotely, as if she reeled off bodily complications about another person and not me. She repeated what I already knew: that I had early onset arthritis, a minor hearing problem from being cuffed around the head, and vision that would most likely need glasses thanks to all the tricks he’d played.
That was nothing.
That was livable.
The last thing she told me was not.
By the time she finished, I wrapped arms around my womb and fought the rageful tears threatening to flow.
I thought I was done hearing things that could hurt me.
I was wrong.
So wrong.
Alrik, it seemed, had scarred me so bad internally, he’d ruined any chances of me conceiving. The items he’d used, the incorrect lubrications he’d smeared, had turned me infertile.
I can never get pregnant.
I didn’t need those terrible injections he gave me. I didn’t need to ever worry about contraception again.
I was barren. Useless. Empty.
I’d never even thought about children until the moment I was told I could never have any.
It was as if a dream I’d never dreamt turned out to be a reality I wanted more than anything. Only to be told I had to remain in this nightmare.
It was surreal.
It was unthinkable.
It was as if Alrik had reached from the grave and stolen yet more from me.
I was left alone for a time to process yet another tragedy, and by the time I was escorted back to the police station, I had vowed an oath never to think about it.
To forget how it felt to be told I could never have something I suddenly desperately wanted and get used to the idea without having a panic attack. Who cared if my femininity had been ripped to shreds by a monster I wanted to murder all over again?
I was still alive.
Still here.
Still winning.
Luckily, the interrogation kept my mind on other things.
Just like yesterday, my treatment was unlike any of the police shows I’d seen. There was no good cop, bad cop. No slamming hands on metal tables or being peppered with hardnosed questions. Just the same courteous kindness and respect that I still couldn’t get used to.
My sundress wasn’t warm enough against the station’s vapid air-conditioning, and somewhere along the line, someone had given me a cosy knitted cream jumper that acted as a hug as I huddled deeper and deeper into my chair.
I’d been fed, showered, given a new pair of shoes, and the bruises on my skin had darkened to a nice mosaic that even Alrik would’ve been proud of.
The first part of the day’s questioning hadn’t been easy because I honestly had no answers.
Where had I been kept?
How had I been taken there?
Where was the place where I was sold?
All I could tell them was my cell had been a white mansion on a hill, I’d been taken by private plane, and I’d been sold to men with paper mache masks at an event called the QMB.
Other questions were dangerously personal.
Who had saved me and where had they gone?
Why hadn’t I contacted my mother the moment I was free?
Who had sewed up my tongue after what had happened to me?
Those, I hedged.
I refused to answer with the truth and instead gave half-starts and nonsense-rambles.
I didn’t mention Elder’s name once.
There was no way I would get him into trouble—especially after everything he’d done for me. I merely told them a good Samaritan with money had found me, taken me from my master, and paid for my medical upkeep.
I definitely didn’t tell them about pulling the trigger and shooting Alrik or the god-awful sound of Darryl’s neck snapping in Elder’s strong hands.
Those were secrets for a reason, and I protected them with all my might.
Just like the unmentionable that I was no longer able to have a son or daughter.
Other questions I threw myself wholeheartedly into.
What was my mother’s name?
Her date of birth?
Anything I could give them to find her faster?
By afternoon, a Caesar salad was delivered, and I was left alone to eat while my answers were undoubtedly processed in their system.
I expected more of the same after eating, but Carlyn arrived, sombre
and strained. The usual sweetness on her face had been replaced with stark tension.
Wait...what’s happened?
I shifted in my chair, pulling my jumper tight around me.
Her eyes pinched as she sat in the chair in front of me, resting the file she carried on the table. “Hello, Tasmin.”
I jolted.
Partly from that name still not belonging to me and mostly because her tone filled me with dread. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
For an insane moment, I wished she’d call me Pim.
I hated the name Pimlico for so many reasons, but I felt more in tune with that girl than this new imposter pretending to be Tasmin. I needed to find some courage even if it came from false places. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Officer Grey spread slightly trembling fingers over the file. “I have some news.”
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the logo on the top of the paperwork followed by a grainy photo of a woman I didn’t think I’d ever see again.
My mother.
Shakes took hold of me with a cruelty I couldn’t deny. I wanted to demand she tell me everything, but once again, muteness became my shield.
My throat closed up.
My eyes blurred.
My heart galloped.
What is it?
Tell me!
She patted the file. “Do you know anything about your mother? Since you last saw her the night of her charity gala?”
I shook my head, unable to unglue my eyes from that tiny grainy photograph.
Mum...
Carlyn’s shoulders slouched a little, condolences already filling her gaze.
I stiffened.
I couldn’t hold back the question. “Is...is she dead?” Numbness followed on the syllable of that awful, awful question, already protecting me from the answer.
If she was dead, I was truly alone. If she was dead...how did that make me feel? I loved her because she was my mother. But I didn’t necessarily like her. But at the same time, she represented my future, my past, and my one chance at finding somewhere safe to recover without relying on Elder or his magical floating palace called the Phantom.
Carlyn gave me half a smile. “No, she’s not dead.”
My lungs stopped working. Wasn’t that good news? Why did she sit there almost afraid to tell me the rest? When neither of us spoke, she murmured, “Something...happened when you were taken.”
My mind raced ahead, trying to figure out what she was about to say.
What happened? What could my mother have been capable of—
A blizzard howled down my spine.
I sucked in a harsh breath.
No.
It’s not possible.
All this time, I’d hoped my snatching was an opportunist deviant who spied a naïve little girl and saw dollar signs instead of a human life. But what if my mother—in all her studies and work with paedophiles and criminals—had somehow embraced the darker part of her psyche?
What if she’d sold me as an experiment?
What if she’d given me up to a monster to study my survival from afar?
The idea was preposterous and far too farfetched, but it didn’t stop the concept from morphing into a terrible nightmare of her using me as a guinea pig on how a white girl with a middle-class upbringing could survive rape and torture and mind games.
How much I could endure before I broke...
“...I’m so sorry, Tasmin.”
I looked up, shocked to find Carlyn had spoken—had delivered the truth—and I hadn’t paid attention. Fear that she wouldn’t repeat the news had me throwing myself forward, grabbing her hands with mine. “What did you say?”
She frowned at where I touched her but didn’t reprimand. “I said I’m sorry that you’ll be alone. That your family apartment was sold, your furniture auctioned off, and your childhood dismantled because of what your mother did.”
The shakes were back a thousand times worse. “And what did my mother do?”
She blanched a little before pushing the paperwork toward me. “See for yourself.” She lowered her voice. “A crime is a crime, and I will never be sympathetic to those paying for what they’ve done, but the woman in me understands why your mother did what she did. After meeting you, I can see why.”
See why what?
My fingers scrambled at the paper, tugging it close and smoothing out the curled-up corners. My mother’s photo was over-exposed and pixelated, but one proper look showed me everything I needed to.
It was a mug shot.
The board in front of her stated the date of her arrest, her height, weight, and date of birth.
Her face, so similar to mine with its button nose, high cheekbones, and wide eyes, was harsh and almost proud. She didn’t stare into the camera as a criminal—hunched with remorse and pissed at what her future held.
Hell, no.
She stared victorious and vindictive as if daring the photographer to take away her accomplishments.
Why was she arrested?
What did she do?
In no universe could I understand my mother throwing away her career. She worked in the prisons out of sick professional curiosity on what made rapists and murderers tick, but she always returned home at night. She’d go stir-crazy locked up with the same people she studied like rats in an experiment.
My eyes reluctantly left her photo, my fingers drifting to her face as if needing to keep contact even while I read the brief report.
Prisoner: 890776E
Name: Sonya Blythe
Summary of crime as follows:
Sonya Blythe filed a report on the 3rd of November 2014 stating her daughter, Tasmin Blythe, had been kidnapped from her popular charity ball held at the Baglioni Hotel near the suburb of Pimlico, London. An investigation was on-going but to no success. After the initial interviewing of all the guests at the charity ball, no new leads were forthcoming, and the case stalled.
I glanced at Carlyn. It wasn’t news to her that I was that girl. That my slave name was Pimlico after where I’d been stolen and that the missing person file on me could be closed thanks to my reappearance.
She knew that because she’d already uncovered the file on my disappearance. It was yet another reason she was on my side instead of persecuting me for stealing. She knew I was telling the truth.
I kept reading.
The case for Tasmin Blythe’s whereabouts is still on-going. Due to her own impatience in this matter, Sonya Blythe admitted in her confession that she felt let down by the police and took justice into her own hands.
Oh, my God.
My hands shook as I read faster.
After two months of research, which she willingly handed over to authorities, Sonya Blythe uncovered the man responsible for her daughter’s kidnapping was a Mr. Keith Kewet. A man who had a reputation for under-aged girls and a flashy lifestyle that couldn’t be maintained by his regular city planning job. Instead of alerting the task force in charge of her daughter’s disappearance, Sonya Blythe took it upon herself to subdue and imprison Keith Kewet in order to extract answers.
I slapped a hand over my mouth.
Sonya Blythe kept Keith Kewet alive for four days using her own techniques to extract the truth. She used a lie detector test from her contacts at work and enlisted other unsatisfactory methods disclosed during her confession. During this time, she managed to gather the truth that he was the culprit for her daughter’s disappearance, where he had taken her, and recorded all interactions as evidence.
As part of the video log Sonya Blythe recorded, she said she would turn him over to authorities in the morning, and hopefully, the London police could find her daughter and bring her home.
How had she done this?
Why had she done this?
I didn’t think she cared about me...yet, she’d hunted down my killer. She’d found him. She’d done something the police hadn’t been able to do.
Unfortunately, later that evening, Keith Kewet
managed to escape the apartment in which he was being imprisoned, and Sonya Blythe chased after him.
She struck him with a well-aimed bookend to the back of his head, and he fell down the apartment steps. Neighbours heard the commotion and man’s screams and left their homes to investigate. There are multiple reports that Sonya Blythe then bludgeoned Keith Kewet to death, all while cursing him for taking her daughter. Despite his breaking a leg when he fell down the stairs and being unable to run, she didn’t stop hitting him until he was dead.
My eyes glassed with tears.
She’d killed...for me.
Instead of turning herself in to authorities, Sonja Blythe grabbed her passport, gave the video-tape of his confession to a neighbour, and jumped on a plane to Germany where a sex trafficking ring called the QMB, Quarterly Market of Beauties, was supposedly where her daughter was sent to be sold.
A few hours after her crime was reported, Sonya Blythe’s passport was frozen, and German authorities tracked her down upon her arrival into Munich. She was expatriated to England and found guilty by her own admission and sentenced to seventeen years with no parole for the manslaughter of Keith Kewet.
Authorities, both English and German, did their best to track down the QMB but to no avail. Both the trafficking ring and Tasmin Blythe are still yet to be found.
Tears plopped onto the file, turning the paper translucent and the ink glowing with every hardship my mother endured.
How could I think so terribly of her?
How could I ever believe she didn’t love me?
She’d committed murder for me.
She threw away her life, her career, her future all because she couldn’t let me go.
My heart, that’d somehow retained some of its childish whimsy—even buried beneath the hate I’d had for her and the survival I’d armoured myself with—howled in despair.
Carlyn reached over and patted my fingers still tracing my mother’s photo. “It’s okay. At least we know where she is and that she’s alive.”
A tangled laugh fell from my lips. “Like mother, like daughter. She’s in prison, and I’m about to be.” I looked up. “Could we at least share a cell? Could I be sent to England to serve my sentence?”