Page 43 of Damon

Still crouched, I listen to every word for anything that could be a hidden clue. She’s breathtaking in her ability to articulate what happened calmly and accurately. My knees strain under my weight, and I rock from side to side to relieve some of the stress.

“When I walked into the living room, I froze. Moreno himself grabbed me around the waist and held me to him while I faced my parents. He placed his gun at my temple and told them he would blow my brains out if they didn’t pay up. My mother whimpered behind the gag as my father blinked and tried to focus on what was happening. One of the guards removed the tape from my mother’s mouth, and she begged Moreno to let me go.

“She offered him anything he wanted—our house, our car, her body. He laughed and suggested perhaps he could have me. My father tried to jump from the chair…he managed to stand, then fell straight to the floor onto his face.”

The anger that has been sitting in my chest since she started speaking flares. “What age were you?” I ask, my tone calm—unlike my mind, which has every depraved situation that could have happened flitting through it.

“Fourteen.”

“Did he touch you?”

She lifts her chin and stares directly at me. “No,” she says firmly. “He didn’t rape me, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Thank God,” I mutter, then stand, pulling her up with me. She wraps her arms around my waist and lays her head on my chest.

“When it became clear they couldn’t pay him, he shot them dead in cold blood. A single bullet to the front of their skulls. He simply lifted his weapon and fired. Twice.” The tears come and there seems to be no stopping them. We stand there together in the middle of my office and hold each other, both of us needing comfort. I need someone to be there for, and she needs the support she hasn’t had since she was a teenager.

After a few minutes, her sobs recede, but she remains snuggled against my torso. I use my arm to encourage her toward the gray sofa that sits to the side of my office. It’s old and worn, but I’ve had it since I was a teenager. It holds too many memories to be disposed of, but Connie made me keep it in here.

We drop down beside one another, and she lies against the back of the sofa and closes her eyes. “I testified in court,” she says. “It was my evidence and identification of Moreno that put him away. To this day, I still don’t know why he didn’t shoot me too. I’m certain that’s a decision he regrets.”

“Most likely,” I agree. “What happened then?”

“I was moved to a children’s home on the south coast. Given a new name, some counselling, and told to get on with my life. They always advised me to stay away from the city, but I need to be here. This is where I’m from. When I watched the lawyers in the courtroom, and what they said helped incarcerate Moreno…”

She takes a deep breath, reopens her eyes and looks directly at me. “I knew that was who I needed to be. Becoming a lawyer was what I always wanted; it was the only thing I cared about.” She glances to the window behind me. “And now that dream is gone too.”

“No it isn’t,” I tell her. “It’s merely on hold. You will get that law degree and you will practice, but right now, you need to stay safe and take time to heal from all this.” I wave my hand around signaling the whole fucked-up situation we’ve found ourselves in. “When do you want to return to work?”

She shrugs, non-committal. “Yesterday,” she suggests, and I chuckle.

“Not an option,” I advise, placing my hand on her knee. “I need to keep you safe until we lock up that bastard.”

“And how do you suggest doing that?” she asks.

“You are going to stay here with me. You will be my nanny.”

***

Emma

“Your nanny?” I splutter, panicked. “You have one.”

“I don’t,” Damon says simply. “She quit.”

“Why? What did you do?”

“Why would you automatically think I did something?” he replies, sulky. His face contorts, annoyed by my assumption. “She has a family emergency. She needs to return to wherever she’s from.”

“Bullshit, she just didn’t want to hurt your feelings by telling you she didn’t want to wash your underwear anymore.” He gapes at me for a second, then grins.

“You are incredible,” he says. “After everything that’s happened and what you’ve told me tonight, you’re still telling jokes.” His face slackens, and it’s as if he isn’t looking at me but through me. His blank expression makes me uneasy; I prefer to know exactly what someone is thinking. What our relationship is, this situation, it all has me perplexed.

“What is this, Damon?” I mumble under my breath, part of me wanting him to hear the answer, the other part not. “What are you doing?”

“Keeping you safe.”

“And what about my apartment? You were paying the rent. It can’t just lie empty.”