Page 94 of Poisoned Pawn
“We’re on our way there now… I haven’t heard from him…”
The more she speaks, the more anxious I become.
“Okay… You too.” She ends the call, but before I can bombard her with questions, she says, “Half a dozen of Pavel’s businesses were hit last night. They even attacked his house.”
Zak is looking through the small window from the front of the ambulance. “The 51s?”
“Aidan thinks so. They didn’t get inside his house, but they took out several of his men before they were able to shut it down.”
“Sounds like Rook has played his next move,” Frankie states from the front.
The mood in the ambulance is even more subdued after that, and I can’t help thinking that Carter’s visit to Lennox is all just another part of Rook’s end game. Whatever the fuck that is. I’m not a chess player, but it seems that Rook is very clearly making moves to position everyone exactly where he wants them.
“We are going to be there in five minutes. Carter organised some false papers for a place down in London, and he has a guy who can intercept a call and confirm if they decide to check. All we need to do is get in and out with as little attention as possible,” Frankie tells us as we turn down a long drive littered with fallen leaves from the trees lining it.
The building at the end looks nothing like a hospital. It’s a Gothic-style Victorian manor house with outward facing gables above angular bay windows. Terracotta mouldings wrap around the building, distinguishing the separate floors, and the small upper floor windows are decorated with pitches and terracotta finials.
It’s a foreboding sight and made all the more so when a tall thin woman dressed in a fitted grey suit steps out as we stop out the front. Getting out I see her grey hair is pulled back into a tight chignon bun at the nape of her neck and she’s wearing cat eye black-rimmed spectacles.
She steps forward to greet Frankie, shaking his offered hand.
“Ms Agatha Price, and you must be Mr Franklin. Mr Beckett informed us of your arrival. I assume you have the correct paperwork?” she queries, her face stern and unemotional. It seems the lady matches the house.
“Of course, the paperwork is all in order,” Frankie tells her, removing several folded sheets from his top pocket and handing them to her.
“Please come in. Erica is awaiting you in the downstairs parlour.” She turns and strides back up the steps and through the door.
“It’s like stepping back in time a hundred years,” I mutter to Roxy as we follow. Any further conversation is lost as I step inside. The inside matches the dark, eerie gothic vibe of outside with dark wood and forest green flock wallpaper in the interior hall. There is a large, overstuffed ottoman placed beside an ornate iron coat stand. But the masterpiece in this room is the grand staircase. Large carved newel posts dominate with rich railings leading to a smaller landing before more stairs split off to the left and right.
Staff walk busily past as we follow Ms Price to wherever she is leading us. Stopping outside a door, she turns to us.
“Please wait here. Mr Franklin, if you will,” she says, opening the door and indicating for him to enter.
Frankie enters without a backward glance, and Ms Price follows closing the door with finality. Zak, Roxy and I each take a seat like naughty children outside the headmistresses’ office awaiting our punishment.
Despite the slightly unwelcoming atmosphere, I get the feeling that Ms Price knows her job and executes it very well.
The thick solid wood door allows little sound to seep out aside from a faint muffling of voices. It also means there is no warning when the door opens ten minutes later, making me jump.
“If you’ll follow me,” she states and walks ahead again. This time she leads us back to the entrance hall and into a room on the right.
Although a little lighter in here, it maintains the Gothic Victorian aesthetic. Plush rich-red fabrics adorn the high-backed chairs and seating. The same colour green from the hall is carried into here but in the form of fleur de Lys patterned wallpaper. An imposing cast iron fireplace at the centre of the far wall fills the room with warmth.
Stepping further into the room, I see a woman sitting in a wheelchair, her back to us and head covered in a plain black scarf, and flanked by a nurse, who immediately looks over at us.
She offers us a smile before turning back to the woman. “Erica, they are here to collect you,” she says, and I sense a note of sadness in her words.
A scratchy, raspy voice fills the room. “Thank you, Isla. Don’t forget to let Gage know and say goodbye for me.”
“I will. He’ll be sad he missed you,” Isla tells her as she moves behind the wheelchair and begins turning it around.
Nerves flutter in my belly even though Erica will have no clue as to who we are—who I am. At least I don’t think she will. I get the first look at Erica as the left side of her face is revealed. Smooth, pale skin with full pink lips and a piercing green eye. I can see Carter there, but as she is turned to fully face me, the extent of her burns becomes clear.
The right side of her face is heavily scared, distorted and misshapen, and the once matching piercing green eye on this side is a pale hazed milky colour. The scars carry down the side of her neck before disappearing into her long-sleeve top.
The sight literally takes my breath away, and I have to hold back the sharp inhale of breath that is my body’s natural reaction. Instead, I smile wide as her good eye takes in the four of us standing there. To her we probably look like a paying crowd come to ogle the once beautiful woman now disfigured by fire.
“Hi, Erica, I’m Star and this is Roxanne.” Thankfully, my voice hides my true feelings. Heartbreak. That is the only word for it. I wear my scars inside, but Erica’s are external, visible. The problem with that is her internal scars are hidden by the more visible ones.