She heard a door open, but it seemed to come from far away. The voice, however, came from right next to the tub.

“Sorry to intrude.”

Sadie’s eyes widened to see a youngish man, maybe in his early twenties, but with a very serious mouth and emotionless brown eyes.

“What the hell?” Sadie cried. She jerked too suddenly, and her arm bounced and sent shrieking pain up from elbow to shoulder. “Damnit! Get out of here!”

“No,” he said. “Not yet. We need to have a conversation.”

“A what? I don’t know you. Get out before security gets here and I have them beat the crap out of you.”

The serious mouth very nearly twitched. As though it was thinking about a sort of smile, but not really planning to go through with it.

For Sadie’s part, she refused to give in to an instinct to cover herself. That would have signaled vulnerability. And she might be naked, neck-deep in water, and half crippled, but she was nowhere close to seeing herself as vulnerable.

“My name is Vincent.”

“Well, good for you. Now fuck off.”

“I’m a … a friend … of your father’s.”

“So now you sneak in to get a good look at me naked?”

Vincent drew back fractionally. He blinked. “Yes, you’re not wearing anything.” Like it was the first he’d noticed. And the concerned furrowing of his brow and the way he’d kind of jerked back almost made Sadie believe it was the truth.

“What is it you want?” Sadie demanded.

“Your father and brother did not die in an accident. They were murdered. You were targeted as well. They have not given up. You will either be killed or enslaved.”

Sadie stared at him. For a good long minute. She was realizing how little the word murdered surprised her. No one had said it to her. No one had suggested it within her hearing. But in the day and a half since the crash no one had said anything like “engine failure,” or “bird strike,” or even “pilot error.”

“There’s a robe,” she said, and jerked her chin to where a thick, heavy terry-cloth robe hung. Vincent fetched it, held it open, and then turned his face away.

She climbed slowly, painfully, to her feet. Murder. Yes, that did not seem at all crazy. Her mother had taught her to listen to what wasn’t said. The holes in conversation were often the most interesting parts.

Of course if she was in danger, maybe this guy was the one bringing it.

Vincent kept his eyes averted until she had dragged the robe slowly, slowly and carefully over her broken arm and tied it with her good hand.

Then, with a sudden fluid motion, Vincent had a pen in his hand and pressed it against her heart, just beneath the breastbone.

Sadie froze. “What are you doing? Autographing me?”

Vincent shook his head. “Making a point.” He drew the pen back, aimed it safely away, and squeezed it. A glittering blade shot up. “Making the point that if I were here to kill you, you’d be long dead by now.”

Sadie breathed. More calmly than she had any right to do.

“Let me guess: you’re here to save my life. How exactly are you going to do that?”

“For a start, like this.” He touched her face and held the contact for a several seconds. There was nothing erotic in it.

“So,” Sadie said flatly.

Vincent nodded. “Like I said, I knew your father.”

EIGHT

The instructions Noah had been given included directions for getting to Selfridge’s department store. He already knew how to get to that place. Selfridge’s is on Oxford Street: it’s vast, it’s sleek, it’s very bright yellow, it’s full of things like designer bags and exotic cosmetics and oddly dressed mannequins. It glows and glitters and glistens.

It was the sort of place that instantly made Noah feel small, shabby, self-conscious, awkward, shockingly unattractive, and possibly criminal. Everything was polished and clean—and that definitely included the employees, who did a creditable job of concealing their concern that such a creature as this grubby teenager should be in, actually physically in, their store.

On the other hand, quite a number of those employees wore high heels and pencil skirts and taut blouses. So the environment wasn’t entirely without points of interest for Noah.

He’d been instructed to go to the food department and buy a jar of sherbet pips, which cost a shocking five pounds, nearly all the money he had. Well, they’d make a gift for his mum, although she’d think him an idiot.

He was to carry the sherbet pips in a bright yellow Selfridge’s bag to the cigar humidor, a walk-in sauna of sorts with hundreds of very expensive cigars on shelves and behind glass.

This was ridiculous, and Noah very nearly decided to walk away. Of course first he would try to return the pips.

But as he hovered indecisively outside the walk-in humidor a man—Indian or Pakistani by the look of him, with an extravagant mustache—gave him a look. A look. He ushered Noah into the humidor and said, “You enjoy a good cigar?”

And Noah completed his instructions by saying the coded response, “I have your pips.”

He handed the jar to the man, who looked at them and nodded and said, “Yes, I do.” The mustache stretched into a smile. “You were not followed,” the man said. Seeing Noah’s quizzical look, he added, “We of course have watched you on the CCTV cameras since you left your home, and then security cameras within the store.”