That’s why I didn’t notice the artwork. It would have already been done by then.
There’s too much packing tape for me to unwrap one and see what needs to be protected like this. Protected—or hidden.
Even the silence is different in this part of the house. As if it hasn’t been disturbed in some time, and doesn’t like to be disturbed. Not that houses have feelings. I’m not superstitious enough to believe in shit like that. All I know is that the quiet presses in harder the farther I go. Three more steps.
“Ella?”
I call her name, but I already know she’s not back here. The first door creaks as it opens. I know she’s not here. I can sense it. All the time I’ve spent working in security has fine-tuned my attention to spaces. They breathe more when someone is there. Small movements in the air give them away. There is no movement here, only a deep hush.
That’s when I hear a creak behind me.
The new current in the air reaches me a second before Damon’s hand does. A strong hand, just above my elbow. I have just enough warning to tamp down the instinct to subdue him. “We’re not supposed to be back here.”
I turn to face him, shutting the door as I do, and Damon’s expression is more serious than I’ve ever seen it. Worry flashes in his dark eyes, and a crease in his brow confirms the feeling. I know we’re not supposed to be here. He knows I know. So I don’t bother saying a damn thing about it.
“What do you know about this wing of the house?”
He releases me and takes a half step back, staying close enough that we can keep our voices low. “Damn it, Zander, why didn’t you read the file?”
“Because I never read the files.” Irritation is evident in my answer, but it’s short-lived. I could have searched other areas of the house before I came in here. “And she asked me not to.”
He holds my gaze and I see it—I see it. Suspicion. A shiver grips me. Does he know about the arrangement I have with Ella? Has he already figured it out? Damon, of all people, would be the one to notice. He’s here at every shift change, since we’re paired for this job. He sees me the most. And he knows me the best.
I could tell him, here in this too-quiet hallway with the strange wrappings on all the artwork. That was the suggestion Harrison made, and he had a point. Telling Damon would protect The Firm.
But I keep my mouth shut.
I’ll sort through the why of it later, when I’m alone. I’ll come up with a plan. But I’m not going to tell him now. Not when I crave her so much that my chest hurts. Not when my hands ache to touch her again.
Not now.
“This is the main wing,” he says finally. “Where she sleeps now is the guest wing.”
It explains the hotel-like quality of her bedroom. I’ve noticed the richer the client, the less clutter in general. They can afford a cleaning staff to keep it neat, and the items they buy tend to be fewer but better quality. Still, they have small details that belong to them as people. Who they are and what they cherish most. Ella’s room is devoid of almost all the personal items I’d expect. I should have known it wasn’t just because of her wealth, or her status. I should have known there was a deeper reason.
She sleeps in a room that’s not her own, while her memories are locked away behind packing paper and dust.
“Because all this is too much for her.”
“Yes,” Damon agrees, although then he adds, “Potentially. The circumstances might have changed. Her progress has been consistent. Ella’s taking her meds and having longer conversations. She’s more active during the daytime than she was before she was admitted. We spent some time in the yard today, talking as we walked.”
“Yard” is an understatement. The estate is grand with a sprawling lawn in the back, fenced in white and bursting with plants and gardens and a chestnut tree. It must sit on at least two acres and backs up to a picturesque mountainscape. I haven’t been out there with her much as the fall is rather bitter and she seems to prefer our blue room.
“How did she handle that?” It’s hard to picture her out in the sun, strolling with the dappled light in her hair. Her face tipped up to look at the clouds. Her fingertips brushing over a hedge going brittle with autumn. What I really want to know is if the sun warmed her up. If she seemed free on the outside, or if she was still a little bird in a cage.
Damon can’t tell me that.
He nods, considering. “She did well. We took it slow.”
He’s protective of her too … and for the second time in the space of this few minutes I think about confiding in him. Because the Ella he describes, this woman who needs to move slowly in the yard, this delicate, fragile thing—it’s not the Ella who looked me in the eye and consented to spanking with a gleam in the dark centers of her gaze. There are many sides to a person’s humanity. Damon is willing to help her, and he can help her in ways that I can’t. If I can offer insight, I should. If it will help her. Only if it would help her.
She’s stronger than she appears. But also … maybe more broken than I’m seeing.
“And the conversation? Did she share anything I should be aware of?”
“No,” he says and shakes his head. “Just small talk mostly. But she’s opening up.”
“That’s good.” I force myself to focus and get out of my thoughts. “Where is she now? I was looking for her.”