You Don't Own Me (The Russian Don 1)

Her eyes sparkle with anger. ‘The difference is you never told me. You made a fool of me. Call me old-fashioned, but friends don’t do that to each other, Dahlia.’

‘You were the one who forced me to go in the first place,’ I cry out in frustration.

‘And that’s your excuse for being a lousy friend?’ she asks sadly.

‘I’m sorry I hurt your feelings,’ I say beseechingly.

‘Forget it, Dahlia. I don’t need you to feel sorry for me,’ she says with quiet dignity.

She pulls her arm out of my grasp and runs off to her room. I know she is really upset and hurt because she does not slam the door. I slump down on the couch and close my eyes. It’s all way too much to deal with.

I think of Daisy. Where the hell are you, Daisy?

Suddenly tears are burning the backs of my eyes. I curl up on the couch, my mouth already opening to start crying when my phone rings. I look at it and it’s my mom. I close my mouth, take a deep breath and accept the call.

‘You didn’t call me back,’ my mom sobs.

‘I’m sorry, Mom. I’m taking a flight back home tomorrow.’

‘What about Daisy?’ she asks frantically.

‘Some people I know are looking for her, Mom,’ I say with conviction.

There is a pause. ‘Who are these people?’

‘Powerful people, Mom.’

‘Will we have to pay them?’ she asks in a small worried voice.

‘No, Mom. We won’t. They’re just doing it out of the goodness of their hearts.’

After my call, I go to my room. I don’t allow myself the luxury of crying. I owe it to Daisy to be strong. I sit up the whole night and make a list of everything I can remember about Daisy’s trip, going through all our phone conversations, our WhatsApp messages and emails, and note down anything at all that can be of help to the police or Zane. Then I make two copies. One I email to my mom to take to the police station with her, and the other I send to the number Zane asked me to send it to.

I buy my airline ticket and check in online.

Then I open my wardrobe and pack a small suitcase. When it is done I stand at the window looking down at the street. A couple pass. The woman laughs and the man grabs her around the waist and kisses her. I stare at them blankly. In truth, I still can’t believe that something bad has happened to sweet Daisy.

No, it’s not that I can’t believe it. I absolutely refuse to believe it.

Eight

Dahlia Fury

Long before Stella wakes up I am ready. I go down into the street already filled with people and take the tube to work. I work at Fey Aspen Literary Agency as a reader. It’s my job to read through the slush pile (that’s trade speak for unsolicited submissions from would be authors) and pick up any raw talent that our agency would like to represent. I read chick-lit, fantasy, women’s general fiction and comedy; Elizabeth does mystery, horror, thrillers, sci-fi and crime; and Miranda does YA and children’s.

It is a Friday, and Friday mornings are market days, so I carefully pick my way through the lettuce leaves and bits of rubbish strewn on the pavement and turn into Eustace road. The agency is based in what used to be a two-story house with a basement. I usually take the outside steps down to the basement where I work with two other girls. Instead, I run up the four stone steps and enter the front door.

The door opens out to a narrow long hallway. To the right is the reception area of the agency. It is a nice sunny room with tall bay windows and cream sofas. The longest wall is lined with bookcases crammed with the books written by the authors we represent. Some of them are famous bestsellers. The back wall is covered with black and white photographs of our top authors inside glossy black frames. Wendy, the receptionist and Fey Aspen’s secretary, is already at her desk. She has a very bright smile.

‘Good morning,’ she greets cheerfully.

‘Good morning to you too,’ I say very much less cheerfully.

‘I’m just making a mug of coffee. You want one?’ she offers.

I smile. ‘No thanks. Er … is Fey around yet? I’d like to see her for a few minutes.’

‘She’s in, but she’s got an appointment in less than fifteen minutes,’ she informs.

‘Can I just see her for five minutes? It’s really important.’

‘Let me check,’ she says, picks up the phone and calls Fey.

‘Thanks,’ I say gratefully.

‘Can Dahlia have five minutes with you now.’ She listens. ‘Yes, I told her, but she says it’s important. Sure. I’ll ring through as soon as they get here.’ She puts the receiver down and smiles. ‘Go on up.’