Third Strike by Zoe Sharp Page B

the girl had scuttled onto the rumpled bed by the far wall and tucked her legs up close to her body, head buried against her knees and her arms wrapped tightly round them. If you look insignificant enough, and you can’t see the monsters, maybe they will leave you alone.
    No, they won’t.
    Her submissive posture angered as much as it disturbed me. There was a thin dark red robe on the floor that was trying to be silk but was as artificial as the madam’s breasts downstairs. I leaned down, snatched it up and threw it across to her. She stopped rocking just long enough to clutch it in front of her body.
    “Well, well, Dick, ” Sean said then, his voice softly mocking. “This opens up a whole new side to you.”
    My father darted him a savage glance but didn’t reply. The area around his cheekbone had already begun to swell, puffy. I hadn’t broken the skin but he was going to have a hell of a bruise.
    Still clinging to that brittle dignity, he retrieved his tie from where the girl had dropped it in her flight, fed it back through his collar, and began reknotting it. His movements were apparently calm and sedate, but it was little more than a thin veneer. I could see the shake of his hands, the pulse in his jaw.
    “So, you still think you don’t owe me any kind of explanation?” I said.
    He refastened his cuff links and reached for the jacket he’d laid across the back of a narrow chair. The suit had been tailor-made for him by Gieves & Hawkes of Savile Row and fitted to perfection, in devastating contrast to the decayed dilapidation of that tawdry little room.
    “I owe you nothing, Charlotte,” he said then, and his arrogance was astounding. “I make my own choices. I won’t ask how you found me—invading people’s privacy seems to be second nature to you—but I most certainly do not need your approval for my actions.” He allowed his lip to curl just slightly. “Nor do I require you to accompany me.”
    “Approval?” I said, aware my voice had become almost a squawk. I flung a hand towards the huddled creature on the bed. “She’s young enough to be your daughter, for fuck’s sake! Christ, she’s practically young enough to be mine!”
    He stilled. “Get out, Charlotte,” he said coldly. His eyes skated over Sean, who’d been standing watchful and silent during the exchange. “And take your nasty little bully boy with you.”
    Sean shrugged off the insult and started for the door. As he passed, my father gestured to the gun Sean carried with an expressive flick of his fingers.
    “Violence. Is that the only thing you people understand?”
    We’d caught him in a run-down brothel with a naked teenage hooker and still he tried to take the high ground.
    “Perhaps it is,” I said, not moving. “So how’s this for violence? If you don’t walk out of here with us, right now, I’ll knock you senseless and carry you out—and, believe me, it would be a pleasure. Either way, you’re leaving.”
    His spine straightened. “You can’t.”
    “Oh, don’t tempt me.”
    “No, you can’t! ”
    I registered the edge of panic in the rising tone with something akin to wonder. Of all the emotions he’d shown since we’d entered that room and exposed him, this was the first hint of fear.
    “I can’t leave you here,” I said, without pity. “If my mother—”
    “That’s just it.” He grasped the reference like a talisman. “Your mother. If you feel anything for your mother, Charlotte, then just leave me here and go before it’s too late. Please.”
    “Too late? What the hell are you—”
    Then, from underneath us, we heard crashing and highpitched screaming and loud voices bellowing commands. Sean and I ran into the corridor. About halfway along was a narrow window with a view down into the alleyway. When we looked down, all we could see were the flashing lights on top of the squad cars.
    “Oh. Shit,” Sean muttered. His eyes met mine. There weren’t any other exits or we would have found