Christian of you.”
“You see … shortly after we married, I discovered the truth about him and my brother. They tried to keep it from me. But I knew. I saw them whispering together at times, saw the way my husband looked at my brother when he should have been looking at me. Kingsley boasted of his female conquests. As a girl I thought he was exaggerating. Then when I knew about him and my husband, I thought he’d been lying the whole time. Embarrassed, a cover-up.”
“Kingsley’s not gay. Neither is Søren. Not that there’s anything … well, you know.”
“I realize that now. Then I thought they were, that they were deeply in love with each other. I knew my marriage was ostensibly for money—that’s what he said, anyway—but I agreed to it because I knew he’d love me eventually. Why wouldn’t he?”
“I can think of a few reasons,” Nora said, determined to piss Marie-Laure off as much as possible. What a fucking lunatic. If she survived this, Nora would kill Søren for marrying Marie-Laure all those years ago. On paper it had seemed like the perfect solution. Marie-Laure and Kingsley had had no money. Søren had his trust fund just waiting for him to get married or turn twenty-one. If Søren and Marie-Laure married, no one could say a word about all the time Kingsley and Søren spent alone together. They could have lived in the same house. And Marie-Laure would have been rich and free to do whatever she wanted with whomever she wanted. But it was Søren she wanted, the one man whose love she would never have. And the plan that looked so perfect on paper, the marriage that meant everyone would win … for Kingsley, Søren and Marie-Laure, it had been the beginning of the end of everything. Maybe even Nora’s life.
“Everyone loved me at that school. I had every boy there falling all over himself for me. When I knew my husband had no interest in me, I even took one of them up on his offer. One of the students, a boy named Christian. Perfect, non? Oh, and one of the priests.”
“That’s shocking.”
“They’d never seen a girl as beautiful as I was. How is that shocking?”
“Other than Søren I’ve never met a priest who was interested in women.”
Marie-Laure gave her a smile so sweet Nora almost wished the woman would slap her again. Anything other than that smile.
“He must love beating you.”
“He’s a sadist. Of course he does.”
“Does that bother you? That he’s a sadist? That he needs to inflict pain to become aroused?”
“You’re going to interrogate me about my relationship with Søren?”
“You have other plans?”
Nora had her hands cuffed behind her back and it felt like the cuffs themselves were attached to the chair.
“Guess not. What do you know about Søren, anyway? You haven’t seen him in thirty years. How do you even know what he’s into? How did you even find me? What do you want?”
The questions finally poured out of Nora as she gave in to her fear.
“What do I want?” Marie-Laure repeated the final question. “That I will tell you. I want to have a long talk with my husband.”
“You could have called him. Phone at the rectory. He’s got a cell phone, too, although the church pays for it so he tries not to use it for personal calls. He’s anal like that.”
“No … I tried to talk to him before when we were together. I asked him over and over again what was wrong with him that he didn’t want to be with me.”
“Maybe he just wasn’t that into you,” Nora offered, but Marie-Laure ignored her.
“So if I had someone he loved here, someone he wanted to protect, then perhaps he might finally answer the questions I have. I can’t quite believe he does love you, though. Especially now that I’ve met you.”
Nora looked down at herself, her stained jeans, her bloody white tank top, her hair in lank, dirty waves. No doubt she looked as bad as she felt.
“This isn’t me at my best, I promise.”
“I’ve seen you at your best. I still wasn’t impressed.”
“Jesus, tell me how you really feel.”
“I cannot quite fathom that he cares as deeply for you as I would need him to, so I brought in a little … what’s that phrase? Backup?”
She called out a name then; it sounded like “Damon.”
A man entered the room. She knew it was a man from the sound of his footsteps even though Nora couldn’t see him.
He and Marie-Laure spoke to each other in French, which Nora caught most of. She heard “handcuffs” and “Bring in the girl.”
The girl? This couldn’t be good.
Whoever he was stood behind Nora and uncuffed her from the chair.
Nora brought her arms around and massaged her wrists. She almost felt more secure cuffed to the chair. If they uncuffed her it was probably because they weren’t afraid of her. She didn’t like being the woman in the room no one was afraid of.
Nora stayed in her chair and didn’t turn around when she heard the door open behind her again. But when the door opened a third time, she heard the pained cry of a young woman. She stood up and spun around.
“Laila?” Nora recognized the girl at once—Søren’s niece. The man let Laila go, and she rushed into Nora’s arms.
“Tante Elle,” Laila cried as they sunk to the floor together. Nora pulled her close and held tight to the girl’s trembling body.
“You psycho bitch, what the fuck are you doing?” she demanded, turning back to Marie-Laure.
Laila clung to Nora, who could only pull the girl closer and rock her in her arms. She seemed mostly unharmed. A cracked lip, a bloody bruise on her cheek. She must have fallen in some sort of struggle.
“Are you all right?” she whispered to Laila in the little Danish she remembered.
“Okay,” Laila whispered back. “I was at Onkel Søren’s house. They grabbed me and—”
“You two look very sweet,” Marie-Laure said. “And aren’t we a lovely trio? We have the wife, the mistress and the niece all here together. I thought about taking one of his sisters, but the little girl’s better. Men always do prefer the younger ones. Look at you …” Marie-Laure studied Laila’s face. “Such a beautiful thing. You look like him. Different eyes, though. Sweet blue eyes, not gray. All the boys must be in love with you.”
Laila shuddered in Nora’s arms.
“No one is in love with me,” she said, and Nora kissed the top of her head and whispered, “Jeg elsker dig” into Laila’s ear—I love you.
“Don’t worry. Love is overrated. But tell me something about love, Laila,” Marie-Laure
