yourself available at six a.m. Goodnight, Miss Scott.’
The line disconnected, taking the authoritative voice with it.
A tiny knot in her stomach, caused solely by that charged, electric quality to her caller’s voice, unfurled. She dropped the phone and returned to sit on her bed, her vision blurring as her hands shook. As Zaid Al-Ameen had loftily stated, Esme wasn’t surprised by the news. If anything, she was only surprised it had taken eight years to finally arrive.
She exhaled roughly, willing the guilt and anger and pain to subside. When after a full ten minutes she still hadn’t managed to wrestle her emotions under control, she rose and padded to the small desk in the corner of her bedroom.
Further sleep tonight was out of the question. The only way to prevent the vault of bad memories straining to crack open was to fill her time with work. Her work, which thankfully involved concentrating on other people’s problems rather than her own, always managed to distract her. From the very first day she’d stepped into her junior social worker role four years ago, she’d welcomed that distraction simply because her actions produced positive results. Sometimes in indistinguishable ways, other times more meaningfully. Either way was good enough, although not good enough to ever wipe away the black stain on her soul.
Touch Global Foundation, the worldwide foundation she worked for, dealt directly with local organisations to help the disadvantaged, with numerous arms offering everything from drug rehabilitation to residential relocation.
Except working now, with her father’s news fresh in her mind, was near impossible. Esme forced herself to finish up the notes recommending rehousing for a single mother of four to a better neighbourhood, and a dyslexia test for the second child. She set a reminder to follow up her recommendation with a phone call, and closed the file.
Calling up her search engine, she typed in the relevant information. Although during the frenzied pockets of time she’d spent with her father he’d often talked of the Kingdom of Ja’ahr, they’d never visited that country. It hadn’t been on the list. Back then, decadent, well-established kingdoms like Monaco and Dubai and the brighter lights of New York and Vegas had been more desirable.
Within minutes, Esme understood why her father had taken an interest in Ja’ahr. The small kingdom, poised on the edge of the Persian Gulf, had gained as much international renown as its well-known neighbours in the last decade for all the right reasons.
Clever brokering of its rich resources of oil, gems and shipping lanes had seen it attain world’s richest status, catapulting its ruler and royalty to extreme wealth, while the lower classes had been left far behind. Such a divide wasn’t uncommon in such countries, but in Ja’ahr’s case it was staggering.
Inevitably, the result of such a divide had caused political and economical unrest, some of which had escalated into violence. All of which had been ruthlessly suppressed.
Esme cautioned herself not to believe everything she read on the Internet. But disturbing stories about the Kingdom of Ja’ahr’s judicial system were hard to dismiss. Stiff sentences were handed down for the lightest of offences, with even more ruthless punishment meted out to re-offenders.
‘We’re not a backward country, Miss Scott, despite what the world’s media likes to portray.’
Except their judicial system seemed backward. Right back to the Dark Ages. Which didn’t bode well for her father.
He deserves it. Remember why you walked away?
Jaw clenching, she straightened her spine.
She’d walked away. She’d changed her life for the better.
The reminder bolstered her up until her phone rang. Resolutely, she answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Esmeralda? Is that you?’
Her free hand tightened into a fist, her eyes closing at the deep, familiar voice.
‘Yes, Dad, it’s me.’
His exhalation was tinged with relief. Followed by a rough laugh. ‘When they told me they’d actually managed to reach you I thought they were having me on.’
Esme didn’t answer. She was too busy containing the cocktail of emotions that always swirled inside her when it came to her father.
‘Baby girl, are you there?’ Jeffrey Scott asked.
The endearment was so bitter-sweet, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘I’m here,’ she managed after a minute.
‘Okay, I guess you know what’s happened?’
‘Yes.’ She cleared her throat, hoping her mind would follow suit. ‘Are you all right? I was told you had concussion.’
Her father laughed, but the sound lacked its usual bravado. ‘A concussion is the least of my worries. Not if the big man gets his way.’
‘The big man?’
‘Yes. The Royal Punisher himself.’
She frowned. ‘I’m sorry, Dad. What are you talking about?’
‘The chief prosecutor is gunning for me, Esmeralda. I’ve already been denied bail. And he’s putting in a petition to fast-track my trial.’
The memory of the deep, powerful voice on the phone momentarily distracted her, made her breath catch a little. Then her hand tightened on the phone. ‘But you have a lawyer, don’t you?’
The laughter was starker. ‘If you call a lawyer who told me my case was hopeless and advised me to plead guilty and save everyone the trouble a proper defender.’
Despite what she’d read about Ja’ahr’s judicial system, she was still shocked. ‘What?’
‘I need you here, Esmeralda.’
This time her breath stayed locked in her throat. Along with the inner voice that screamed a horrified No.
When she’d tossed around scenarios of how she would conduct this reconnection with her father, she hadn’t deluded herself into thinking he wouldn’t want something from her. Money had been the most likely bet since his assets were frozen. She’d even mentally totted up her savings, and girded her loins to part with some of it.
But what he was asking of her...
‘I’ve done a little research. They’re very big on character witnesses over here during trials,’ he continued hurriedly. ‘I’ve put you down as mine.’
Déjà vu whispered down her spine. Wasn’t this how it had always started? Her father innocently asking her to do something? And her guilt eating away at her until she obliged?
Esme stiffened, reminding herself of that last, indefensible thing he’d done. ‘Dad, I don’t think—’
‘It could make the difference between me dying in prison or returning home one day. Will you deny me that?’
Esme firmed her lips. Remained silent.
‘According to my lawyer, The Butcher
