"Excuse me?" My heart had started to gallop furiously in my chest.

"We needed you to prove something for us," he said again. "For me, to tell the truth. I can be pretty hard to convince, you see." He smiled, like he was sharing a secret. "So, I asked Christopher to get you to me. But of course no one could get anywhere with you. So he had to get to you through Miss Evans here. He befriended her, told her about his crazy brother, planted the idea of a job in her head, and voila! Here you are, my secretary." He spread his hands wide, like a magician might at the end of a trick.

Something was grinding in my brain, something that had just gotten loose with the shock of what he had said. My mouth was hanging open. I shut it and looked down, trying to collect myself even as I started to hyperventilate.

He had come to the house so fast, I thought. But I didn't remember telling him where I lived. In the rapidity of his entry and then the subsequent conversation, this fact had completely flown over my head. But now I started to realise.

We needed you, Miss Mahal.

I looked up. He was watching me with a face as clear of emotion as a blank sheet, his head cocked to the side. His hand rested lightly on the back of the sofa. They had been watching me all this time. They knew my house. They--

I heard a stifled moan from Tasha, and turned to look. She had her hand pressed before her mouth and was moaning through it, her eyes wide. She stumbled and fell against the wall. Tears started flowing over her bright red cheeks.

I shook my head hard to clear it of the fogs of panic that were creeping yet closer and hurried to her side, putting an arm around her shoulders as I glared at the man in front of me. "Are you trying to tell me that Christopher used Tasha as a pawn?" I spat. I didn't ask about what he had said of me. I needed to think, to approach this matter slowly and carefully. I had to be clear headed and not let fear overpower me.

I had to stay silent, for now.

Tasha shook harder against me.

He shrugged, the half-hearted monster that he was. "In a manner of speaking. But your friend does not really need to break down like that, though I don't see why she bothers." His brows were scrunched up as he watched our huddle. "Christopher might have started off a relationship with her to get what he wanted, but nothing made him continue it when you were working for me. He actually likes you, Miss Evans," he explained. "So, please do us a favour and don't crumble like that. You are making me positively nauseous."

Tasha pulled her face out of her hands and wiped her eyes. "Are you telling the truth?" she asked, her voice soft.

"I am not a liar, Miss Evans. I might be a dubious, immoral bastard, but I don't lie."

"You mean he does like me?" Tasha asked again. She wasn't crying anymore.

I frowned. Something broke in my heart, though I could not have said what. I pulled away from Tasha. Didn't she just hear what he said about me? "Tasha, he used you." I couldn't bring myself to say what was making my insides bleed. "And you broke up with him," I reminded her, focusing on her problems and pushing all other thoughts out.

"Did you?" Mr. Rodwell interjected. "I cannot even express how relieved I am."

We ignored him. "I know I did, but this is so romantic!" She folder her hands in front of her chest like she might faint. "He met me only to use me but then fell in love with me. I feel like a movie princess!"

I moved back a little further. She didn't seem to notice. "I don't think he said Christopher loves you."

"Of course he loves me," she said. "How many men can you name who have been able to resist this?" She waved a hand down at her figure.

Ok..ay. I had always known my friend was crazy, but this was pushing it, even for her. And she still hasn't realised what he had said after.

"Tash--"

She waved her hand in my face, eyes glassy. "No, no, don't ruin this with your life lessons." She started looking around. "I need my purse. I need to call him!" Spotting her bag on the couch, she jumped up and grabbed it, proceeding to pull out her phone. Then she turned and walked towards the apartment door.

"Where are you going?" I asked, alarmed.

"Outside," she said, eyes glued to the screen. "I need to talk to him." Saying that, she yanked the chain out, turned the lock and walked out.

Leaving Mr. Rodwell and me alone.

Unless one considered Granny Tonks.

"I will go see what is taking Granny so long," I said into the uncomfortable silence that followed her departure. All of a sudden the room seemed filled with restive energy. I couldn't look at him. My skin felt like it was on fire.

I hobbled towards the kitchen.

Inside--where I had expected to find a hard-working woman in front of the stove, energetically making tea to earn her just reward of a refill--I found empty space. Granny had fallen asleep on the kitchen chair, leaving the kettle burning over the stove.

I rushed forward, momentarily forgetting everything as the prospect of being burned alive in my sleep surfaced. Propping myself against the counter, I let go of my crutches and turned the stove off. Grabbing a dish cloth, I wrapped it around the kettle's handle.

"Granny," I said in exasperation, to no one in particular.

"Yes? What?" a wheezy voice asked.

Sheesh!

I jumped. The kettle wobbled in my hand and before I knew what was happening, fell back down on the counter with a crash. Nothing would have happened if I had had some sense in me. But sadly, I was a complete idiot. The kettle teetered on the edge of the marble slab and my bloody reflexes kicked in. I used my bare hand to push it back.

It took me a moment to realise what had happened, by which time the crash had already attracted Mr. Rodwell to the kitchen door. When the pain registered, I fell down to the ground with a gasp, gripping my burning hand against my chest. Tears stung my eyes.

"Oh, girl, what have you done?" Granny asked, coming towards me as fast as her arthritic legs could carry her.

"I thought you were asleep," I hissed through clenched teeth, cradling my hand closer.

"I--" Granny Tonks started, but Mr. Rodwell didn't let her finish.

Almost immediately he was on his knees at my side. He touched my injured hand and tried to coax me to let him see. "Please get me a bowl of cool water," he ordered Granny. "And don't you dare linger."

"Now, young man, you may be handso--"

"Right this second," he hissed.

She scattered. Grabbing a bowl, she filled it with water from the tap--moving faster than I had ever seen her move--and then pulled an ice tray from the freezer. I watched as she broke the ice into the sink and put some of it into the bowl, bringing said bowl to Mr. Rodwell in an almost walk-run, sloshing water over the side.

By this time he had succeeded in loosening my grip on my hurt limb and was examining the angry, pale and swollen flesh. "Not very serious," he muttered to himself. "But going to be bloody painful."

He accepted the bowl Granny offered. "Put your hand inside this, Miss Mahal," he advised. "It will soothe the pain. Granny, do you have some skin creams at home? Maybe something aloe vera based? Or I guess an antibiotic ointment would do," he considered, peering down closely.

"We do have some in the bathroom. Ella is not a peaceful child."

"Well, get me some of those. And some clean linen or gauze too. We need to wrap this up."

"What are you now, a doctor?" I asked, wincing as I slowly submerged my hand into the water. It stung my furious flesh for a moment, but then started to take the heat away. I relaxed slightly, biting my lip. Granny left.

"No, but my mother used to do this whenever I burned myself."

"Mrs. Rodwell?" I asked, wanting to smile at the idea of a young Mr. Rodwell submerging his hand in water as his mother watched. But I hadn't completely forgotten what had transpired in the living room minutes before. I watched him closely, feeling sweat bloom on my brow again.

"No, my real mother," he said.

"Oh," was all I could say. He was looking down, not saying anything further.

Silence reigned. I was suddenly hyper aware of the fact that this man was so close to me. The last time I had let a man come this close had been in those days. But that had always been associated with fear and pain. And it had never been my choice. Right now, sitting silently next to Mr. Rodwell, I felt nothing but the most profound of peace, even though my own senses rallied against the feeling. Why wasn't I as freaked out as I as ought to be? Why wasn't I running already?

Why did I think he won't harm me?

I studied his face as he looked at the counter to the side. The sharp defined nose, the high cheekbones, the beautiful, soulful aqua eyes. It wasn't exactly a handsome face, not in the traditional sense of the word at least. It was too angular, too defined. But all these features, combined with the lean body, the killer wit and the fountain of money made Mr. Rodwell a right catch. In all the traditional senses of the word.

"Like what you see, Miss Mahal?" he asked, voice sodt. His eyes found mine and roamed over my face like a searchlight. I felt my ears catch fire. The eyes came to rest somewhere under my nose. My heart rate quickened.

And I did the only thing I could think of doing in circumstances like these.

I asked a question.

"Mr. Rodwell? Can I please ask you something?"

It took him a moment to focus on my eyes again. "You know what I am going to say to that, Miss Mahal."

"Please," I begged.

He sighed. "Okay." I was surprised, to say the least. "But I won't answer if I don't think you need to know."

"Right. So, earlier you said that it was me you wanted to prove something. Were you monitering my house?"

He didn't say anything.

I shifted forward. "Please don't lie," I begged. "I never told you where my house was."

He rocked back on his heels, looking down at the toes of his sneakers as he contemplated. Then he looked up. "We had to make sure you were safe. If you were important, that did not mean I could let you come to harm. Fredrick Bosley has been known to be a dangerous man. If he thought you were doing something that could harm him, he won't sit down and twiddle his thumbs."

Fred. They were after Fred? He has a meeting scheduled with him. A meeting to do what?

So many questions and so many answers, none of them right. What the hell was going on?

But there would be time for this interrogation. Right now, I had more pressing concerns on my mind. "Is someone watching my house right now?" I asked, feeling sick.

He pursed his lips.

I swallowed. "I want them gone."

"Zar--"

"I want them gone," I said, pulling my hand out of the bowl in a charged motion, splattering water everywhere. "No one will watch my house. No one will watch any of us."

He continued to look at me.

My hand, the burn all but forgotten, moved towards his, as if I wished to touch him, to beg. "Do I have your promise?" I asked. "That they will be gone?"

"I need to know if you are safe," he said. His voice was barely over a whisper.

"I will make sure of that. But no one watches me." My heart was still thudding rapidly. "I will not have anyone watching me." The idea was almost too horrible to contemplate. I had been watched all those years too, my every motion perfectly monitored till I was left as nothing but another man's marionette. I would not let that happen again. Not to Ella, not to Hannah. Not to me.

He was silent for so long I was almost sure he would refuse. But then he said, his eyes roving over my face intently, "The men will be gone. But if anything at all happens, you will tell me immediately, no matter what, no matter when. Understood?"

I could see this was just to assure himself, not me. I was never going to follow a man's law again, to tell him whenever I stubbed my toe. But he needn't know that. "Alright," I said.

"Fine," he said.

We both descended into silence. I put my hand back in the bowl.

After a moment I asked, looking at a corner of the kitchen door, "Mr. Rodwell? Can you tell me what it was that you actually wanted from me?"

"I can't tell you that."

I looked a him. "Please, Mr. Rodwell." My voice was very silent.

He scrubbed his cheeks harshly. "Miss Mah--"

"Please..." I made my eyes as big as they would go.

"Not agai--"

"Please," I repeated.

"Miss Mahal, you might not want to know the answer."

"Knowing something bad is better than not knowing anything at all," I countered, feeling pretty warmed up for this game.

"I won't agree with you there."

"Mr. Rodwell, please. This is my life." My hand had curled into a fist in the water. I consciously opened it again. "Can you even imagine how you would feel if you were in my position?"

He looked at me hard for a long time. "I was always of the opinion that you should be told. But Christopher never agreed. He would rather preach that ignorance is bliss."

"But you don't give a fig about what Christopher thinks," I reminded him, in case he decided to forget.

"This mission is as much his as it is mine. I might not agree with a lot of Christopher's methods, but I do understand the language of comrades. We stick together."

"But Christopher is wrong in this! Endangering someone's life without their knowledge is cruel."

"Your life was never in danger," he said fiercely.

"Please just tell me," I begged, tired of this discussion.

He stayed silent, looking into my eyes almost as if he didn't know how to phrase the words.

My heart was going crazy again. It can't be, I kept telling myself. It can't be what I am thinking. It can't be. It can't.

But what other thing would make him so reluctant to open his mouth? What other thing would make him want to follow Christopher's advice?

"Mr. Rodwell?" I said, my mouth very dry. Pulling my burned hand out of the water I put it, dripping, into my lap. "Mr. Rodwell, I am not stupid. There aren't many things about me that are abnormal. Except for one that I never wanted you to know about."

His face was perfectly blank but his eyes were in turmoil. That was the only conformation I needed. All the blood rushed down from my face. I felt lightheaded.

"You brought him here," I whispered. It was not a question.

"I did not," he countered. He didn't ask me what I was talking about.

What more conformation do you need?

"But he is here." Again, not a question.

"Yes."

A scream rang outside. I am growing very tired of screams ringing.