Page 18 of Savage Redemption

“Ah, I mean Rosa. That was the name you knew her by.”

He had my attention before, but it ramps up. I entertained a seriously soft spot for my little companion and probably still do. “What do you mean? Where is she? Is she all right?”

“Yes, as far as I know. She went home.”

“Home?”

“To the UK. You knew she was English?”

“Of course I knew.” Her accent gave that away, not that I spared much thought for the matter. “She is safe?”

“I believe so. I phoned her father, as you know, who flew out to pick her up. Such a happy reunion. Very touching. Shame you were otherwise occupied, but on second thoughts, her father would probably not have warmed to you. The man who held his daughter captive.”

I see no point in disputing that. It was what it was. “Why are you bringing this up now, Bartosz?”

“Collateral,” he repeats, as though this makes everything clear. “Insurance.”

He opens his jacket, and I brace, expecting him to produce a gun. Instead, he tosses a handful of photographs on the low table between us.

I glance at them and spot Rosa, exceptionally smiley and cheerful. She grins at me from the black-and-white image. I assume the tall, dark-haired man beside her is the doting father. The other females in the pictures, one of them just a child, could be her sisters, I suppose. She never told me anything of her family or former life, so how would I know?

“Very touching,” I concede. “I’m happy for her, she was a nice kid.”

“So I’m told. I didn’t get to know her very well myself. I do like to… keep in touch, though. From a distance, naturally.”

“So?” I’m becoming nervous now. Where is this leading?

He tosses another picture on top of the pile already on the table. “I daresay congratulations are in order.”

I peer at the image. It’s a baby, very young, as far as I can tell, but with nothing to distinguish the tiny, screwed-up features from any one of a million other infants. I guess it’s true what they say, all babies look alike.

“What the fuck?” I pick up the photograph then drop it again. “Why are you showing me these?” I’m beyond baffled.

“Cute little thing, isn’t she? Her name’s Erin, I gather.”

“And?”

“Takes after her mother, wouldn’t you say?” He picks up the discarded picture and squints at it. “She has her father’s eyes, though.”

An uneasy prickle creeps up my spine. I ignore the photographs, my attention riveted on Bartosz. “Who is she?”

“Just three months old,” he continues, although I haven’t spoken. “A fragile age. So much can go wrong…”

“Who. Is. She?” I grind out the question, though I’m beginning to think I know the answer.

“She’s yours, Adan. Yours and Rosie’s.”

“But… how…?”

“The usual way, I expect. Do you see the resemblance now?”

“Where…?”

“The UK. I told you that. Rosie went back to live with her family.”

“Where in the UK?” I grind out. “I need to see her. Them.”

“Sorry, that would make it too easy, though I’m sure a man of your resourcefulness will manage to track them down without too much difficulty. Not that you’d be especially welcome at Daddy’s house, not after… well, you know. Still, that’s your problem. My problem is one of collateral, as I said. And this is where young Erin comes in.”

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