Page 30 of Never Broken

She took the paper immediately from me, pushing up her oversized glasses to scan it, her face interested but maddeningly unreadable. “This kid’s life reads like a novel. He went from a private home in Luxembourg to a factory farm in Romania to Heidelberg University, all before he turned eighteen?”

“He’s … kind of extraordinary.”

From my professor, there came a tiny, almost undetectable smile.

“But it’s not that part of his life I’m interested in.” I was interested ineverypart of his life, actually, but not at this immediate moment.

“I see,” Muller said neutrally. “The first thing that jumps out at me is that his mother died mere days before his first owner sold him. It seemed to be a hasty sale, too. They basically handed him over to a public auction house instead of going through a private buyer. That’s unusual, given he was born and raised there.”

“Do you think they’re connected?” And what if they were? Would that be a good thing?

“It’s possible. But you know, these files aren’t always reliable. You’ll remember we discussed this very thing in my lecture a few weeks ago. Sometimes owners will put false information inthem simply to punish slaves they felt were disrespectful,” she explained. “And the slaves have no recourse to get it corrected. In fact, there was legislation proposed several years ago to instate some sort of a verification process, but?—“

She must have noticed my eyes glazing over.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to turn this into a lecture.” She adjusted her glasses and examined the paper again. “I also notice that his disciplinary record shows no history of serious violence, except this.” She looked up and spun her chair around again. “In any case, Louisa, recent research has found that there are very few attacks on owners that aren’t provoked or justified in some way. You’d never know that to read about them in the corporate press, though,” she added bitterly.

I let out another breath.

“Still, I know you don’t know the exact circumstances, and that’s what worries you.”

I nodded. “So what do I do?”

“I have a suggestion, and I want you to consider it very carefully.” She sat back in her chair and steepled her hands. “Have you thought about asking him?”

I was dumbfounded. “Asking him?”

“It’s public information, Louisa. As a free person, you have a right to see it. And of course he should answer your questions. Not that I’m suggesting you order him to answer. But you could ask him. Politely.”

“Um.” I blushed. “There’s a problem.”

“What’s that?”

“Then he’ll know I was snooping.”

I wondered if Erica Muller thought her office hours were starting to feel like a relationship therapy session. But she just gave me a small smile of amusement, or possibly concern. In any case, she scribbled a number down on a piece of paper. “Think it over, anyway, and let me know how it goes. This is my cellnumber. I always have it with me and turned on. Just in case you ever need it.” She slid it across the table. “No questions asked.”

By the time I walked out of her office, I’d forgotten all about Corey. I was actually feeling lighter. Not because I had a plan about what to do—I didn’t, really—but because I was now aware of at least one person on the planet I could trust not to judge me. And that included the slave boy himself.

That light feeling melted away, however, the minute my phone buzzed and I glanced at it to see three missed calls from my father. His voice seemed to be coming from the bottom of the ocean as I shakily pressed the phone to my ear, stomach churning with anxiety. I hadn’ttechnicallydone anything wrong, of course, but, well.

“I want you home immediately after class, Loulou. We need to talk.”

HIM

“Sir?” I prompted.

I shouldn’t have spoken, but why had Master Wainwright-Phillips called me in here if he was just going to stare dopily at his laptop screen for five minutes? For effect? In any case, while I waited, I stood in the middle of the southwestern-style rug I had just put down yesterday, expertly feigning interest in its orange-and-yellow geometric pattern while actually staring my master straight in the face, the way I’d learned to do a long, long time ago.

Despite all the effort he—well, his slaves—had put in to make his study look more “start-up-like,” it was no different from all the free people’s offices I’d ever seen. With their elaborate paneling and massive desks and chairs, they seemed designed to reinforce the inferiority of whoever entered, especially if thatperson was a slave, glistening and panting and covered in dust from having just hauled lava rocks all morning, and who didn’t even have the privilege of being offered one of the very chairs I’d carried up to the office yesterday.

But that was the least of my problems right now. There didn’t seem to be much question as to what this summons was about. The proof was hidden under my mattress downstairs: a map to 2481 Salt River Boulevard.

Given the expression on the housekeeper’s face when she’d come out into the yard to inform me I’d been summoned, I knew it couldn’t be good. It seemed unlikely that anyone could have discovered the printout already, but who knew?

I’d already made up my mind to go on tutoring Louisa. Naturally, because she was the easiest pathway to getting the information I needed, which right now was what Langer was doing under the code name White Cedar. I had some idea of where to look, but I needed to buy more time. Time in which I would grow closer and closer to losing control of the whole goddamn enterprise, all because my dick practically hit the bottom of the desk every time her tongue poked out of her mouth in concentration.

In the meantime, my mouth was dry as this goddamn desert. Plus, my palms were clammy and my heart was pounding as I stood there like a tool, waiting for my master to say something, no less nervous now than when I was eight or ten or fifteen years old and being ordered into a master’s presence.

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