The Mistress. Tiffany Reisz

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 said, coming close to where Nora and Laila sat huddled on the ground. She sensed the man hovering behind them so she made no move to escape. It was too dangerous, especially now with Laila there shivering in her arms almost paralyzed from fear.

      “What?” Laila asked, her voice quaking. Nora ran her hand up and down Laila’s back, trying to instill some comfort into the girl.

      “Does your uncle love this woman?” She inclined her head toward Nora. “This whore of his? Does he love her?”

      Laila looked up at Nora, who only nodded her head, indicating Laila should tell the truth as best she could.

      “Yes,” Laila said. “Of course he does. She’s …” Laila’s voice broke and tears started to stream down her face. Nora started crying then, too, in simple fear for Laila. “She’s everything to him. She’s like his wife.”

      Marie-Laure’s eyes flinched but she only turned back to Nora.

      “What about her?” Marie-Laure said to Nora. “Does he love his niece?”

      “Of course he does, you lunatic. She’s like a daughter to him.”

      “The pretend wife or the pretend daughter? So hard to choose … I need to keep one of you here. But one of you needs to go to him and deliver a message. But who does he love more? Whom should I keep? Whom should I send? Whoever stays, we’ll have a wonderful time together, me and my houseguest.”

      The man, Damon, stepped forward and into Nora’s field of vision. Had she seen him on the street she would have thought him homeless as gaunt and bitter as he looked. Thin and short, but those traits only made him look more menacing. He had a deadly tilt to his mouth and a roughness about his edges despite his expensive gray suit. He had the same look in his eyes that Kingsley had—the look of a man who’d killed without caring and could still sleep at night.

      “I know …” Marie-Laure continued. “I’ll let you two decide. Choose. Who stays? Who goes? Quick, quick. Tell me.”

      A smile of pure malice swept across Marie-Laure’s face. Laila gasped and started to speak.

      Nora clapped her hand over Laila’s mouth.

      “I’ll stay,” Nora said immediately and without hesitation. “Send Laila with whatever stupid fucking message you have. I’ll be your houseguest as long as you want.”

      Marie-Laure shrugged seemingly unimpressed and unsurprised by Nora’s answer.

      “C’est la vie. I think you’ll be more fun to play with, anyway. Damon?”

      The man stepped forward, grabbed Laila by the arm and hauled her to her feet. Marie-Laure met her eye to eye.

      Nora started to stand up but Damon shot her a warning look. Nora sank back down the floor. Instead, she reached up and clasped Laila’s hand.

      “Tell your uncle, my husband …” Marie-Laure dropped her voice to a whisper. “That I gave him