to Fergus Griffin. He’s a tall, trim, intelligent-looking man, well-dressed, with handsome gray streaks in his hair and cultured manners. To the untrained eye, he looks like a wealthy Chicago businessman. I see him for what he really is—a chameleon who takes on the appearance that best suits his purposes. I have no doubt that when he was breaking knees as an enforcer, he looked like walking retribution. When he rose through the ranks of the Irish mafia, I’m sure he dressed like a gangster. Now he behaves like he’s lived all his life in the upper crust.
It’s difficult to tell who he really is, underneath all that. I can guess a few things: he must be intelligent and strategic, with a core of steel. You don’t get to the top any other way.
But he can’t be your average criminal sociopath. Because he made Nessa. He raised her. That gentle heart and creative mind of hers must have come from somewhere.
Maybe from Imogen Griffin. She’s sitting on her husband’s opposite side. I feel her looking at me, with those cool blue eyes she passed down to her son.
“Are you a patron of the arts?” she asks me, acerbically.
“No,” I say.
After a moment of chilly silence, I add, “I do like dancing.”
“You do?” Her frosty expression melts by the tiniest degree.
“Yes. My sister and I did folk dancing when we were young,” I take a breath, trying to think how normal people speak when they make conversation. “We won a prize once, for the Polonaise. We hated dancing together because we always quarreled—Anna wanted to lead. She was better than me. I should have let her. We probably only won because we looked so alike, like a matched set. The judges thought it was cute.”
The words come out faster, once I get in the flow of it. It helps that Imogen and Nessa look a little alike. It helps ease the awkwardness.
Imogen smiles.
“I danced ballroom with my brother Angus,” she says. “We thought it was so embarrassing being paired up together. We never won any prizes.”
“You needed a better partner,” Fergus says.
“I hope you’re not talking about yourself,” Imogen laughs. She tells me, “He broke my foot at our wedding. Stepped right on my toes.”
Fergus scowls. “I had a lot on my mind.”
“And you were drunk.”
“Mildly inebriated.”
“Completely sloshed.”
They share an amused glance, then they remember that I’m sitting right next to them, and they hate me.
“Anyway,” Fergus says. “Nessa’s talent comes from her mother.”
I hear the pride in his voice. They love Nessa—that much is clear.
Before I can say anything else, the lights dim and the curtain rises.
The set is stunning, epic in size and scale. It looks like a bright, verdant forest. The music is light and joyful, too. Three girls come out dressed in green, blue, and pink—Nessa, Marnie, and Serena.
I notice that Serena Breglio has kept the brown hair the Russians gave her. I guess she decided she liked it. I don’t know how much Nessa has told her about why she was abducted and then abruptly released again. I do know that Serena is one of Nessa’s best friends, and that hasn’t changed. So in a fit of guilt, I anonymously paid off the balance of Serena’s student loans. It was forty-eight thousand. Less than I make in a week, but a fuck-load of shifts at the coffee shop where Serena works to supplement her meager dancer’s salary.
A few months ago I would have said she was lucky we didn’t cut her throat and toss her in a ditch. Now I’m Father Christmas. That’s how soft I’ve gotten.
The three girls are dancing in a formation that Nessa tells me is called a “pas de trois.” Their dresses are soft, not stiff like a tutu. Every time they twirl around, the skirt bells out in a shape like flower petals.
I’ve watched very little ballet, but the dances Nessa choreographs are mesmerizing. There’s so much movement and interaction, patterns that shift and evolve, with barely any repetition.
Nessa’s parents are fascinated, right from the start. They lean forward, eyes locked on the stage. I can see from their surprised expressions that even they didn’t realize how beautiful Nessa’s work can be.
Toward the end of the dance, Nessa separates from the other two girls. They exit the stage on the left, while Nessa crosses in the opposite direction, wandering as if lost.
As she moves across the stage, the lighting changes. The forest that looked bright and welcoming now becomes dense and