He moves through the cage door and slams the bars between us. My heart shrinks in my chest. Despite everything, I don’t want to be alone again. I put my arms through the cage. “Doc?”

He doesn’t look back. There’s still a card I can play. Maybe the only one I have left. “Who’s Alessia Valente?”

He stops, his whole body tensing. Instantly I know I’ve made a mistake. “Sorry, I didn’t—”

A hand grabs me through the bars, pulling me into the cold metal. The blanket falls to my feet and I’m naked. The point of Doc’s butterfly knife is at my throat.

“How,” he rasps, “the fuck do you know that name?”

I try not to scream. “You said it to Mr. Parker at the cathedral. And your last name’s Valente so I thought Alessia might be your mom or your sister?”

Doc doesn’t move. “You have no idea. None. Because you’re a stupid bitch with no sense. Isn’t that right?”

I nod frantically.

“So let me help you out.” He runs the flat of the blade along my cheek. “Say my sister’s name again and I’ll cut you from ear to ear then fuck you with the knife.”

His eyes are hollow points of light. Headlamps in the dark. You could disappear into them without a trace. He’s telling the truth. He could cut me. He could kill me without a second thought.

“I won’t say it again,” I tell him. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He pushes me backward and I fall to the ground, relief blaring through me. Doc’s cheeks hollow and something wet runs down my face.

“Oh my God, you spat on me!”

For a moment we stare at each other and it’s crazy, but I want to laugh. I’m pretty sure Doc does too.

“Sorry,” I say in a rush. “Doc, I mean it. I’m sorry.”

His face works furiously but he turns, storming away without another word.

I lie motionless on the ground. I was right. Alessia is his sister.

Chapter Eight

January Whitehall

“Get up,” a voice barks, and I jerk awake. I cried for so long after Doc left that I must have dozed off.

“I said, get up.” I jump to my feet like I’m in the army and turn to the voice. It’s a man I haven’t seen before. He must be at least sixty with a grey mustache and unfriendly expression.

He throws a cloth bag through the bars. “Put this on.”

I don’t move.

“Do it or you won’t get to wash.”

Wash? Like take a shower? I grab the bag off the floor and ram it over my head. Even if he’s lying, I’m willing to take the risk if it means feeling clean again.

I hear the cage unlock. The man takes my elbow and guides me forward. I’m unsteady on my feet, but his touch is light as if he doesn’t really want to come near me. His directions are clipped as he leads me up flights of stairs and around corners.