Chapter 1 - Ninety Thousand DollarsThe first thing everyone noticed was her hair.
It moved across the polished marble floor like a living shadow, thick brown ropes of dirt and tangled knots trailing several feet behind her. Every hesitant step dragged another section across the gleaming white tiles.
The second thing they noticed was the man standing beside her.
Adrian Vale was forty-six years old, wealthy enough to own half the buildings on the surrounding streets, and powerful enough that people usually stood when he entered a room.
Today, he looked as though he hadn't slept in days.
His black overcoat was damp from the October rain. A bruise darkened the edge of his jaw, and a healing wound beneath his shirt made every breath uncomfortable.
The girl beside him looked even worse.
Her oversized gray-olive coat hung from narrow shoulders. Dark boots protruded beneath a torn skirt. Her face was almost completely hidden by her filthy hair, except for one frightened green-gray eye.
At the reception desk of Bell Atelier, one of Boston's most exclusive hair salons, a receptionist slowly lowered her telephone.
"Sir," she whispered, "we don't normally accept walk-ins."
Adrian didn't look at her.
"Where's the manager?"
Several customers had stopped talking. One woman lifted her phone, then lowered it when Adrian turned toward her.
A silver-haired man emerged from the rear of the salon.
Lionel Bell, sixty-one, had spent thirty years building his reputation among Boston's wealthiest families. He had styled senators' wives, television personalities, and brides whose weddings cost more than most houses.
But he had never seen anything like the girl standing in his lobby.
"Oh, dear God," Lionel murmured.
The girl flinched.
Adrian saw it.
His expression hardened.
"Don't look at her like that."
Lionel swallowed. "I wasn't—"
"She's standing right here."
For a moment, the only sound came from the soft hum of the ventilation system and rain tapping against the enormous front windows.
Then Adrian reached inside his overcoat.
He removed one flat black envelope.
He extended his arm, lowered it onto the marble reception counter, and released it.
"Ninety thousand dollars. Close the salon. Treat her like a human being, because she's the reason I'm alive."
Lionel stared at the envelope.
"Ninety thousand?"
"A certified bank check. Made payable to your business. It covers closing today, whatever professional care she chooses, and a fund for people who cannot afford your services."
"Mr. Vale, I can't possibly—"
"Then tell me who can."
The girl shifted slightly.
Her hair moved across the floor with a heavy scraping sound.
Adrian immediately turned toward her.
"Are you all right?"
She did not answer.
Lionel looked more closely at Adrian's face.
"You're hurt."
"Not badly enough to matter."
"Did somebody attack you?"
Adrian's jaw tightened.
Three nights earlier, he had been bleeding to death in a narrow Boston alley.
He remembered rain striking his face. The smell of wet brick. A sharp pain beneath his ribs.
He remembered trying to reach his phone, only to discover that his fingers would no longer obey him.
Then footsteps.
A small figure emerged from the darkness.
A girl with impossible hair.
She approached cautiously, as though expecting him to strike her.
"Please," he had whispered.
She knelt in the rain.
When she saw the blood soaking his shirt, her expression changed.
Without asking his name, she pressed both hands against the wound.
"Stay awake," she told him.
He remembered her voice.
He remembered her trembling fingers finding his phone and calling for help.
And he remembered the last thing she said before the ambulance arrived.
"They're not supposed to know I'm here."
Then she disappeared.
Adrian had spent three days searching for her.
Now, standing in the salon, he looked at the girl who had saved his life.
"We can cut it," he said gently, "but only if you want."
She immediately grabbed two enormous handfuls of her tangled hair.
"No."
"Then nobody cuts anything."
Her breathing quickened.
"They'll find me."
Adrian leaned closer without touching her.
"Who's looking for you?"
Her visible eye moved toward the rain-streaked windows.
For a moment, she seemed to see something far beyond the salon.
Something ten years old.
Something burning.
A corridor filled with smoke.
A wet floor reflecting orange flames.
A golden ring rolling across the ground.
It wobbled, struck the edge of a cracked tile, and stopped upright.
Beyond it stood a dark figure.
The girl opened her mouth.
"I remember the fire..."
Adrian froze.
There had been something about that fire in the documents he had been reading before the attack.
Something his own father had told him to forget.
The girl's fingers tightened around her hair.
"And the man with the ring."
Adrian's face drained of color.
"Wait!"
She recoiled.
He immediately lowered his voice.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you."
Then he asked the question that would change both their lives.
"What did the ring look like?"
Her lips trembled.
"It had a sun on it," she whispered. "But one of the rays was broken."
Adrian felt the blood rush from his face.
Because his father had once owned a gold signet ring engraved with an eight-pointed sun.
And one of its rays had been damaged when Adrian was a child.
His father had always claimed the ring was lost.
May you like
Ten years ago.
The same year Morrow House burned.
Related Stories
