The photos were a strange mix of old and new. Different sizes, some in color, some in black and white, and one smaller picture had a faded orange hint to it that reminded her of those taken in the seventies.

Lianna sat at the edge of the mattress, crossing her legs to create a nest for the bottle of rum, laying the photos out in front of her. Eleven in total.

And her father was in several of them.

Picking up one she studied the man her father was shaking hands with. Both of them were smiling like someone had told a great joke, both wearing fine suits, standing in front of a restaurant. Nothing about the other man sparked a memory no matter how long she stared at his face, so she gave up and picked up another.

The next picture was large, taken through the window of a house like some kind of creepy stalker photo, and all it showed was her father sitting at a table with two other men. He was in profile, but she knew it was him. The dark haired man facing the window was someone else she didn’t know, and the last man was turned away. Flipping the photo over she saw three names: Alain F. Marc F. Denis G.

What the hell?

She turned the picture back over and stared at the shape of her father’s face, the light catching his blond hair, and she was sure it was him, but his name wasn’t on the back.

Huffing, Lianna took another drink and grabbed the next photo in line. This one was at night, a gritty black and white picture showing men in dark coats standing around big boxes. One was open and a man was lifting out a gun, a big one that was probably some kind of rifle. On the back it simply read: Faure November 2011.

The photo beside that one showed a group of thin women in short dresses huddled together beside an SUV. There were three men in the picture, two beside the women and one leaning on the car, and she didn’t know any of them. They were all dressed in warm looking clothes, and when Lianna leaned closer she could see shadows of bruises on the women’s lean wrists as they wrapped their arms around themselves. Rage plucked at her from beneath the growing haze of the rum, because her wrists looked even worse. Dark purples and blues like thick, uneven bracelets.

She wanted to rip the photo to shreds, but instead she tossed it away from her and let it slide across the concrete. What the fuck was she supposed to learn from these photos? They made no sense, and she felt crazy for even looking at them. After everything he’d done to her, why was she even entertaining him?

Lianna leaned back, swallowing the sweet taste of the rum that didn’t seem to burn anymore. Her eyes skirted the remaining photos and she nudged one with her foot.

That’s him.

The next two pictures were taken at the same place, one showing her father hugging another man she didn’t know at some outdoor party, and the next was him from the back with Uncle Mike standing beside him. They both looked younger and when she turned it over she saw why: Faure-Molet wedding, June 1997. Twenty-years ago. She would have been six.

Dropping them she pulled another towards her and skimmed it. Another grainy black and white, but this one showed men climbing out of cars. Turning it over she was surprised to see January, 1983 written below a list of names: Jean, Marc, Alain, Jean-Luc, Joseph Blanc, Roland Boyer. Staring at the front again she tried to make out the faces, and then she saw the two young men with light hair. Both looked stoic, but the one on the right looked almost like…

The click of the television coming on made her jump, and then rapid Spanish came over the speakers. What the fuck? Standing up, she stepped over the photos, taking the rum with her to watch the screen. A male reporter stood outside the gates to a large house where police were walking back and forth. Subtitles rushed across the bottom of the screen and she tried to keep up, but only caught bits and pieces of the story. Family murdered in their house. Two guards also dead. Seven people total. No suspects.

As the man continued speaking a gurney rolled behind him, and the shape of a child’s arm and small hand peeked out from under a sheet. Lianna’s stomach turned, and she was about to ask out loud why he was making her watch this when she saw the caption on the screen. The Jacinto Manufacturing facility will continue operations.

“Jacinto Manufacturing?” she muttered the name under her breath. Something about it felt familiar, but she couldn’t place it before the clip stopped and another started. It was another news report, and she shook her head, speaking to the ceiling because she knew he could hear her. “I’m not watching any more of this shit.”

To make her point she moved back to the mattress and sat down on it, back to the wall with the television on it. The sound continued for a minute, the light playing across the smooth concrete, and then it stopped completely and turned off.

That’s right, asshole. No more games.

Glaring at the photos in front of her she didn’t understand what she was supposed to make of them. It was like he’d given her a handful of puzzle pieces, refused to show her the box they came in, and expected her to divine the meaning of it from the universe.

Laying down on her side, Lianna propped her elbow up so she could still drink the rum. The photos taunted her, scattered around the edge of the mattress, and she snagged the small one with that orange seventies feel. It was a family photo, three boys standing in front of a father and mother, everyone smiling in their Sunday best. They looked like a nice family, a happy one. The faded writing on the back of it made her forehead crease, it was from 1974, but they were the same names.

Lianna sat up to scramble for the photo of everyone getting out of the car. Placing the two side by side she matched the names on the back. Jean, Marc, Jean-Luc, and Alain.

Those names were in both photos, just nine years apart. The mother, Liliane, wasn’t in the car photo, but the father, the boys... As she flipped to look at the pictures again a chill inched down her spine, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. Faces changed, from childhood to adulthood, but there were always some of the same features. A nose, a smile, ears… or a set of dimples.

Grasping for photos she set them side-by-side, staring at an impossible answer that still didn’t answer anything. Didn’t explain anything. Didn’t mean anything — and it couldn’t be true anyway.

None of it.

Raising her eyes to the cameras, Lianna contemplated speaking but she was enjoying the silence. Nothing but the strange hum of air that felt like a texture against her skin. Out of habit, she reached for the rum and tilted it up, a few sweet drops touching her tongue before she sighed and pushed the empty bottle away. It rolled across the photos scattered in front of the thin mattress, and then onto the concrete. With a soft clink, it stopped against one of the rings embedded in the floor.

The same one he’d chained her wrists to the day he’d given her the mattress.

Rubbing her face, she groaned and tried to chew on her thumbnail only to find it bitten down all the way. “Fuck this,” she whispered to the room, to him if he was listening.

There was an ocean of confusion around her that she didn’t have the energy to tackle while drunk, so she turned away. Turned away from all of it to face the wall, resting her cheek against her arm. Her bloodstream was alight with the fire of the alcohol, brimming with the buzzing after-effects of adrenaline, and a portion of her was wondering if the man would return if she called. If he was listening, standing just outside the door, waiting to see what she made of his strange offering.

But that was too much to think about, and she had no interest in another confrontation. No interest in fighting him or arguing with him. So she closed her eyes tight against the dim light, and pleaded with her mind to let go of the things she’d read and seen.

To stop trying to draw connections from names scribbled by a psychopath.

She was either going to throw up or sleep off the rum soon — and she was very much hoping it was the second.

* * *

David

Watching Lianna curl up on the mattress, all of the evidence at her back, David felt his fist tighten around the bottle of vodka.

The girl was smarter than this. Smart enough to look at the photos and figure out who her father really was — but instead she was going to sleep. He toyed with the edge of the folder on his desk, plucking at it with his thumb, tempted to go rip the door open and toss it in with her.

No. That’s too far.

He almost laughed as the idea surfaced in him. After everything he’d done to her, every fucked up thing in his attempt to break her, to ruin her father, to punish her for things he now believed she had no idea about… this was too far?

Apparently, yes.

He pushed his hands into his hair and even with all the alcohol he could still smell her, still taste her, still see her body arching above him as he’d delved his tongue inside her. It was messing with his head.

Grabbing the vodka he stumbled to the doorway and barely caught himself against the frame before he hit the floor. The hallway was tilting and that meant there was either a severe foundation shift he wasn’t aware of, or he was shitfaced. When he took a step forward and had to catch his balance he knew which one it was, he just couldn’t bring himself to care.

The plan was progressing, and soon Mercier’s corrupt corporate empire would be dust, and the family would be hobbled. It wouldn’t matter that the girl had seen his face, none of it would matter because it would be done. It would finally be over.

Brushing his hand across the door to her cell, he kept walking, one hand on the wall to steady him, until he found the bathroom. With the water warming up for a shower, he leaned against the wall and swallowed another mouthful of vodka. He just stared when he caught sight of himself in the mirror.

He looked like hell.

He needed a shave, and a haircut, and to not look like a drunk.

None of those things were happening tonight though. The best he could do was a hot shower, brushing his teeth, and going to sleep. In the morning there would be one less puppet company for Mercier to use, one more family avenged.

And Lianna Mercier? The ruined princess, the fallen angel, the damned daughter of the son of a bitch that had inspired all of this?

Well, she’d still be there. After all, Harry had done a hell of a job with the door.