The Mistress. Tiffany Reisz

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      Inside her aching and addled mind, Eleanor Schreiber opened her eyes and raised her head. Across from her in the interrogation room at the police station sat the new priest at Sacred Heart—3:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning and here he was before her, a mere twenty-nine years old in the face but with eyes ancient enough they’d probably seen Christ in the flesh. She kind of hoped he had. She’d always wondered how tall Jesus was.

      The priest—Father Stearns to the church but Søren to her—said nothing. He merely stared at her with a little smile lurking on his lips. At least someone was enjoying her misery. Where was her father? Her dad should be here now. She needed her father, not her Father. Her dad was the reason she’d ended up arrested in Manhattan in the hours before dawn. But no, she only had her priest and the desire to wipe the smile off that perfect face of his.

      “So I’ve been meaning to ask you …” She decided to take control of the moment and be the first to break the silence. “Are you one of those priests who fucks the kids in the congregation?”

      Whatever reaction she’d hoped for from her priest, she didn’t get it.

      “No.”

      Eleanor took a deep breath and exhaled heavily through her nose.

      “Too bad.”

      “Eleanor, perhaps we should discuss the predicament you’re in at the moment.”

      “I’m in a real pickle.” She nodded, hoping to annoy him. A useless plan. They’d met twice before tonight and she’d done her damnedest to get under his skin both times. No dice. He’d treated her with kindness and respect both times. She wasn’t used to that.

      “You were arrested on suspicion of grand theft auto. Supposedly five luxury vehicles with a combined value of over a quarter of a million dollars have disappeared from Manhattan tonight. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

      “I take the fifth. That’s what I’m supposed to say, right?”

      “To the court, yes. To me, you will tell the truth always.”

      “I don’t think you want to know the truth about me, Søren,” she said, her voice not much more than a whisper. She wasn’t stupid. She only had to look at him to know that he and she had nothing in common. He looked liked money, talked like money. He had the whitest fingernails she’d ever seen and hands that belonged on a statue or something. All of him looked like a work of art—his hands, his face and lips, his height and beauty…. And here she was, chipped black nail polish, wet from the rain she’d been arrested in, hair falling in lank waves into her face, her school uniform a sodden mess, no money, no hope, and her whole life a fucking train wreck.

      “There is nothing I don’t want to know about you,” Søren said, and seemed to mean it. “And I assure you, nothing you tell me will shock or disgust me. Nothing will make me change my mind about you.”

      “Change your mind? You’ve already made up your mind about me? What’s the verdict?”

      “The verdict is simply this—I am willing and capable of helping you out of this mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”

      “Can we call it a ‘pickle’? Pickle sounds less scary than mess.”

      “It’s a disaster, young lady. You could easily spend years in juvenile detention for what you did tonight. One of the cars you stole belonged to someone important and influential, and he’s apparently determined that you don’t see sunlight until age twenty-one. Keeping you out of juvenile detention will take a great deal of doing on my part. Blessedly, I have some connections. Or, more accurately, I have someone who has connections. The time and expense will be considerable,” he said in a tone that seemed to imply he relished the time and expense, which made no sense. But nothing about the man or his interest in her made any sense at all.

      “And you’ll go to all this trouble for me … why?” Eleanor lifted her head a little higher and stared straight into his eyes.

      “Because there is nothing I wouldn’t do to protect you, Eleanor. Nothing I wouldn’t do to help you. And nothing I wouldn’t do to save you. Nothing.”

      A chill passed through Eleanor’s whole body. Someone walked over her grave, as her grandmother would say. She never understood that phrase, that feeling before. Now she did.

      “But my assistance doesn’t come without a price.”

      “Right.” Eleanor smirked at him. “So this is when we get back to my first question and the fucking of the kids at church. Oh, well, if you insist.”

      “Do you value your worth as a child of God so little that you think the only thing I could possibly want from you is sex?”

      The question hit Eleanor so hard she almost flinched. But she wouldn’t let him see he’d gotten to her. Her mom would disown her for this. Her dad was probably eight states away by now. Her grandparents were seven minutes from death. Her entire future was about six feet under. Still she wasn’t about to let anyone take away her pride. She at least had that. For now, anyway.

      “So that’s a no?”

      Søren raised his eyebrow at her and she almost giggled. She was beginning to like this guy. She’d fallen in love with him already—utterly, completely and until the end of the world or even after. Never guessed she’d end up liking him, too.

      “That would be a no. I will require something of you, however, in exchange for my assistance.”

      “Do you always talk like this?”

      “You mean articulately?”

      “Yes.”

      “Yes.”

      “Weird. So what price am I paying? Hope it’s not my firstborn child. Don’t want kids.”

      “My price is simply this—in exchange for my assistance, I only ask that you do what I tell you to do from now on.”

      “Do what you tell me to do?”

      “Yes. I want you to obey me.”

      “From now on? Like … how long?”

      And he smiled then and she knew she should have been afraid but something in that smile … It was the first time that night she felt safe.

      “Forever.”

       “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.”

      She heard a voice tinged with a French accent and tried to ignore it as she always tried to ignore French-accented voices. The last thing Nora wanted to do was wake up. In her dream she was with Søren and he was twenty-nine and she fifteen and their story had only begun. And she knew if she opened her eyes, she could very well be facing the end of their story. She wanted to stay in her dream and would have stayed in it forever but for the cold, delicate fingers dancing across her face like spider legs.

      Nora opened her eyes.

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