HER EYES RED FROM CRYING, Meggie was dressed in black from head to toe — high heels, sheer tights, and a Chanel skirt suit that seemed tailor-made for mourning. The subtle scent of jasmine mingled with the smell of anxiety. She forced a smile as she opened her front door and found Saul waiting for her, standing beneath the yellowish glow of a streetlamp like a solid shadow.
She greeted him with a quick, dry kiss on the cheek, a mechanical gesture devoid of emotion. The journalist, meticulous as ever, extended his left hand toward the small suitcase she was carrying — the only evidence of a life temporarily packed away. Meggie locked her front door, took a deep breath, and walked silently toward the car. The sound of her heels echoed along the damp sidewalk like the ticking of a nervous clock.
The Englishman opened the passenger door for his assistant, placed her suitcase on the back seat, and turned on the stereo. The gentle melody of an old jazz tune filled the vehicle.
— One of your favorite songs — he remarked, trying to sound casual as he started the engine.
Saul had dozens of questions, but he needed time. With her, it was impossible to force the moment — Meggie was a minefield of emotions.
— Not now, Saul. — Her voice sounded fragile, barely above a whisper.
— Meggie, I want you to feel comfortable in my home...
— I hate imposing on people — she interrupted, staring out the window.
— You're not imposing at all, believe me. I want you to stay there until everything is resolved.
A long silence settled between them, broken only by the sound of the engine.
— I was so nervous... I must have forgotten something at home — she confessed.
— Don't worry. I'll leave you a key. You can go back whenever you want, without asking permission.
— Thank you, you're an angel — she said gratefully, forcing another smile, just as artificial as the first.
Saul glanced at her briefly, noticing the tension in her shoulders.
— Meggie, do you want to talk about what happened? Once you're settled in, I'll need to go out...
— Seriously? Now? — she asked, surprised.
— I'm sorry, I have a few problems to take care of.
— It's already past midnight, Saul.
— I know... but I think I've made a terrible mistake.
She stared at him apprehensively.
— Can I help you?
— Maybe, but I think you've already done what you could... — He paused, adjusting the rearview mirror. — ...I just wanted to confirm something. This afternoon, you told me Jessyca received a letter from the talent scout who discovered her. Right?
— Right.
— When was LaVey supposed to visit her?
— The letter said "tomorrow."
— Does that mean today?
— If she received the letter yesterday, yes. Why?
Saul suddenly accelerated, making the car shudder.
— It's already past midnight. The priest met her in the hotel suite a little while ago. She was wearing the same outfit from the press conference, designed by Samwell LaVey — also known as "the Devil's Tailor." Maybe that means LaVey won't be meeting her tomorrow, after the advertising campaign launch.
— Maybe he's already there right now... — Meggie said, her voice choked with emotion.
— That's my theory — Saul replied, pressing the accelerator to the floor.
— Is she in danger? — she asked, almost hysterically.
— Yes.
— You... — she stammered, grabbing her phone and searching for her friend's number.
— I'm going to the hotel to meet the priest and contact my source at Scotland Yard.
— Pick up, Jess! Pick up your fucking phone! — Meggie screamed, gripping the phone tightly.
— Calm down, Meggie.
— Calm down? You convinced me to lure her into this trap, and now you want me to calm down?
— A hot head and a cold heart won't solve anything.
— If something's gone wrong, Saul, it'll be your fault, and I'll be your accomplice! — she shouted, tears streaming down her face.
— Now isn't the time to...
— She's not answering, damn it! — she interrupted, slamming her hand against the dashboard.
— What are you hiding from me? — she asked, staring directly at him.
— Why do you think I'm hiding something?
— Because... — Saul began, hesitating.
Your transfer to The Sunny came with me as part of the package... he thought, but said nothing. Not now. It was too late for the truth.
The moment was far too fragile for confrontation.
— Why? — Meggie insisted, trying her phone again.
— Because... — Saul took a deep breath, unsure what to say.
— I handed my friend over to a psychopath! — she screamed. — Someone left a mutilated body part on my bed, I received a threat... and now my own boss accuses me of being a liar! — she shot back, turning toward the window as a black cat crossed the street, silent as an omen.
— I didn't accuse you of being a liar, Meggie — Saul replied gently.
— I'm sorry. I'm nervous about all this. I'm exhausted — she explained, covering her eyes with a trembling hand.
— It's all right. You need to rest. We're almost there.
The car slowed down, and the city lights shimmered across the wet windshield.
— About me hiding something from you — she said quietly — ...you're right about that.
— Am I?
She placed her hand on his thigh in a tender, sorrowful gesture.
— There are things about my past I haven't told you. Things that might change everything between us. I'm still not ready to talk about them — the American woman confessed, her eyes fixed on the road.
Saul took his eyes off the traffic for a second and answered calmly:
— All in good time, Meggie. All in good time.
THE GUEST ROOM was cozy, carefully prepared as a quiet refuge within Saul's home. The wallpaper, in pastel shades with violet arabesque patterns, reflected the soft glow of the bedside lamp, creating an atmosphere of almost melancholy serenity. Paintings of birds perched on slender branches decorated the walls, conveying an apparent sense of peace, as though time moved slowly there, in contrast to the emotional storm raging inside Meggie.
The bathroom, to the right of the entrance, carried a faint fragrance of lavender and lemon.
— I hope you'll feel comfortable here — Saul said, carefully placing her luggage on the bed, unable to conceal his exhaustion and concern.
— Thank you — Meggie replied, forcing a sad smile, her gaze lost somewhere on the wall, as though trying to hide what she truly felt.
— I'll leave you a spare key, but I suggest you stay here. If you need anything, call me — he advised, trying to keep his voice neutral.
She hesitated, took a deep breath, and then murmured:
— I need to tell you something, Saul.
He looked away, feeling the weight of those words.
— You need to rest now.
— No... I really need to tell you — she insisted, her voice trembling, as though what she was about to say would free her from something old and painful.
SAUL GESTURED WITH HIS HAND for his assistant to sit down. His expression hardened, but his eyes betrayed curiosity and unease.
— Aren't you going to offer me a drink? — Meggie asked in a provocative tone, perhaps to break the ice, perhaps to gather courage.
— Maybe some port wine — he replied impatiently, though he was already getting up.
He opened the dark wooden cabinet and retrieved a bottle of Quinta do Noval Vintage 1955 from the built-in wine cellar, its aged label gleaming beneath the soft light. He placed it on the small side table and took a crystal wineglass from the compartment below. In his haste, he spilled a drop of wine that stained the carpet — the kind of mistake he never made, but he couldn't bring himself to clean it up.
He handed Meggie the drink and sat in the armchair opposite her, watching attentively.
— Aren't you going to join me? — she asked, her voice thick with emotion, her eyes fixed on him.
— I can't right now — he replied, watching her bring the glass to her lips and empty it in a single gulp.
The silence that followed was tense, almost tangible.
— I lied when I told you I was a virgin, Saul — she revealed, her head bowed, her trembling hands resting in her lap.
He blinked in surprise, trying to process her words.
— Whether you're a virgin or not makes absolutely no difference to me. I don't know why you lied about it — he replied, crossing his arms, trying to conceal his discomfort behind rationality.
— But it matters to me! — Meggie burst out, her voice tearing through the silence of the house.
He nodded, stunned.
— Okay...
— I was raped when I was just a girl, by a friend of my father's.
The revelation struck Saul like a punch. The memory of L'oscar London, the surveillance devices, the reports — everything dissolved. Suddenly, there was only Meggie.
He watched her in silence. Her eyes were brimming with tears, her chin trembled, and her lower lip quivered between pride and despair.
— I don't know what to say... — he murmured.
— It's buried in the past... — she replied, but the tone of her voice betrayed the weight of the lie.
— I'd really like to help you overcome all this — her host said, uncrossing his arms and leaning forward, his voice low and sincere.
— I don't want you to feel sorry for me — she retorted, raising her eyes firmly.
— Of course not.
— Believe me, even if it doesn't seem that way, this is the best time to talk about it.
— Would you like another glass of wine? — he asked, trying to ease the tension.
— Only if you join me — Meggie insisted, her voice softer now, though her eyes held a sorrowful determination.
He hesitated but eventually gave in.
— As you wish — he replied, taking her empty glass.
What do I do? What do I say? he thought anxiously, unable to find an answer.
— You don't have to say anything right now. Just listen... — she continued, almost as though she could read his mind.
— Okay...
She drew a deep breath.
— His name was Sammy, and he used to visit our house. He was the only friend of my parents who didn't treat me like a silly little girl. He asked me questions, praised my drawings, told me I would grow into an admirable woman... I believed him. He seemed to genuinely care about me — Meggie recounted, watching Saul pour the two glasses, the ruby-colored wine glistening beneath the light.
— Sammy? — he repeated, the name sounding strange on his tongue.
She nodded slowly.
— One day, he showed up unexpectedly. My parents weren't home. He brought me a bouquet of red roses... I thought it was strange because he usually gave me candy or toys.
— Bastard! — Saul muttered, his anger overflowing before he even realized it, as he handed Meggie her glass.
She looked at him calmly.
— I'm not angry with him...
— Well, I am — he replied firmly.
She acknowledged his words with a slow nod.
— Well... I wasn't angry with him until this afternoon — the journalist corrected herself, staring into her wine before looking back at her boss.
— What do you mean? — Saul asked, intrigued.
— Because I clung to the good memories, and only rarely did flashes of what happened resurface — distorted scenes, like hazy dreams, impossible to distinguish clearly.
— A nightmare, you mean, don't you? — Saul murmured.
— Yes... a nightmare. But today, when I met Jess, everything came back. I discovered that Sammy hadn't deceived me merely to satisfy some sexual fantasy...
Saul straightened in his armchair, his breathing quickening.
— I'm sorry, but you're being far too lenient. Pedophilia isn't a sexual fantasy, it's a crime! — he interrupted, his voice hoarse with indignation.
— The letter Jess showed me was signed — Meggie said, deliberately finishing her second glass.
— The one that mentioned LaVey?
— Yes... It was written by Sammy. The man who raped me — she declared, lifting her gaze firmly.
Saul turned pale.
— Are you... sure about that?
— It was the same handwriting. The same signature as my father's friend. Saul, I'm certain Sammy is the man behind this damned cult.
He fell silent, his heart racing as his mind searched for connections.
— Besides the signature... — he began to ask, but she interrupted him.
— He used to spend his vacations on South American beaches. He was a famous fashion designer, and he always said Brazilian women had the perfect bodies for his creations.
— Yes... — Saul murmured, recalling fragments of dossiers and old photographs.
— He owns the modeling agency that launched Jessyca's career, but his name doesn't appear on any documents. He uses a front man.
— How do you know that? — Saul asked, a chill running through him.
— After he... — she hesitated.
— You don't have to say it.
— Well... you know. He never came to our house again. When I searched through my father's office, trying to find something I could use to blackmail him...
— You've already told me that story... — he interrupted, unaware of the tremor in his own voice.
She nodded.
— I found some notes about Sammy — she explained, turning the glass between her fingers.
The air seemed denser, the silence almost sacred.
— Are you saying that... — Saul began, seeking confirmation.
— Exactly. The Sammy who discovered Jessyca is Samwell LaVey... the man who raped me.
The name echoed through the room like a sentence being pronounced, and for an instant, Saul was certain the entire house had grown colder.