Oh, God. This was something out of a nightmare. Maybe she’d wake up, not surrounded by her furious uncle, her furious uncle’s fixer, and this friend caught in the middle that seemed too innocent, too sweet for the life they were both living.

Eyes wide, she put her hands on Chéri’s arm, both retreating behind it and trying to ease it down.

“I-I am employed there,” Lory said, head up but whole body trembling. “My time is theirs. Chéri,” she paused only momentarily, “Chéri DuMonte cleans there and is learning English.”

It was the fastest surname she could pull out of her ass that sounded both French and generic enough to not get him in trouble.

“I was working there when-- when he,” she nodded her head toward Uncle Ben, but refused to look at him, “burst in, grabbed me,” she cupped her bare arm and took a steadying breath, “forcibly dragged me into another room, refused my pleas to let m-” her voice caught on a sob.

Oh, God. Describing it was almost worse than going through it.

“To let me go,” she said faster, determined to outrun her own grief.

Was grief harder to outrun in heels? That was her theory when she slumped against Chéri’s shoulder, manicured nails clutching their sleeve.