The Criminal

Ch. 29: So, you're the famous Nicole who started this entire thing?

Torin's house is bustling when Hunter and I arrive. He and his men are strategizing as Fiona battles with paperwork. It's time consuming, but Fiona has begun the legal process of making the women British citizens. She takes this aspect of her job seriously and I doubt she's slept because of it.

"Want me to take over?" I ask.

Hunter glances at one of the forms, perching on the table Fiona is working from.

"No, it's okay. I'm almost done," she insists. "Could you check on the girls? I think some of them are feeling unsettled."

"Of course."

I fire a quick smile to Hunter and take off, in search of anyone I can assist. Things feels strange around here. The energy is ripe, and everyone's excitement seems to be feeding into it. Hunter has assured me that this kind of behaviour is common. In the lead up to a fight, things settle for a few days. He tells me it's because everyone is at home finalising their battle plans. I personally don't trust it. Lowes and Murphy are both unpredictable and I get the feeling they're act now, think later type of people. It wouldn't surprise me if they brought their attack forward to throw the enemy off.

"Nicole!" Kathrine rushes over and rests her hands on either shoulder. "Thank goodness you're here."

"What's wrong?" I ask, sensing her turmoil.

She immediately frowns and gestures towards a huge wooden door. "Our friend—the one who doesn't talk—she isn't doing so good."

"Take me to her," I plead.

We enter a gorgeous bedroom, Torin certainly sparing no expense for his guests. The space is huge and has an abundance of natural light. Whites and beiges line the wall, the neutral colours complimenting the minimalistic furniture. The bed sheets look fresh and crisp and sat amongst them is the girl whose hand I held yesterday. She's silently sobbing, hair a mess as it clings to her cheeks.

"We've tried our best to comfort her, but nothing is working."

"Where's her book?" I ask, approaching the other women surrounding her.

No one seems to know what I'm talking about.

"She had a Quran."

"I haven't seen any book," informs Kathrine, checking under the sheets.

Amidst the panic yesterday, it's no surprise things got left behind.

"Okay."

I switch tactics.

"Can I have that magazine, please?" I ask, pointing towards a small coffee table situated just left of the bed.

Zara—a young girl—hands it to me.

"Thank you."

I position the pages in front of the weeping girl, hoping the images intrigue her enough to calm her nervous system. Her dark brown eyes follow the movement of each page as I flick through, her small gasp making me stop on one in particular. She brings the magazine closer, fingers lightly tracing the image of a Muslim girl advertising perfume. Her eyes widen as she takes in the picture, and I swear the smallest of smiles breaks through.

"She likes that picture," comments Zara, subtly peering over her shoulder.

Her fingers continue to trace the outline of the model, lingering more so one the hijab she's wearing. It's a gorgeous sage green colour, lined with some sort of silver pattern. A spark I've yet to see on her appears, lighting her up from the inside out. It's like watching a transformation take place right in front of me. Her energy is infectious and as I watch her fixate on the image, I realise something. This girl isn't frightened. She's hiding. There's a huge difference between being frightened and hiding from something. Especially when self-expression is not an option. Not only do we have a language barrier to contend with, whoever she was with before us has stripped her of her identity and demoralised her to the point of shielding herself from the world around her.