The Ribbon

Isla Hart, Alexander Vale, Chloe Bennett, Marcus Reed, Victoria Ashcroft, London

Chapter Three

Isla pressed the phone to her chest like a small animal and felt it pulse. The room smelled of boiled water and cheap detergent. The message about her mother’s old workplace kept repeating in her head like a broken line of a song: We know where your mother used to work. She read it again and felt the paper-thin calm peel away.

She dialed the number Alexander had given her. It rang twice and then a man's voice answered. "You should have waited until morning," he said, not like a warning, more like it was obvious.

"Who is this?" Isla asked. Her voice came out sharper than she meant. Chloe crouched on the sofa and watched her, eyes wide.

"This is Marcus," the voice said. "Isla, listen to me. Don’t call that number again. Put your phone down. Sit by the window. Keep your curtains closed."

"Who sent the text?" Isla demanded. "How do you know—"

"Because he told me," Marcus said. "Alexander saw it too. It came from a throwaway number. From a place that circles people he recognizes. We can trace it, but that takes time. For now, you need to be with someone."

Isla looked at Chloe. Chloe's jaw had a hard line. "We can call the police."

"We can," Marcus said, soft. "They might help. But this isn't a normal thing. This is someone who wants to make you worry, to unsettle you. They tried a cheap scare. You staying here alone is the danger."

Chloe stood up like someone getting ready to fight. "You can move in with me," she said. "Or I can sleep on the sofa. Is that better?"

Marcus was quiet for a moment. "Better. But not ideal." His voice was calm and far-away, like a man who kept too many faces in his head. "If you can, come to a safe location tonight. A friend of Alexander's has a small flat nearby. No cameras, no names. It's clean. It has a kettle. We can sort the rest in the morning."

Isla's mouth felt dry. "And Alexander? Is he—"

"On his way," Marcus said. "He'll be there in an hour. If you're not comfortable, tell me and I will leave."

Isla had this picture in her head of Alexander moving through glass towers and marble. The idea of him in her flat felt ridiculous. She wanted to be stubborn. She wanted to say no and keep her life exactly as it had been: small, honest, messy. But the part of her that kept the theatre kids fed with stories folded up and said, Be practical.

"Okay," she said. "We go. Chloe, grab the spare bag. I’ll bring the photograph."

Chloe moved like someone who had been given a live wire. "Lock the door," she said. "And take the kettle."

They left quickly, coats on wrong, shoes mismatched. The stairwell smelled of sweat and rain. Isla kept her hand on the photograph like it might fly away. On the pavement the city had that tired glow. People walked past under umbrellas, their faces empty as coins. No one looked important, no one looked dangerous. The thought made her chest ache.

Marcus met them at the corner with a small car that smelled faintly of coffee. He was clean-cut, quiet, and he spoke little. In the passenger seat there was a man who looked like he belonged in a different world: heavy coat, hands folded. Alexander stepped out as they got closer. Up close, he was something that made the air feel narrow. He didn't smile. He didn't need to.

"You're safe with us," he said, and his voice made things tilt. It was not soft. It was a fact.

Isla felt anger rise like heat. "Safe? You don't even know what that word means in your world."

"I know what it costs," he said. "I pay for it."

Chloe cut in, "Don't start. You're not him tonight, Isla. You trust me."

They drove through streets that looked like strips of black ribbon. Alexander's driver took the back lanes. No questions. Marcus sat between them and did not say much. Isla watched the city blink and thought about the puppet kid who cried when the puppet wouldn't bow. She thought about small hands clinging to ropes in a practice room. She thought about the offer and the photograph and the way a man had collected a face and kept it.

At the safe flat the blinds were thick and the kettle was small and just fine. They sat in a circle like a strange little family. Marcus fetched blankets and moved like someone who had known rooms like this his whole life. Alexander watched Isla as if he read the surface of a page.

"Who would want to threaten you?" Chloe asked. "Who did you cross?"

Isla looked at her friend and then at the two men. "No one," she said. "I teach kids. I fix costumes. I make sure the lights don't fall. I don't—"

"People don't always threaten because of what you did," Marcus said. "Sometimes they do it because of who you're with."

Alexander's eyes stayed on her. "Do you want to tell me everything?" he asked.

Isla had been taught to keep certain things private. Some stories she kept locked because they were shameful and small and not worth dragging into light. But sitting there with Marcus and Chloe and him watching, she felt the words spill like a child telling a secret.

"My mother worked in a factory," she said. "She died when I was young. I moved around. I learned to be careful. If someone knows where she worked, it means someone knows something that could make the kids at the theatre awkward. It could make things harder for me. I don't want them to know about the bad parts."

Alexander nodded like he understood. "We'll make it stop."

The kettle sang in the other room. Chloe laughed a little and tried to make coffee but her hands shook. Marcus pulled out his phone and began to type like it was a weapon.

"I can help," Alexander said. "But you have to let us in. Not everything. But enough."

Isla thought of the contract, of clauses and panels and truth and money. She felt a tug between the side of her that refused to be owned and the side that wanted to protect the children. "If I go," she said slowly, "it's because of them. Not because I want your protection to be my life."

"You won't be given anything you don't ask for," Alexander said. "You keep your keys. You keep your job. We will not change those terms. Tonight is about safety."

They spoke until the kettle was empty and the clock on the wall made small noises. Alexander's phone buzzed and he checked it, expression tightening. He pushed his chair back. "I have to go," he said. "There is something I need to handle tonight. Marcus will stay. He will be here until morning."

Isla wanted to ask him to stay. She wanted to say, Don't go. But she did not. Instead she asked the question she had been biting at all evening. "Is Victoria going to try something?"

Alexander paused like someone weighing options. "She will use what she can," he said. "She knows the rules of public war. She will use whispers and pictures and people with long memories. She does not like surprises."

Chloe stood and paced, throwing nervous lines into the air. The flat felt smaller, a paper boat in a wide, wet world. Marcus poured more coffee. He handed a mug to Isla. "Try to sleep," he said. "If anything happens, wake me."

They arranged small things: windows locked, lights left on timers, a spare phone in a drawer. They joked like people who try to make fear less heavy by naming it. Isla drifted with the mug in her hands, the warmth seeping into her. For a second she let herself imagine the kids in their new lit stage, the curtain rising like a promise.

Then a sound from the kitchen made the room freeze — a soft scrape, like metal on lino. Marcus's head snapped up. Chloe stopped mid-step. Alexander moved like a man who had practiced for this.

"Stay," Marcus said to Isla, the word a blade. He walked toward the kitchen with long, small steps. Alexander followed.

Isla stood, heart thudding in her throat. She moved behind the sofa as if it were a shield. The scrape came again, that small slow noise, and then a shadow passed under the edge of the door. Marcus's hand reached for the handle.

He pulled.

The door swung open.

Empty.

A folded piece of paper stuck to the inside of the door like a mouth that had not yet closed.

Marcus picked it up with two fingers and read. His face went very still.

On the page, in neat print, were words that made Isla's blood run cold: Not all collections are private. Some are public exhibitions. Come to the gallery at midnight. Bring the girl with the ribbon.