DAMON DEPLANED AT LUTON AIRPORT, WHERE A WAITING limousine drove him to the flat he’d just purchased in Kensington. Running the television network as Crosby Wheeler had helped him to further his plan to continue manipulating the public, but the tide was now turned so far in his favor that his leadership soon wouldn’t be required. After he took control of the highest office in the land, he would appoint a new head of UBC in New York and fly to Washington, D.C., when necessary. But most things could be handled remotely these days, and he looked forward to being in London. Eventually he’d find a secluded country house outside the city as well, but for now, this would do.
Before he unpacked his suitcase, he peeked into the bedroom next to his. It was a little boy’s dream, at least he hoped so. He’d asked the estate agent to put together the perfect bedroom for a boy. Model airplanes hung from the ceiling and bright green bookcases held stuffed animals, blocks, board books, and every toy imaginable. He’d never done anything remotely like this for Jeremy, and that may have been a mistake. He’d raised Jeremy at a distance, pushed him relentlessly to achieve, and look what had happened. This time he would make no such errors. He’d learned over the years how to affect emotion and pretend to care, and he would continue to do both until Evan believed he was a benevolent grandfather who could be loved and trusted. He would hire a nanny to do the lion’s share of the childcare when Evan was small, but as the boy grew, he would teach and guide him, and their relationship would become more interesting. But those vital early years would require some coddling and giving him a sense of safety.
Damon thought back to his own upbringing, where filth and chaos reigned, and wondered again what would have happened to him if he’d never met Friedrich. When he was fourteen and his father had insisted he take the job as a companion to the invalid living in the house on the hill, he’d been furious. But refusing his father was not an option—at least not then. So he’d gone after school one day, trudging up the steep hill to the enormous colonial waiting at the top. He could still see himself in the moment that would mark the beginning of his rebirth: the gangly boy standing in the pouring rain, staring through the window at the man in the wheelchair. He hadn’t flinched when the man’s rheumy eyes met his through the glass, nor had he felt any sympathy for him. Instead, he had seethed with fury at the injustice of being made to come. Why did he have to look after some ancient war hero? War was for idiots, and he felt nothing but contempt for those who stupidly gave their lives for an abstract concept or propaganda handed down by corrupt politicians.
This was going to be a complete waste of his time—time that would be much better spent devouring his beloved books, the only things in his life that gave him any pleasure. As he stood staring, unmoving, he’d been startled to see a sardonic smile spread over the man’s face. It transformed his previously banal expression, and the intelligence now evident in the man’s watery eyes beckoned to him on the doorstep. The door opened slowly, and his elderly neighbor nodded, an acknowledgment of what had passed between them.
“I have been waiting for you. Come in.” The man’s heavy German accent was a surprise.
Damon had entered without another thought. His eyes swept the imposing marble hallway and sweeping staircase and the chair attached to it by metal bars. He took his time examining the oil paintings and sculptures around him, not yet knowing that they were priceless works of art.
The man was patient and kept silent until he had taken it all in. “Come with me into the study and we can begin.” He pivoted in his wheelchair and rolled down the hallway.
He had obediently followed the older man down the dark, narrow passageway until they reached a large doorway on the right. He’d felt a quiver of excitement when his eyes swept the room. Books. Hundreds of them. Ceiling to floor, every square inch festooned in books. The leather spines filled the shiny mahogany shelves. They were beautiful, a bibliophile’s nirvana—his nirvana. He continued to take it all in, amazement and wonder filling him like never before.
The man spoke. “I thought you would be pleased.”
The boy’s eyes darted to meet his. What did that mean?
The man laughed, a deep, satisfied chortle. “Ah, I see. You thought you were here on a charity mission. No, my boy. I have been watching you. You have more brains in your pinky than all those nitwits put together. I have been waiting a long time for someone with a mind like yours.”
Damon had wondered what the crazy old man was talking about, if this was perhaps a twisted joke. He wouldn’t put it past those cretins at his school to have set this up to humiliate him. And his parents would be just stupid enough to buy it. He wasn’t going to hang around and see what this pervert really wanted from him—no matter how big his library was.
The man seemed to sense his discomfort. “It is not what you think. My tastes do not run to young boys.” He sighed. “I am weary of all the imbeciles surrounding me. I long to discuss philosophy and science with someone worthy of my attention.” He brought his hand down hard and slammed it on the armrest of his wheelchair. “But this damn thing limits me. For years I have waited and finally I found you, and you seem to have been gifted with intelligence. I believe we can accomplish great things together.”
He took in the man’s words. Damon, too, was sick of the inane conversations that surrounded him on an hourly basis, assaulting his senses. In all his fourteen years, he had yet to meet one—just one—person who could relate to him or appreciate his genius. The things they all thought about! Their pitiful worries and mediocre dreams disgusted him. How often had he lain in bed inventing escape scenarios where he would be rescued from the dreary, colorless existence he was chained to? His parents were the worst of all. How he came from two such ordinary, plodding nothings, he would never comprehend. They were weak. They smoked like chimneys, and what few brain cells they still possessed they set to destroying with their cheap booze. By nine o’clock every night they were both passed out, drooling and snoring on the worn and soiled sofa. What did they know of their son’s gift? Was it possible that there was actually someone in this godforsaken town who recognized how special he was? Who wouldn’t treat him like a freak and invent new ways to taunt him? What did he have to lose? He had looked at the man.
“Tell me more.”
That had been the beginning of everything. And now Damon would be the same thing for Evan: a teacher, someone who could set him free from Jack and Taylor, another set of parents who were unworthy of raising their child.