by Ella Fields
I stopped walking. “To help them flee?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flitting around. “Not exactly.”
“You abducted them,” I said, the words cutting into my tongue as guilt creased his features. All except for his scars.
“Yes. The sex slave industry, which I guess you’ve heard about to some extent, is big in some parts.”
Walking again, to keep from sliding an accusing glance at him, I asked, “And how did that lead you here?”
“By stealing the wrong girl,” he said dryly. “She was a senator’s daughter and had been out partying for her eighteenth birthday in Mexico with her boyfriend and some friends. Me and the guy I worked with at the time stalked particular hotspots where more privileged beauty would appear, and we took her and three other girls.”
“Did you”—I shook my head, trying to understand—“did they escape?”
“No,” he said. “Years later, the daughter was found half dead in some sixty-year-old millionaire’s bedroom. He’d purchased her. And the others …” The way his eyes glassed over said it all.
Dead.
I blinked at him. “How did you do it?”
He knew I didn’t mean in the literal sense. “When you grow up with nothing, and your next meal isn’t guaranteed, it … hardens you. You need to become as hard as the life you’ve been living to survive. As a kid, I started dabbling in the drug trade, just trying to make ends meet. And as I got older, I wanted more. More than the run-down trailer I lived in, more than the constant scent of mildew on my clothes. I wanted more than a cheap, watered-down existence. So slowly, I started asking around, and eventually, I got an in.”
“Was it worth it?”
“Never,” he said with vehemence. “I did it for ten years, but money means nothing when you can’t taste the food you can afford to buy or see the nice new apartment you were able to lease. I was either working, or I was blowing what remaining money I’d earned on booze and drugs. Anything to block out what I’d sentenced hundreds of girls to.”
The word hundreds wrapped around my heart like a noose, and I wanted to reach over and gouge his eyes out, but when I looked, really looked, I saw the wetness in them, saw the way his strong chin trembled, and relaxed my hands.
“One night, I was walking back to my apartment, drunk as fuck and strung out after coming down from some average high, and there he was.” A smile lingered in his voice. “Sitting on my apartment steps, a gun in hand, and no expression on his face.”
“He shot you?”
“No,” he said. “But I was beyond giving a shit if he did. To be honest, relief was the only thing I felt beneath the numbness. I went to him willingly, which I think shocked him more than any other client he’d had, not that he’d ever shown it.”
“But you know him now.” I stopped at a tall oblong window that faced another dam, this one decorated with shoulder-high weeds.
Murry made a sound of agreement, stopping next to me and leaning heavily against the wall. “Anyway, I woke up in his chair, courtesy of the half dead girl remembering my appearance and that my colleague at the time had said my name, and it soon began.” He smirked as I waited for more. “No need for those details.” A visible shiver assaulted him as he straightened from the wall.
“Wait,” I said before he could walk away. “So the senator wanted you dead?”
He nodded. “But he wanted answers first. The whereabouts of my colleagues, my employer, anything he could get.”
“And clearly, Thomas didn’t kill you.”
“Clearly,” he said with a lift to his lips, then sighed. “I’d answered anything he’d asked instantly, and I think the fact I didn’t beg for my life, but instead, begged for it to be over, made him stop.”
“Then he offered you a job.”
“It was that or death,” he said, leaving me to work out the foggy details. “Which was what waited for me if he’d set me free anyway.”
“But don’t you have any family? In Mexico? Anywhere?”
His hands dipped into his suit pockets as he walked backward. “None more important than this one. They assume I’m dead and never helped in making sure I survived growing up. So”—he shrugged—“blood ties don’t exactly mean a lot to me.”
Pondering that, I leaned back against the window, staring at the floor.
“Oh, and Jemima?” I looked up as Murry threw a quick glance behind him, then said quietly, “I always thought he was asexual, so take that into account before you eventually race out of here.”
That drew a burst of laughter from me, but then I frowned. “Wait, seriously?”
“We don’t tell lies here.”
“Huh,” I said aloud, my heart sticking to the bottom of my throat. “Hey, Murry?”
His head appeared around the corner of the end of the long hallway. “Hmm?”
“I am sorry … about your plate.”
His deep laughter made my next breath scathe as he left me with all he’d said.
Letting it sink in, I mulled over what kind of life Murry must have had before. How bad it must have been for him to sentence his soul and many women to a lifetime of hell.
In the study, an old record player snagged at my peripheral. Traipsing over to it, I spotted a shelf of records, and after only a momentary pause, I started shifting through them.
“Boo!”
Jumping, I sputtered out a laugh as I turned and saw Lou, her hair damp and her smile warm. “You scared me, little Lou.”
Her smile grew, her bare feet shifting over the floor.
“Have you been swimming?”
Lou Lou nodded. “Daddy teaches me twice a week, but I finished a while ago. I had to take a shower, then I’ve spent forever trying to find you.”
I grinned at this newfound knowledge. “Well, you’ve found me.”
She sidled up to me, inspecting the records. “Daddy says those belonged to Grandma and Grandpa.”
“Are you not allowed to touch them?”
She peered at the record player, which looked to be in perfect condition, and without a speck of dust atop it, then hummed. “I’m not, but”—she grinned up at me—“did he say you can’t?”
“Nope.” Normally, I’d abide by parents’ wishes but not this time. “He did not. How about you close your eyes, and wherever your finger lands, that’s the one we’ll play.”
Lou bounced on the soles of her feet, her lip tugged into her mouth as her hand blindly slapped at the air. We laughed as I directed her hand closer, and she plucked out the first record her finger touched. My heart sank and soared at the same time when I saw it was Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors.
The memory of my mom, hips swaying and gentle voice humming to that same album as she cleaned the house or gardened infiltrated with razor-sharp talons.
I pulled the record free as Lou opened the plastic casing on top of the player.
Wanting to see if it worked, and because I wanted to rid an array of heartbreaking stories from my head, even if only for a little while, I carefully placed the record down, then set the needle to track number four.
A scratchy noise filled the room, and I tweaked the tonearm a little until the strains of “Don’t Stop” began.
“Ooh,” Lou sang, clapping her hands. “I like it!”
Tears smarted, and to keep them at bay, I took Lou’s hands. “Come on.”
In the middle of the room, surrounded by ghosts of ancestors gone by and haunted by their stories, I swung my arms and moved my feet with Lou, and I smiled it all away.
Her laughter was almost as loud as the song and even more magical. It had the ability to dry tears and chase away ghosts. Her little soul was a gift to a dark, enigmatic man and to anyone else who was fortunate enough to know her.
And it didn’t matter that I was dancing like I was at a children’s disco. For a fleeting minute, nothing mattered except being.
“Daddy!” Lou dropped my hands, and I froze at seeing Thomas in the doorway, his hair and his
white shirt damp as though he’d hurriedly tugged it on.
I swallowed, expecting to see anger at having touched his things, at filling his house of horrors with laughter and music, but then I swallowed for a different reason. He was smiling, his teeth imprinting his bottom lip as he tried to contain it.
“Come dance, come dance!”
Still looking at me, he let Lou pull him into the room, and a second later, I felt his hand in mine. Smiling, I ducked my head, and we began to dance once again. Thomas was just as goofy as we were, made worse by his stiff and restrained movements. But for Lou Lou, he was trying, and for my heart, that was a dangerous thing.
Because it dawned like a late to rise sun that if Thomas Verrone loved someone, there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for them.
The song skipped to another, and I felt Lou’s hand slip from mine, but too caught up in the hand that’d replaced it, and the slow tune of “Songbird,” I didn’t look to see where she’d gone.
“Little Dove.” Thomas pulled me close and whispered his lips over my cheek. “What am I to do with you?”
I was embarrassingly close to saying something I shouldn’t, so I shut my eyes. “You’re a fantastic dancer, Monster.”
He chuckled. “I’m well aware that’s a lie, Dove.”
“Fine, a whole bunch of six and seven-year-olds dance better than you.”
His head fell back, a loud laugh bellowing into the room, cording his neck and drowning out the music.
Marveling at the sight, I blinked a few times as his head lowered, and then he pressed his forehead to mine.
“And how about now?” he asked as his hands brought mine flush between us. One moved away to hold my back, and he rocked us side to side.
“Passable,” I admitted, my voice unrecognizably soft.
He heard me, his lashes fanning over his cheeks as his eyes dropped to my mouth. His scent was something I’d become accustomed to long ago, yet try as I might to ignore it, it still made my stomach clench and my mouth water. “You’re still here,” he said, more of a plea than an accusation.
“So I am,” I said.
A heaviness sat upon my chest as he lifted his eyes to mine, gentle wonder swimming among ice layered depths. “Why?”
It was a whisper, and I answered in kind. “Honestly?”
He blinked, the smooth skin of his forehead rubbing mine as he jerked his head in a nod.
“I don’t know.” As true as it might’ve been, what was more alarming was that I was growing less concerned with not having a reason.
For the remainder of the song, our bodies swayed to the music, but our gazes never strayed.
Before the music came to an end, his forefinger and thumb found my chin and he closed the tiny distance between our mouths. His warm lips scorched a trail to my heart, setting aflame every nerve ending in my body, and all he had to do was rest them on mine.
For that was all he did, and I stopped counting the seconds after twenty, riding on the sensations of breathing him, tasting him, and feeling him—of feeling everything.
It was the most intimate experience I’d had in my entire life, and it wasn’t until he pressed his lips to my forehead and left the room that I remembered I’d had it with a murderer.
Miles
The coffee cup popped open, dark brown liquid raining down the yellow painted wall.
“Calm the fuck down, Carlson.”
I slapped my hands down on the table, growling, “Calm? You said to wait it out until I saw you. You”—I stabbed my finger at him, an errant laugh slipping free—“said you’d have a fucking plan.”
But he’d arrived with nothing and no one.
“Well, where is it?” I spun in a circle, my hands spread wide. “What the fuck is going on, Pete?”
The apartment, the one the team leased to reconvene and stay on track, was fucking closing in on me.
I’d been there for days, waiting.
As if I didn’t have the ability to get a team together and storm that sick fuck’s property if I wanted to.
If only they’d give me a warrant, which Pete said they couldn’t or wouldn’t do.
“We did, but it’s …” He loosened the collar of his shirt, blowing out a breath. “It was unethical, and they wouldn’t sign off on it.”
“Unethical?” I scoffed. “They do know we’re dealing with Thomas Verrone, right? Tell Anthony I want a meeting. Now.” Straightening, I crossed my arms over my chest and waited.
Pete’s pale round face tinged pink.
“What?” I asked.
“We don’t know anything for sure. We have no proof she’s been taken. No evidence of foul play.”
My hands speared into my hair, and I did my best not to think about what my girl was going through. “And you fucking believe he hasn’t? She’s there!”
He cursed. “Calm down, Carlson. Jesus Christ, you’re worse than working with Jamison.” His nostrils flared as he huffed. “What’s got you so damn wired?”
“I want her safe.”
Pete sighed and scooted the chair back, the old wood scraping beneath his weight, and stood. “Listen, you don’t need to tell me, but where’s Shelley?”
More people than I’d like to admit knew about our situation. Not that it was her fault. I’d only said those words out of anger and frustration.
I knew I was the one to blame.
I could’ve said no. We could’ve picked someone else to step in. I could’ve given up this case and moved on months ago. I could’ve kept more of a distance between her and my damn heart.
But I didn’t do any of those things.
And now, the woman I was going to give up everything for was in the hands of a monster, and no one seemed to give enough of a shit about it.
I knew their aim. They were waiting. They were used to this and so was I. But what I wasn’t used to was this feeling cinching my chest tighter as each day passed.
Finally, I admitted, “Shell took a leave of absence and went home.”
Home, where we grew up and got married, was three hours north of this mess. And I didn’t blame her for finally giving up.
Shelley was strong. She knew the job and what it sometimes entailed intimately because she worked in the same branch, but everyone had their limits. She’d reached hers far later than I thought she would.
It made me smile for a brief second.
“Shit, Carlson. That’s rough.” Pete patted his pockets for his keys, tugging them free. “Sorry man, but I need to head back. I’ll be in touch.”
Nodding, I looked over at the wall of intel I’d gathered, not seeing it, not seeing anything besides the rage that’d kept me going for the past week.
A map of his house, coordinates, and supposed sightings of him around the city mixed with photographs of him in his obnoxious suit, his daughter, and some of his connections.
My eyes zoomed back to Lou Lou.
Unethical, yes.
But sometimes the only way to lure a lion from his den was to steal his cub.
“Your, ah, monster requests your presence at dinner,” Murry said at the door with a hefty dose of smugness in his tone.
With a leaping stomach, I folded my sweater and tucked it inside my bag, then scanned the room for other items. It was the tenth time I’d done it, but it made me feel better if I at least got prepared for the moment.
The moment when I’d walk out of here and never look back.
It was that last part that sealed the valves to my heart, blocking my next attempt at oxygen. And the reason I hadn’t left my room all afternoon.
Murry escorted me to the room at the top of the stairs in silence, and after rapping on the large doors, he opened them and left me there.
Steeling myself, I squared my shoulders and walked inside.
The door shutting behind me echoed right through my fingertips as I inhaled the smell of rice and spiced chicken, and let my eyes adjust to the bright space.
Heavy black curtains draped arched windo
ws, two on either side of the room, and a set of French doors that opened to a small balcony. They were peeled back and tied with satin bows, allowing the last vestiges of daylight to leak in and cast the large king-size bed in orange and gray shadows.
Removing my eyes from the monstrosity that was dressed in black and gray linens, I walked over the oriental styled rugs to where Thomas sat at a small dining table, writing in that little brown book of his.
He shut it as I approached, then rose to pull out my chair.
“Hi,” I said, finding my voice as I took a seat.
“Good evening. Wine?” His rich, dark voice combined with the mouthwatering scent of butter chicken as he lifted the lids on our meals had me almost salivating.
I shook my head, and he poured himself half a glass, filling mine with water from a crystal decanter.
Steam billowed into the air, trailing to the opened doors where the summer breeze drifted in to kiss my bare legs and feet. “Your room is beautiful.”
He stopped fussing with the cutlery and took a seat. “Thank you.”
I had to know. “Was it your parents’?”
“It was,” he said without a hint of emotion.
“That doesn’t bother you.” Not a question.
“Not in the slightest.” His eyes met mine after a beat. “Dove, it’s just a room.”
“Of course,” I said, forgetting for a moment, as I was often doing nowadays, with whom I was speaking with.
The food was too good to pass up to stomach roiling thoughts, so when he gestured for me to eat, I gladly did.
After I’d demolished half my plate, I glanced out the doors to stop myself from watching him eat. It was fascinating—the way his jaw worked and his Adam’s apple bobbed—in a way such normal things shouldn’t be.
“I’d almost forgotten it was summer.” Thomas eyed my dress, and I laughed. “You know what I mean.”
He waved his fork. “I suppose. Though I never said you needed to stay indoors. Or stay period.”
That was true.
I ate another mouthful even though I was getting full to avoid answering that.
“We never finished our round of questions,” he said after a few minutes had passed.
