by McLean, Jay
One wall’s covered with missing persons’ posters—all of girls.
My heart stills.
My stomach turns.
Another wall has surveillance photos taken from security cameras at places like convenience stores, gas stations, and ATMs. “These are their last known locations,” Neilson offers, and I push down the bile rising inside me. I take a step forward and then another so that I can scan the images of the missing girls, one after the other. I look for Bailey’s, but it isn’t here. Then my eyes catch on one in particular: a blonde with bright blue eyes and an innocent smile.
“She was sixteen when she went missing.” I turn to Perceval standing in the doorway, his hands in his pockets. “That was seven years ago.” The pain in his words matches his eyes.
I look back at the picture of Lauren Sara Perceval, her eyes haunting now—just like her father’s words. “It’s every father’s job to take care of their little girl, and I—I failed her.” He rubs the back of his neck. “She was classified as a runaway at first. We’d had a fight,” he says, his words laced with sorrow and regret—something I’m more than familiar with. “She had a dance recital, and my wife—her stepmother—had a doctor’s appointment. An ultrasound. She was pregnant with our first child…”
The drawing on his office wall.
“I chose to go with my wife.”
“It’s not your fault,” Neilson soothes, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“It wasn’t the first time I put her needs second to—to everything else.” He chokes on his words and sniffs back his heartache. “She was sixteen, you know. I thought she was grown enough to understand, to be out there on her own, and I… I never thought that she would become another statistic. How could she? She was the daughter of an FBI agent who spent her entire life listening to me talk about the dangers of the world, of the evil that lurked behind the shadows…”
“I’m sorry,” is all I can come up with to say, but it’s not enough. Nowhere near.
“I shrugged it off for a few days. I thought she was just ignoring my calls, staying at a friend’s house, you know? I figured she just needed time to cool off.” He steps farther into the room and stands right in front of her poster; his sad, sad eyes consumed by her every feature. “The first forty-eight hours are crucial in any investigation…”
And it all makes sense now, why he’s so closed off about this. Any decent human being would find it hard to come up with the words to explain such a thing, but when it involves your own daughter…
“I spent those forty-eight hours doting on a picture of a child who wasn’t even born yet when my only living one was…” He wipes at his eyes before turning to me. “I don’t know if I want to know what she went through during that time.”
I nod. It’s all I can do.
“I’m showing you my hand, DeLuca,” he says, his hands splayed out in front of him. “I have nothing left to hide; nothing left to lose. And I’m close to finding her; I can feel it in here.” He taps at his chest, at the place that connects his bloodline to hers. “But I can’t have some punk detective and his informant getting in the way.”
I keep my tone gentle, my eyes on his. “I’m sorry, but I’m still confused about how this involves me. I would never—”
“It doesn’t involve you,” Neilson cuts in.
I face him.
“But it involves the people you work with.”
Blood drains from my face.
“Benny Bianchi and the Franco family.”
I blow out a long, unsteady breath while my mind spins. So does the room.
“Are you okay, DeLuca?” Neilson asks. “You don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. My vision blurs while my chest constricts, and I struggle to give my lungs their life source. “So all of this…” I don’t even know what I’m saying, what I’m thinking.
“We call it Project Sara,” Perceval informs.
“So, um…” I close my eyes, my thoughts too frantic to manage. “It’s what? A kidnapping ring?” I almost plead, pray, because as bad as that is, the alternative is so, so much worse.
“No, DeLuca,” Perceval sighs, his shoulders slumped with the weight of the world. “It’s human trafficking.”
It’s two simple words.
That form one simple thought.
“Bailey?” I choke out.
His mouth parts, but nothing comes. It’s Neilson who answers. “She says she was spared.”
“Spared?”
Neilson moves to a box of files on the floor in the corner of the room and, over his shoulder, he says, “She says they told her she was collateral.” He finds the one he’s looking for and pulls it out, then turns to me. “She wouldn’t say what or whom for, so we didn’t know.” He smacks the file against my chest, his eyes narrowed and on mine. It’s the first sign resembling anything other than calm and composed I’ve seen from him. “But, I figure you might.”
“It’s all there,” Perceval says, pointing to the yellow folder in my hand. “Everything we know about her.” He starts for the door and motions for Neilson to follow him. “We’ll give you some time, but just a warning… it’s not good, DeLuca. And it’s not right.”
Chapter 18
I was brought up Catholic, raised to believe in the Holy Trinity. One God, three persons: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. I started questioning my faith the moment I pulled the trigger and the bullet went through the wrong fucking person. I stopped believing in my faith about three minutes ago, when I opened Bailey’s file and started going through the pictures and reading the report.
They discovered the address from a GPS tracking device they’d planted on a car owned by one of Franco’s enforcers. The feds, along with the SWAT team, swarmed the property in the middle of the night. She was the only one there—found in the basement of a dilapidated house with no power, no heat, no running water, out in the middle of fucking nowhere. The photographs show multiple scales, empty baggies, and baggies filled with every type of drug out there, drugs that would end up in my hands.
I was so fucking close to her, and I didn’t even realize it.
There are also images of where they presume she’d been sleeping, made noticeable only by the outlined stain of where her body had lain. There were no blankets, no pillows, not even a fucking mattress. Next to the stain was a five-gallon bottle of water that—according to the report—was replenished only once a week, just like the cans of food littered throughout the space. She was given just enough to survive but wasn’t given anything to eat with. She ate with her hands, hands that were permanently cuffed and attached to a long chain that was bolted down onto the cement floor. Her only saving grace was that they continued to give her the meds that Tiny kept supplying, but they didn’t monitor it like they should have.
The report states that she’d tried to escape once. She clawed at that bolt until her fingers bled, and when the enforcer returned and noticed the bloodstains surrounding it, he left and returned with a bag of cement and water. He held a gun to her head and watched while she went to work, applying more cement to where she was chained to, inevitably putting the final nail in her own coffin.
At the words attempted suicide, I stop reading.
I can’t see through my fucking tears anyway.
But I can see it in my mind, picture her there, fading away, dying a slow death...
Because of me.
I realize I’m shaking now, my fingers trembling as I bring them to my eyes, wipe away the liquid guilt.
I take one more look at the photograph of her taken post-rescue. It’s similar to her mug shot, only it’s full-body, and I can see her bones protruding from every angle, see the bruises on her wrists left by the cuffs.
I close the file.
Stare ahead.
My mind races with too many thoughts I can’t focus on one.
“There’s one more.” I don’t know how long Bailey’s been standing there, leaning against the doorway, no doubt watchi
ng me sitting behind a desk going through the emotions linked with every horrendous image, every horrifying word I’ve forced myself to read.
I look up at her, her figure blurred by my weakness. “I don’t know if I can see any more.”
“What?” She kicks off the doorframe. “You can’t handle it?”
Shaking my head, I keep my eyes on hers as she walks toward me. “No,” I answer honestly.
“That’s too bad, Nate,” she says, her tone flat. “You don’t have a choice.” And with that, she drops another fuckin’ photograph on the table between us.
My eyes drift shut, and I try to breathe through the pain.
Inhale.
Exhale.
“Look at it!” she whisper-yells, and I can feel the strain of her words fighting for fortitude.
I open my eyes, crack open my heart for her. Then I lower my gaze, glance at the picture. I’m quick to look back at her because it isn’t what I was expecting, and I don’t want to see it.
“Look at it, Nate!” she snaps, slamming her palm on the table.
I give her what she wants, what she seems to need, and focus on the still image of us taken from the security camera of our basement. It’s of her. Of us. Making love. We’re naked, and she’s sitting on my lap, with her back arched, head back, her eyes closed in pleasure. My mouth is on her breast while my hands grip her hair, tugging gently.
I sniff once, muster whatever strength I have left to meet her glare.
She’s disgusted.
Contempt.
And I’m empty.
Broken.
“Where did you get this?”
She crosses her arms. “It was slid under the front door of the house where you dumped me.”
I cringe at her words.
“Along with a note,” she adds, her teeth clamped shut as she speaks through her anger.
“What did the note say?”
“That they knew who I was. They knew what you did and what we were doing. They said that if I didn’t find a way to get Tiny to stop coming by and go with them willingly… they’d…”
I exhale through my nose, every single muscle tense. “They’d what, Bailey?”
“They’d kill you.”
I can’t look at her anymore. “Bailey…”
“So, I did what they wanted…”
I drop my head in my hands, fist the strands of my hair. Pray that she doesn’t hear the single cry that forms in my throat.
“I did it for you, Nate.”
Chapter 19
“So Franco and Benny… they’ve had access to the cameras this entire time…” Tiny mumbles, pacing what we call the “evidence room.”
Nate sits in a chair, his head in his hands. He hasn’t moved since Tiny and the agents joined us, hasn’t said a word.
“How long have you had the cameras?” Brent asks, his back against the wall, his arms crossed.
“The ones at Nate’s parents’ house were set up by his dad before he died, and I put up the ones at Bailey’s right before she moved there.”
Nate’s shoulders lift with a heavy inhale, but he remains silent.
“And where were you getting the equipment from?” Brent asks. “A store or…”
“Just… a guy.”
“A guy?”
“Yeah, a guy.”
“So they’re stolen?” Perceval scoffs.
Tiny shrugs. “I don’t know,” he retorts, sarcasm dripping in his tone. “Want me to call him and ask?”
Brent again: “How do you know the guy?”
“Through Benny,” Nate finally speaks up. “It’s all through Benny.” His gaze flicks to Tiny before landing on Brent. “They probably want access to everything to make it easier to pin on me when shit hits the fan.”
“Oh.” Tiny lets out a disbelieving snort. “So we’re just telling them everything now?”
Nate shrugs as he gets to his feet, his entire demeanor dejected. “I have nothing left to lose, man, but if you want out, go for it.”
“What does he mean by everything?” Perceval asks.
Nate ignores this, and, instead, walks out of the room and returns a moment later with an armful of guns. After handing Tiny his weapons, he turns to Perceval. “I just need one.”
“One what?”
“One reason not to go to them right now and put a single bullet through each of their fuckin’ brains,” Nate says, his tone so flat it’s terrifying.
I hate this version of him.
The one I fear.
Perceval’s eyes are clear, his words concise. “I’ll give you two,” he states. “One: you kill them, someone else will take their place. There’ll be other girls. It won’t end just because you end them.”
Nate’s throat moves with his swallow. “And two?”
Perceval works his jaw. “I don’t get my little girl back.”
The silence that fills the room is palpable. Until: “Uhh, Boss Man?”
All eyes go to Tiny, who’s pointing at one of the missing persons’ posters.
“You know her?” Perceval asks.
“Holy fuck,” Nate whispers, his eyes narrowed. I watch his fingers flex around something in his pocket, but he doesn’t reveal what it is.
Tiny yanks the sheet off the wall and holds it closer to his face. “Look at that; her name actually is Dana.”
Perceval raises his voice; his words rushed when he says, “Where is she?”
“We have her,” Nate mumbles, glancing at me.
Brent steps between us. “How? Where?”
Nate lowers his head. “She was staying at the house that Bailey...”
“We need to get to her,” Perceval says. “We need to question her.”
“And take her back to her family, right?” Tiny questions.
“Yeah, yeah,” Perceval responds. “Of course.”
“Let’s go,” Nate tells Tiny, who folds and pockets the poster.
Tiny follows him out of the room. Then we all do. Nate’s not the one in charge here, yet his presence is that of a king. He and Tiny make it to the front door before Brent orders, “You need to give her to us!”
Nate’s shoulders tense, and he turns to him. “You’ll get your chance,” he tells Brent before moving toward me. He stops only inches away, towering over me, and it takes everything in me to stand my ground, to not rear back, not run and hide. The warmth of his breath hits my forehead, and words catch in my throat when he raises his hand, the tips of his fingers brushing against mine.
I cannot move.
Cannot breathe.
His heated touch trails up my arm—each second feeling like an eternity—until his fingers are on my neck, his palm flat against my cheek.
I suck in what air I can manage and release it in a silent sob that has my eyes filling with tears of longing, of mourning something that once was so real and so raw and so achingly beautiful.
My hands ball into fists while his nose runs the length of my cheek and across my ear. “Ti amo,” he whispers, “mia bella ragazza.”
I choke on a gasp, and when I open my eyes, he’s already gone, too far out of reach.
Not that I’d want to…
He opens the door. “Tomorrow. Ten a.m. You can get the girl from the salon,” he says, not bothering to look back.
I’m numb from his touch, from his words.
“Speaking of the salon…” Brent calls after him. “Is she going to be a problem?”
Nate freezes just outside the door, his back turned. “Who?”
“Your wife.”
My entire body goes slack.
The door slams without a verbal response.
Next to me, Brent sighs. “Bailey?”
I stare at the void Nate left behind.
“Bailey?”
He has a wife.
A life.
A future.
All things I’d been stripped off.
“Bailey?!”
I snap out of my daze and look up at Brent. “Huh?”
“It’s been a long day,” he says, a sad smile marring his features while he runs a hand up and down my arm. “You want to stay here tonight?”
I look at the closed door, then back at Brent. “Yeah,” I say, nodding. “I don’t want to be alone.”
Chapter 20
“Drive,” is all I say when I get into the black SUV. It’s no real surprise the agents showed up just outside the salon at precisely 10:00 a.m.
“Where’s the girl?” Perceval asks, turning to me from the front passenger seat. Neilson, behind the wheel, puts the car in park—his way of telling me we’re not going anywhere.
Too bad for him, I hold all the cards. Besides, I’m all out of patience. And I’m fucking tired. I’d spent all night tossing and turning, trying to push away the images of Bailey chained up and… I needed to get out of my head, and the only way I could do that was through booze and drugs, and I came close. So fucking close. But then I thought about her and her final words to me: I did it for you. And so I got up, got dressed, hit the gym—my only outlet—and made a promise to her using the same words.
I’ll do it for you.
I made small amendments to my final plan, and now I’m sitting here with two fucking feds, wound too fucking tight, and I’m struggling to keep it together.
I blink hard to fight the fatigue. “You’ll get her; I just have a couple of requests first.”
“That wasn’t part of the deal,” Perceval says.
“I wasn’t aware we had a deal,” I scoff. “And you better start driving before people get suspicious.”
“I told you this was a bad idea,” Neilson mumbles as he pulls out of the spot. “And I thought you weren’t into mind games, DeLuca.”
“I like some games,” I tell him, kicking my legs out as far as they can go. I try to relax into the seat and slump down a little. “I like chess.”
Perceval heaves out a breath as he looks out the windshield. He’s pissed because I’m getting under his skin. If only he knew what it was like to live in mine…
I say, “The pawn’s my favorite.”
He eyes me through the rear-view mirror but doesn’t speak.