Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 57067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Rushing through the center, I burst out the back door and run through the night.
On the ride home, I pass sparkling houses with Christmas decorations out front. A big red Santa waving his mechanical hand. Artificial snowflakes glittering on an enormous tree in a front yard.
Each one makes me think of her. Celine. My decorator, the woman I only really knew for a few days, the woman who changed me and broke me.
At a red light, I close my eyes. Try to calm myself down.
I call Agent Keane on speaker, though I know it’s probably a waste of time. But I’m getting sick of this crap.
“Damian–it’s late.”
“I got inside the gambling recovery center.”
A pause. “Yeah, and?”
“Got a basement door with a false handle on it, triggers an alarm which leads to a rapid-response force. Something bad is going on down there.”
“Something bad,” he repeats. “Any specifics? You can’t expect me to…” He cuts himself off, realizing his tone is less than respectful. “Sorry, Damian. I’m tired.”
He’s always doing this, as though he thinks one day I’ll turn the Beast on him.
“You know I can’t do anything without specifics. I’m risking my job working with you as it is. What if we bust in there and it’s a bunch of electronics or some other crap?”
I hang up. He’s right. I shouldn’t have even called him.
But I just want this to end.
Halfway home, I bring the car to a stop in an alleyway.
Something is tugging at my consciousness. An instinct, and I never ignore those. Something about the storage room where the trapdoor was.
I close my eyes, replaying it in my mind. The rush of a job is often so fast and stressful that I have to do this sometimes, use the calm after the storm to discern the true shape of the downpour.
In the room, there were shelves lined with magazines and crates of coffee and cups and folded cardboard boxes and…
And a pair of pink underwear, hooked to a corner of one of the shelves. Like a flag marking territory. Like a sick joke. A pair of underwear with kittens on it.
I’d almost think I was imagining it if I hadn’t gone through this several times before. The hyperfocus of handling business narrows my vision. Obliterates my periphery. It’s only when I look back on it that I can widen my scope.
I’m sure of it.
I call Thomas back.
“They’re trafficking women…” I swallow sickly. “And probably girls.”
“You saw this?” Thomas asks darkly.
“Saw a pair of underwear. Didn’t remember until just now. You know how it is on a job.”
“Details get lost until after the fact, yeah,” he agrees. “But a pair of underwear–that’s not much.”
“A pair of underwear with fucking kittens on, in the same room, there’s a trapdoor. That’s the sort of thing these sick bastards do. A twisted inside joke. It has to be that. That’s why the Don wants it kept secret. He knows half the Family would riot if they knew. Sure, some of these men are evil. But some aren’t.”
Some walk the line like me.
“Did you get visual confirmation?” he asks.
“No,” I admit.
“Then we’re back to square one.”
I hang up again, grinding my teeth, certain my theory is correct.
CHAPTER 23
CELINE
“What’s this–half day?” Jackie says, walking into my path as I head toward the exit of the hospital.
“Guilty.” I laugh. “They let me use two hours of my holiday. Julian and I are going to the movies.”
“Lucky! Make sure you get a double portion of popcorn in my honor.”
I force another laugh. “Will do!”
I’m obviously lying, since Julian would freak if he knew I was walking toward the bus stop on my own. I can’t take my car because he gave me a ride here, and I haven’t got time to get it. Instead, I anxiously wait at the bus stop, wondering if I’m making a serious mistake.
All day yesterday at work, I turned this idea over in my mind. This morning, on the fourth day, something solidified in me. I’ve never been good at sitting around and waiting for problems to fix themselves.
I ride the bus to the recovery center, just about making their late afternoon meeting. When I walk inside, it doesn’t seem suspicious to me at all. A kind-looking woman in a floral dress flashes a bright smile at me and waves me into a brightly lit room with a circle of chairs in the middle.
I grab myself a cup of coffee, glancing at the woman beside me, an elderly lady with a big silver cross resting on her chest. She offers me a friendly smile and a wink. “Don’t worry. We’re not all as scary as we look.”
I smile. Are you part of the mob, nice old lady? Are you part of whatever’s going on here?
I obviously don’t say that.
“Okay, everyone, let’s take our seats,” the lady in the floral dress says.