I like him immediately.
“Ms. Jones.” His voice is low, lived-in. “I’m Spencer Carrow.” He inclines his head toward Storm. “This one’s father.”
A softer Storm. Same bones, different weather.
“Phoenix,” I reply, tipping my head. “Thank you for the roof.”
“Always welcome,” he says, and I get the sense he means for more than just plaster and shingles. He looks at Zeus’s cast and then at the men in chairs with something like amusement that doesn’t quite reach his mouth. “The doctor and therapist are in the east rooms. They’ll check you on your schedule, not theirs. You need anything else, ask. You don’t need anything…don’t want anything…say so, and I’ll make sure everyone leaves you alone. Including these guys.
“Cruel,” I murmur as he gives us a wave and wanders away. My neck throbs. I rub at it again and feel the drag of tape. “Seriously. What happened back here? It feels like somebody stabbed me with a knitting needle.”
Atticus and Conrad exchange a look. Storm doesn’t. He says nothing, which is the same as sayinglater. Fine. There are other things I need to know first, anyway.
“The girls on the boat,” I say. “The other people they kept. Where are they?”
“Handed over to federal authorities,” Atticus answers. “We didn’t invite badges aboard the ship with us, but we called them the minute we were clear, anonymously. We arranged for two advocacy groups to meet them at the dock. They were given all the medical, lodging, legal counsel, phones…everything they could need to start over.”
“Names?” My voice is too sharp. I soften it. “I need to know they’re not falling into another hole.”
Storm rattles them off—some organizations I’ve heard of and one I haven’t. He adds the name of a woman in charge, the one who sat on the floor next to the bunk and breathed with a girl for twenty minutes before she asked a single question. Something in me unclenches a notch.
“Good,” I say, and mean it. A headache presses behind my eyes; the tender spot at my neck throbs. I try a small roll of my shoulders. My muscles complain, then relent.
It’s weird…I hurt more today than I did last night. I remember feeling decent enough that I wanted Conrad’s body on mine, in mine, surrounding mine, even if I didn’t do a lot of my own moving. I must’ve been hopped up on painkillers.
“What happened to him?” I ask, quietly.
Conrad answers without hesitation. “Danner’s body was found on the ship.”
“I don’t mean Danner.” My eyes lift and catch on Conrad’s. “I know he’s dead, and I’m glad for it. I mean the man who killed him.”
The air in the room thins for a beat, like the entire house took a breath and held it.
Maverick’s voice is careful. “Did you see who pulled the trigger?”
“Yes. I saw his shoes,” I say while rolling my eyes. “They were clean. Too clean for that deck. He was neat…fastidious. His shirtsleeves—his cuffs—were pressed. He had a scar here.” I touch the fine line near my ear. “Old. He knew my name. He didn’t look at me like a man looks at a woman he wants to fuck. He looked at me like a line item on a balance sheet. He talked like he’s the one who makes the rules when he’s in the room and doesn’t give a fuck if anyone agrees or not.”
Atticus’s jaw tightens. Storm tilts his head half a degree, listening to the way the words fit each other. Conrad’s hands close on his knees, the tendons standing out in stark relief. He’s building a picture with his rage and my facts.
“He’s the one in charge,” I say. “Not Danner. Danner was his lackey. This man held the leash, and when Danner pulled against it…” I put a finger gun to my temple and pulled a pretend trigger.
“Broker,” Maverick says, almost under his breath, like he’s testing the myth out loud.
The name lands and sits in the center of the room like a polished stone. It doesn’t roll, though. It doesn’t belong to anyone we know, and that’s the problem.
“That’s what one of the women called him too,” I say. “But that doesn’t help us identify him. I swear, he was so familiar, though.”
“Noted,” Atticus says, and the word is colder than I’ve ever heard it from him. He’s already two steps down a mental hallway thatends in a room with screens and code. “But now we have a face. I need to get you a sketch artist.”
“That would be good. I guess I should tell you about everything…so you can figure out who these guys are.”
“Whenever you’re ready,” Conrad says.
Zeus nudges my foot, aggrieved I stopped petting him. I oblige, scratching the base of his ears until his eyes go blissed-out and his tongue lolls.
“Headache?” a new voice asks from the doorway.
A woman stands there—late thirties, maybe, hair in a braid. She wears jeans and a slouchy sweater and carries a doctor’s bag that looks like it has better stories than mine. Behind her, another woman with locs pulled into a low bun leans on the frame, soft-eyed and steady in a way that feels like a couch you sat on when you were a kid and the adults talked in the kitchen.
