Clara is stunning, aesthetic, and composed, and while the artist in me can acknowledge the beauty, my soul aches for the real her. She’s meant for easy laughs and stolen kisses, for long sweaty nights and lazy home-cooked breakfasts, for clever plans and curling up next to me. Next to any of us. All of us.
Instead, she and Trips spend a cocktail hour’s worth of time taking pictures with people they don’t know and probably wouldn’t like. Summer twirls a glass of wine beside me as we stay close enough to jump in if we’re needed.
“So far, so good,” she says.
“Yup.”
“On a scale of one to ten, how jealous are you?” she asks.
I glance around for a camera, but give up after a second. It’s best to assume I’m always being recorded here. “I have no idea what you’retalking about.”
“Right.” Summer leans against a wall, then suddenly straightens.
“What?” I ask, panic searing through me.Please let RJ be safe.
She blinks down at the crowd. “It’s probably nothing.”
“And if it isn’t?” I ask, having learned how important it is to have all the pieces before making a decision. Trips forced that into all of us in Mexico, even as Clara preached flexibility.
Summer steps closer, dropping her voice. “I could have sworn I saw my sister’s friend down there.”
“Could it have been her?”
“She’s as poor as I was, and underage, so no. But…”
My stomach drops. “What does she look like?”
Her blue eyes flash at me, something furious there, like whatever I say is going to be my fault.
Clara’s fake laugh begs me to turn to her, but Summer’s soft voice forces me to pay attention. “She’s fifteen, black, tall, curvy, and striking with a few crooked teeth on the bottom. Round cheeks, slanted eyes that always look like they’re stuck between tearing you apart and laughing over nothing.”
Oh no. “Purple in her braids?”
“Sometimes.”
RJ gave screen grabs of the girls for sale to the cops. For some dumb reason, I didn’t look at them, but even without that, I know it’s her, the same girl I saw via drone at the storage units. God, they must have taken the girls there for a ‘photoshoot’ in that storage unit set up like a studio we found last night. It makes the most sense, especially as the shell company for that unit was the same as Trevor Westerhouse’s condo in his wife’s college town. “Does she want to be amodel?” I ask, already guessing the answers to my next bunch of questions, and not liking a single one.
Summer flicks her eyes back at the crowded ballroom. “Most girls do at some point. Why would Iris be here, though?”
“How’s her family situation?”
“Walker…” Her voice is more of a growl than its usual practiced purr.
“Answer me. Please.”
“Complicated.”
“Damn it.”
I tug her even closer, my lips against her ear, like maybe I’m kissing her, my hand on the small of her back. I hate that I have to do this in front of Clara. “Don’t react.”
“I’m always acting, Walker. You know that better than anyone.”
True. “There are girls here, more than just Iris. They’re being sold at auction later tonight. Trevor Westerhouse brought in some ‘political friends’ as guests to cover for it. They might be using modeling as a lure for the girls, but instead of fame, they’ll end up sex slaves to powerful pedophiles.”
Summer jolts back, her anger only showing in her eyes while her mouth curls into a mischievous smile. “Over my dead fucking body.”
I tug her close again, everywhere her body touches mine reminding me of cold wet clay under my nails: uncomfortable to touch and requiring a good scrub after I’m done. “We have police ready to raid later.”
