The hallway might as well freeze over. Just that sentence echoes. Sell your firstborn daughter. My jaw locks so hard my teeth ache. Firstborn daughters. Sold. A system where men decide their own children are currency.
The interpreter's family hits before I can stop it. Kandahar. That compound. The girl, eight, pigtails, sitting in the dirt. I can still see her. We had a window. I knew it. I said it. Command said stand down. So I stood down. By the time they let them go, her father was already dead. I swallow hard. My hands start to shake. I ball them into fists before anyone sees.
"Knox?" Nash's voice cuts through.
I blink hard. Warehouse. Mississippi. Not Kandahar. "I'm good," I rasp. I'm not.
East lets out a sound half laugh, half snarl. "Jesus Christ. That's… fucked. Next-level evil. Who the hell even comes up with that?"
"What about Chuck?" Nash asks.
"He knew," Malachi says. "All of it. Got into bed with Alice. Was gonna sell his own daughter for a payout."
"Jesus Christ," East mutters again, looking away as if he needs something to hit that isn't alive.
Malachi's lip curls, pure disgust. "He said she cut him off financially. That's why he did it. Blamed her."
He blamed her. Fathers. Graves trying to sell Darla. Chuck trying to sell Candace. Winston and Moreland in some secret society that uses daughters as dues. And Sloane.
Sloane, who flinched at Donovan's name. Who shut down when I pushed. Who told me in my kitchen, voice shaking, What if the second I hand it to you, you decide it's too heavy and set it down?
If her father is part of this—if he's cut from the same rot—I get a flash I don't want. A younger Sloane, polished and perfect, standing in a room like this, hearing men talk numbers and "lots" while they glance her way.
For a second, everything flashes red. I force it back.
"We killin' him now?" I ask, nodding toward the door. Rough, scraping. Not sure if I'm asking about Chuck or every man tied into this society. Both.
Malachi's hands ball into fists. "Not yet."
East's head snaps up. "Why the hell not?"
"Because we bring Candace in. She deserves to know what he said. What he did. And if anyone's gonna decide what happens to that piece of shit, it's her."
He's right, and I hate it. "You sure she's ready to hear this?"
"No," he says quietly. "But it's hers to hear anyway."
Nash cracks his neck, tension breaking into motion. "Where is she?"
"With Ruby. Frankie said all the girls are up in my room, drinking and talking. Darla's the only one not there. Still recovering."
I picture it. Last night's girls' night wreckage. Malachi's bed buried under blankets, takeout, glitter. Sloane still there this morning, one of my hoodies hanging off her shoulder, half-asleep in the middle of it.
"Then we better go get her," I say.
Malachi takes a step, then pauses. For the first time since he walked out of that room, he looks unsure. "She's going to hate me for this," he mutters.
Nash's voice is steady. "Pretty sure she's past that."
East huffs a breath that might be a laugh. "But she still trusts you enough to break."
I meet Malachi's eyes. "So go be the one she breaks in front of." It comes out without me thinking; it's easier to say the truth when it's about someone else. He nods once, as if I've reminded him of his own job description. Then he turns and heads for the stairs.
When he disappears around the corner, East blows out a breath. "Secret societies selling daughters. Dead moms back from the grave. Donovan playing attack dog for a woman we all thought was a headstone."
"Hydra shit," Nash mutters. "Cut one head off, three more grow back."
"Yeah, well," I say, straightening. "We've done more with less." But have we?
