Chapter One
Maya
“Keep your head down.”
The man behind me says it like he expects obedience, so I give it to him.
“I said keep your head down.” His grip tightens around my arm when I glance toward the corridor ahead.
“I am,” I hiss.
“Then look at the floor.”
I lower my gaze fast enough to satisfy him. Not because he deserves obedience, not because I’m afraid. Because women who are playing the part of terrified captive do, so I stare at the floor.
Black marble, polished recently. Expensive, but not new. The left side of the corridor has a faint scuff line near the wall where aservice cart has scraped too many times against the same turn. Two doors on the right. One on the left. The faint hum of central air. Music somewhere ahead of us, low and elegant and wrong for the sort of place this is.
Miami. Private property. Somewhere with enough money to keep the neighbors distant and enough security to make the men inside believe they are untouchable.
I only know the city because I am supposed to know the city. Because for the last eleven months, I have been someone else. A girl with a false name, a false history, and just enough desperation written into her file to make men like this believe she could disappear without anyone important asking questions.
They always look for the cracks.
No family. No money. No stable address. No one waiting at home.
I gave them exactly what they wanted to find.
The man’s fingers tighten around my arm when the music grows louder, and I let my breath catch. Not too much. Panic needs moderation if it is going to be believable. Too little and they start wondering why I am calm. Too much and they start thinking I might become inconvenient.
“This one’s quiet, already broken?” the guard to my left asks.
“Nah, I don’t think so, not yet,” the man behind me says. “But she will be soon enough, they all are once the numbers start rolling.”
The other guard laughs. “Pretty little thing, may even be the highlight of the night, huh?”
“Move,” the man behind me orders.
I stumble forward as he shoves me. His hand between my shoulder blades, pushing hard enough to send me forward another step. I make a frightened sound they would expect, and they both laugh under their breath at my fear.
Laughing men are careless men.
Careless men miss things.
I have been collecting their missed things since they dragged me out of the van.
The one behind me smells like cigarettes and expensive cologne layered over sweat. The one to my left has a stiff right knee. The one on my right keeps touching the inner pocket of his jacket, a nervous habit, probably phone, possibly knife. The man holding me has a wedding ring turned inward on his finger, as if hiding the metal makes him less married while he escorts women to be sold.
I catalog all of it because if I stop cataloging, I will think about why I am really here.
And if I think about why I am really here, I will think about Alice.
So I count.
Three guards in the corridor.
One camera above the last door, angled toward the bend, not the staging entrance.
One keypad by the service hall.
