Caged: The Complete Trilogy Read online

  “So what do you have for me?” I ask, sweeping my hand out at the crowd around us. Even in the sea of big black dresses, I spot Selina easily. Brock’s got a tight eye on her as she shakes hands with the man I easily recognize as the mayor, her scarlet lips twisted into a smile that I just as easily recognize as fake.

  “Oh, where to start, where to start,” Isla frets histrionically, but I can tell she’s loving this. If I hadn’t come up to her, I wonder if she’d still be standing here alone, watching the party happen around her. She didn’t exactly strike me as the wallflower type, but last time I saw her, she was in full hostess mode. “Okay, I’ve got it. See that guy down there? Too-tight tux and the over-gelled hair?”

  I nod in affirmation, surreptitiously grabbing my phone out as if to check for messages real quick and setting the voice memo app to record before I tuck the device back into the pocket closest to my companion’s big mouth.

  “Richard Duvernay, his family pretty much invented the paper towel. And they used to own slaves, but we don’t talk about that.”

  She whispers the second part in a semi-hushed tone. Is that the best she’s got? We’re surrounded by old money in the deep South. Half this crowd probably shares that so-called secret.

  “Their oldest son isn’t his,” Isla hisses close in my ear, and my eyebrows shoot all the way up. “He doesn’t know, but the wife, Olivia, got too drunk at an engagement party two years ago and told me. I don’t even know if she remembers that. But Richard must not know at all, because the kid is set to inherit the whole company.”

  I swear I could kiss Isla, if it wouldn’t trigger a million new problems for me. This secret alone could keep my new business afloat for the next year. We need more than that to survive long term, though.

  I whistle out appreciatively at Isla’s information, giving her a thoroughly impressed look. It takes about ten seconds of knowing the woman to see that a little positive attention will get you a long way in her book. If tonight is any indication of her home life, it doesn’t seem like she’s getting much of that from Mateo. I glance back at him, but he’s busying himself with a whiskey neat and a conversation that is making him guffaw unattractively. Does he see us, right up here? If I saw my woman standing so close to another man, in that dress, I’d rip his dick off.

  The thought inevitably draws my attention back to Selina. She’s talking to a guy I recognize as a Falcons player, holding another flute of champagne and giggling at something he’s saying. Is that a real laugh? I can’t tell from here. It doesn’t matter, anyway.

  “That tall guy by the Van Gogh, third floor?” Isla is saying, nodding discreetly up and across from us. “With the beefy redhead?”

  I confirm that I spot them, although no one in their right mind would call the modelesque redhead beefy.

  “He owns a national chain of steakhouses. Wild West themed, heavy on the racist overtones. His business is going under, go figure, but he’s trying to keep it on the low. If he keeps digging himself into debt this fast, though, I’m sure it won’t stay a secret much longer.”

  Now I’m the one practically bouncing in delight. As the champagne flows and the music floats, Isla tells me about a Turner exec with a penchant for high-end escorts, a retired country star with a shopping addiction her royalties can’t keep up with, and the Falcons player I saw flirting with Selina earlier, whose wife has a tendency of ending up in the ER after bad games. That last one will be a pleasure to exploit—strictly because the guy is a dirtbag, of course.

  “How do you know all this?” I ask when Isla pauses to grab another drink, showing no signs of reaching the limits of her knowledge. I’m not putting on a show to pet her ego. I’m genuinely impressed.

  The woman shrugs, wandering away from the balcony and towards the marble sculpture behind us. I follow, quickly tapping off the recording in my pocket.

  “I listen,” Isla says with a shrug, cocking her head away from me and pretending to examine the sculpture. It occurs to me after a moment that she might be actually examining the sculpture. I follow her gaze. The marble woman is just a few feet tall but each feature seems unbearably precise: tiny folds in the bend of knuckles around a cross, a small roll of flesh tucked between the rounded breast and the belly. I yearn to touch the stone just to see if it’s paradoxically as soft as it looks, but refrain. I look at the small tag affixed to the base of the sculpture instead. St. Rita. That was my mother’s saint.

  Isla is looking at me now, eyes baleful and wide, her fingertips resting lightly on the very edge of the sculpture’s base, almost thoughtlessly. She shouldn’t be touching that, I think, but her face is so wrong that her actions become meaningless. She looks nearly real in this moment, nothing like the blatantly flirtatious, decadently obnoxious woman I thought I was getting to know.

  “People think I don’t hear things, because I’m always talking, always loud,” she’s saying, and this new facade—or the lack of the old one—is so unsettling I find it hard to meet her eyes. “But I do. I see things, too. I know there’s something going on with you and Selina, something you don’t want anyone to know about. And I think I’m going to figure it out if you’re not more careful.”

  We just study one another for a moment. The only way I find myself on the wrong end of a knowing stare like the one she’s wearing is if I’m caught off guard, and boy did she catch me. Still, I recover quickly, chuckling as if this whole thing is nothing but a joke.

  “Trust me,” I say, wishing I had a drink in my hands to fiddle with. “Miss Palacios and I are simply business partners. Nothing more.”

  I hit the last bit with the verbal equivalent of a wink, being as seemingly obvious as I can without giving it away for free. Let her think we’re fucking, that that’s the big secret she thinks we have. I can’t see Selina from back here, but I can picture her perfectly, from the tiny toes peeking out of her open-toed stilettos to the way the corners of her dark eyes drop when she’s done posing for her conversation partner. Even when she’s not around, she haunts me.

  “Good eye,” I say to my current companion, perhaps pushing the matter too far for believability, but hoping that the compliment will distract her. I seal it with the truth, which is always the best way to sell a lie. “You are a very surprising woman, Isla del Rey.”

  I don’t get to find out if Isla’s information would’ve been enough to win Miel back over. We get home from the gala too late to bother with any kind of business, and I’ve barely settled down with my morning mug of coffee when she bursts into the kitchen, slapping today’s issue of the AJC down on the counter in front of me.

  I know exactly what this means.

  Biting the inside of my cheek to keep the tremor of panic out of my hands, I set my coffee down and flip to the lifestyle section. Miel could’ve at least done me the decency of bringing the paper to me already open to the offending image, but that would be too easy.

  Front page, above the fold, are Selina and Mrs. Hunt cheesing for the camera, the mayor sandwiched between them. Nothing to warrant this reaction. We expected a photo like this. I follow the story inside, where there are half a dozen other photos of guests at the gala, including a few we’ll be paying a visit to very soon. Nothing immediately stands out to me as worth Miel’s so-far-silent outburst, so I peer closer. There. Fuck.

  In the background of the picture of James Quincey and his wife I see a familiar pair of tits leaning over the balcony. Next to them, a grainy, black-and-white rendition of my own face.

  Maybe it’s not so bad. My face in the photo is fairly small and turned a bit to the side. If I wasn’t searching for something, I might’ve missed it. What are the chances that coke dealers read the lifestyle section, anyway?

  But I can’t convince my pounding heart to slow. It’s not the end of the world—yet—but it’s something. We can’t risk something. At least I’m not with Selina in the photo. Small favors.

  “What now?” Miel asks, breaking the weeks of silence. Ten minutes ago I would’ve been
relieved. Now I can’t bring myself to care about this minute development in light of the oncoming chaos.

  “We wait,” I say, folding the paper back up and sliding it away from us, as if distance between our bodies and the offending photo will protect us. “No need to panic yet. Get the guys so we can discuss heightened security, though. We’ll leave at least two people back here with Selina from now on.”

  “We should lay low altogether,” Miel says, taking the barstool beside me. “Especially you. Let me and Hernando take care of outstanding business, and we’ll all keep a low profile otherwise. At least until we know what we’re dealing with here.”

  “Absolutely not,” I say. Even if the timing weren’t so damn bad, we can’t afford to lay low for even a day. “I got an assload of new leads last night, and we’re not sitting on them just because something may or may not be brewing. And these are big leads, the kind that we can’t say no to, so don’t even start.”

  Miel nibbles her bottom lip, absently reaching for my half-empty cup of coffee and taking a sip.

  “How big?” she says at last, turning to me with brows pulled tight.

  I fish my phone out of my pocket and open the notes app, where I transcribed all the important info from my conversation with Isla last night. Just because it was too late to drag the others into business doesn’t mean I couldn’t get shit done. I slide the phone across the granite counter toward Miel, who pulls it close and begins to scroll through my list. I watch her eyes slowly grow wider—I ordered the list from the smallest to biggest fish. When she gets to the last name, she draws her breath in sharply.

  I sleep in the morning after the gala. Vega doesn’t tell me I can, but I can’t bring myself to care what he wants from me. Not anymore. Not after watching him flirt with Isla all night.

  When the need for caffeine finally becomes too intense to bear, I crawl out of bed, pull leggings on under the silk cami I fell asleep in, and trudge downstairs. No one is in the kitchen. I can tell they’ve been here though, because the french press is drained. I put the kettle on and grab a green tea sachet from the cupboard.

  The house seems oddly quiet. I wonder why Vega wasn’t beating down my door when I failed to provide the daily breakfast. Could it have been that easy to get away with misbehavior this whole time? I know that much isn’t true. While I wait for my water to boil, my eye catches on something on the far end of the counter. The AJC. Today’s issue, which will have photos from last night. I grab it and flip to the lifestyle pages quickly, eager to see what people had to say about this year’s gala. I want the flattery of a glowing review as much as the next person, of course, but a small part of me is desperately hoping that they might have printed a few quotes about how pale the hostess looked, how there seemed to be strange men watching her every move, anything to raise even the slightest of suspicions. There’s nothing, of course. That would be insane.

  What does catch my eye is the photo on the left, just below the fold. James Quincey grins out at me eagerly, but my gaze is fixed just behind him. Vega. His face is turned a bit to the side, the image blurred in print, but unmistakable.

  My heart rate picks up.

  That’s why the paper is here and my captors are not. I’ve heard their warnings, watched them shy away from cameras. They’ve been absolutely paranoid about their likenesses being captured and published, and those fears have finally come true.

  The kettle whistles and I jerk toward it, an unfamiliar feeling of anticipation bubbling in my belly.

  Bad news for my enemies means good news for me.

  The jubilant feeling of hope buoys me through my daily chores at record speed. I feel like a Disney princess, seconds away from bursting into a choreographed musical number as I waltz through my dreary life. Maybe a fleet of woodland animals will join me, or my mop will come to life. My spirits dampen slightly when I get to the library and remember my favorite of those classic movies. Belle’s happy ever after was in the embrace of her captor, after all. Stockholm Syndrome can be a bitch.

  I’m changing the sheets in Miel’s room, which was my own bedroom for the first couple decades of my life, when the young woman enters. The expression on her face stops me cold. We were never truly friends, of course, and she’s been avoiding me for weeks now, but the anxiety in her eyes, the jagged exhale of breath as she leans against the closed bedroom door, still twists my guts up. Imagining my captors’ distress was one thing. Seeing it on Miel’s face turns out to be another.

  “What’s wrong?” my mouth asks instinctively, even though my brain knows the answer. Miel glances up at me, her face instantly pulling back into resting bitch mode.

  “Nothing that concerns you,” she says after a beat, shrugging out of her sweatshirt as she heads for the closet, letting the garment fall limply to the floor. I’ll have to pick that up later.

  “I already know,” I say, deciding to force my empathetic concern back into celebratory confidence. “I saw the photo. I know that whatever y’all are afraid of, it’s coming. And I for one can’t wait to get my old life back.”

  Miel spins back to me, the tank top in her hand whipping through the air. Her skin is a glowing bronze, the kind of tan that you’re born with, that stays through the winter. Her belly is flat, not in the way that mine is, molded by yoga and pilates, but ridged with lean muscle that probably didn’t come from a gym. Her cotton bra is faded and ratty at the edges, but my eyes catch on something starting at her left bra strap and curving down into her humble cleavage, following the edge of the frayed cup. It’s not another tattoo. It’s a crooked path of perfectly round, puckered marks, just a shade lighter than the rest of her flesh. Scar tissue.

  If Miel sees me staring, she doesn’t care, her own eyes ablaze. “You really don’t fucking get it, do you?” she snaps, and I can see the slight tremor in her hands, as if she’s struggling to refrain herself from closing the distance between us and strangling me. Or as if she’s really that freaked out. “We’re not doing this because it gets us off. We’re not doing this to you for fun, Selina. This is life or death for me and Javi, and the people we’re dealing with don’t give a shit about collateral damage. That means it’s life or death for you too, princesa.”

  I like it better when Vega calls me that.

  The thought flits passively through my brain while the full weight of what Miel just said takes its time sinking in. I can’t believe it never occurred to me that there could be people out there worse than my captors. Am I really that naive? That idiotic?

  Miel clearly thinks so. Her tank is on now, she’s grabbing her trademark leather jacket and slamming the door behind her as she leaves me alone again.

  Maybe she’s just trying to scare me back into submission. Maybe the people coming for them are on my side of the law, blazing down the highway right now on their way to save me. Maybe.

  I finish pulling the sheets up on the bed, my own hands shaking now.

  What if this captivity has just been the beginning of my troubles?

  We start at the top of the list. A pessimistic part of me wonders if we’ll ever get the chance to work our way up to the big fish at the bottom, but I don’t dwell on the thought. We’re all pretty much carrying our body weight in weaponry these days, and besides, it’s been nearly two weeks without any signs of trouble. I’m not letting myself sit back yet, though. Not until the whole city of Atlanta is in my hands.

  Today, our role is not so much that of “investors,” but more of straight-up extortionists. I don’t care much about the semantics. Money is power, and power is money. All I need is enough of both to keep me and mine alive.

  Miel and I pull up to the coffee shop Olivia Duvernay is known to stop at for a cup of tea while her youngest daughter is at her bi-weekly ballet lesson. We park halfway down the street—the gleaming Hummer doesn’t look quite as out of place here in the heart of Buckhead—and spot the Duvernays’ silver Audi a few cars down. She’s here. Miel and I give each other a quick nod and make our way to the café in big
strides.

  Blessedly, Olivia Duvernay is the kind of wealthy woman who likes to live as if she doesn’t have a public net worth. She married into her money, after all. Richard met her at Stanford, where she was on scholarship. He really should’ve seen it coming, forcing a West Coast trailer park princess into high society in the heart of the South. It’s no wonder the woman cracked under the pressure. Right now, I’m hoping she’ll crack as easily under ours.

  Tall and blonde, with a flat tan that had to have come from a bottle, Olivia is perched at the far end of the coffee shop. There’s a thick paperback split open on the table in front of her, beside a tall mug of tea. No guards. No drivers. No one but her.

  I order two overpriced black coffees and a donut for Miel. She’s incorrigible. We wait silently for our order, then accept it and march with confidence to Olivia’s table. The place is busy enough that she doesn’t immediately clock our trajectory, but not so crowded we’ll have to worry about being overheard. I set our coffees down and pull a chair out for myself, flashing a smile as Olivia’s eyes begin to go wide and scared.

  “Don’t react,” I say, with the carefully curated edge in my eyes that says I’ve got a gun without actually having to flash one. “We’re just here to talk.”

  Mrs. Duvernay’s eyes stay scared, darting around the café, but she keeps her mouth shut. I see her give us both a quick once-over. We’re not decked out in our usual leather uniforms today—we didn’t want anyone calling the police the second they saw us approaching this rich white woman. Instead, we’re in our best business casual, a likely useless effort to blend into this uptown crowd.