Chapter Thirty-Eight
Ian pours two glasses of whiskey as we settle on the hotel patio, a sheer curtain billowing around the French doors. He sits across from me at the cast-iron table and pushes a shot my way, but I don’t take it.
“John fired me.”
Ian’s brows lift as if to say I told you so, but he keeps his mouth shut. I look past him at the ocean as it pulls out, then rushes back in. The beach is nearly abandoned now, mostly lovebirds strolling hand in hand or a lone jogger padding barefoot close to the shoreline.
“I lost control. Remember how I asked if you feel like you have a monster inside? And you said you became one with your monster? Well, my monster isn’t so cooperative. She just kind of—” I sigh. “Took over.”
Ian reaches out, places a hand on my forearm. “Don’t worry. You’ll make more money freelancing.”
I fixate on where his skin connects with mine. Other than a brief hug—and that quick embrace to keep Brian from seeing me—I don’t think he’s ever touched me. Up here, in the darkness, a cool ocean breeze sending shivers over my flesh, it feels strangely personal.
“Maybe.” I exhale and move my arm to reach for the whiskey, which forces Ian to drop his hand.
“I’ll help you.”
I hesitate, unsure how to reply. “What’s the bad news?” I shift the topic. “And where’s Brian?”
“He’s back at his hotel. He’s on the secure floor.”
I frown. “The secure floor? Like where celebrities stay?” I’ve had to navigate such a setup before.
It included an elevator requiring a key card to access and a security guard making regular rounds.
I still killed the guy—it wasn’t that secure—but it wasn’t nothing.
And it’s certainly not something a management consultant should need.
Ian looks at me with an expression that tells me it’s going to be bad, his face already locked in a grimace that is likely supposed to look sympathetic.
He, too, is good at pretending to feel things.
My heart thumps in my chest, crashing around with dread at what he’s going to say.
But he just looks out at the water. Stalling, I think.
“Tell me.”
He takes a pull of the whiskey and nods. “He took the girl with him and met with two men in a town car. A fancy one, a Benz. They were in there for twenty minutes.”
“Okay.”
“When he got out, he had a roll of money in his hand and left her there, with them.”
I frown. “Like he sold her?”
“Well, in Southern California, it’s either drugs or human trafficking. But…I think it obviously looks like the latter. And then he—”
“What? What did he do?” My arms slide across my chest, like maybe I can ward off whatever’s coming, the awful, dreadful thing my husband has kept hidden from me.
Ian waits to answer, gazing at me, pity—or maybe empathy? Are people like us capable of that?—in his eyes. “Nadia, do you really want me to tell you? It’s bad. You wanted to know if it was the sort of thing worth killing over, and I can assure you, it is.”
“I have to know.”
Ian presses his lips together and tips his head forward. “He ended up at another college party. Just like you saw. I think he’s recruiting.”
“Recruiting?”
“Do you know how human trafficking works?”
I give a slight nod, replaying what I saw earlier. Girls disappear all the time—and apparently, my husband is one of the reasons why.
“Nadia—”
I spin the shot glass in my hand. He would be paid for each one he coaxed from the crowd and persuaded to follow him to a lonely apartment or into a waiting vehicle.
That’s why someone would give him a wad of money.
It’s likely why he travels—to San Diego, to Austin.
Maybe even why he chose to live in San Antonio. All cities fairly close to the border.
“I can’t quite imagine it,” I say. “My Brian, trafficking women.”
“It’s more common than you think.” Ian watches two girls who look about fifteen giggling down on the beach.
“Take them, for example—out at nearly midnight. Anyone could grab them. And the police would probably call them runaways. At least for a day or two, long enough to make them disappear forever.”
“But Brian…” He’s so good with Eliza and Evie. So kind to their little friends, so warm and loving to me, to Piper. He treats women like—well, not like objects.
“Brian is not even Brian,” Ian reminds me.
He’s right. Brian is not Brian. I don’t actually know who Brian is.
“There’s more.” Ian sips his whiskey. Pours another shot. Offers me the bottle.
“No, thanks.” I don’t need alcohol to feel numb.
I already can barely feel my fingertips, my toes.
It’s as though my skin is vibrating, like the second after I fire a shot and for a moment time freezes.
Except that’s not what’s happening now—now I can feel her, my monster, at the periphery, peeking out, like maybe this is her opportunity to come out and play.
And for the first time ever, I’m starting to think she’s not wrong. If I let my inner monster escape, maybe this will all be easier. I’ll certainly feel less.
“He wasn’t just looking for women to traffic,” Ian says. “He was also looking for a woman for tonight. And he found one.” Ian’s eyes bore into me, and his voice is tinged with anger. “He wasn’t alone when he went back to his hotel room.”
I don’t speak for a minute, or maybe two, or hell, ten.
When I do, it’s to say, “Let’s kill him.”