47. Helen
HELEN
Mexico greets us with heat. Not the coastal kind, but a dense inland heat that clings onto my skin. I follow Victor through the private terminal, blinking at signs I haven’t seen in years.
Bienvenidos.
Salida.
Control de pasaportes.
I recognize more than I expect. Enough from school and from summers that never quite felt like home. I glance around, trying to orient myself. Private jets don’t announce your arrival like commercial flights. Just touchdown, a short roll, and the stairs lowering.
Then I see it above the entryway.
Bienvenidos a Mexicali.
“Oh.” I slow. “We’re in Mexicali. It’s close to Tijuana, yes?”
Victor’s mouth curves. “You don’t remember, do you? We always landed here. Your father preferred Mexicali. Quieter airport, less fuss. And he enjoyed the drive to the coast.”
“It’s been a long time since we vacationed here,” I say.
“I bet you only remember the pool and the mango ice pops.”
“Actually, I remember chasing the lizards.” I grin.
The immigration officer barely looks at me. Stamp. Slide. Next.
Victor talks in Spanish with a man by the exit.
I check my phone. “Damn!” The battery’s dead. I’d spent half of last night and this morning on the phone and never plugged it in.
When Victor turns back to me, I don’t see alarm in it. For a moment, I let myself believe Olivia is okay.
We step into the glare outside and hop into a sedan. Just the driver.
“Where are the embassy people?” I ask.
“We’re meeting them,” Victor says. “Soon.”
We pull away from the airport and onto a wide road lined with low stucco buildings and faded billboards.
Pickup trucks crowd the lanes. Motorbikes dart between cars.
Street vendors work from metal carts, slicing fruit and shaking cups of something bright red over ice.
Down a narrower side street, we stop. A dark SUV pulls up behind us.
“Wait here,” Victor says.
They don’t look like local authorities or embassy staff, but they carry themselves like men used to being obeyed. Victor continues speaking to them in Spanish.
Then he gestures for me to step out.
I move toward him. “What’s going on?”
“They’re taking us to where the girls were brought,” Victor says. “It’s complicated. I’ll explain on the way. Let’s go.”
One of the men opens the back door.
I move to get in, and a hand clamps over my wrist. I jerk back. “What are you—”
The other man is behind me before I can turn. My other arm is seized.
“Jag? What’s going on?”
He doesn’t look surprised.
“Let go of me!” I twist, driving my heel backward, but there are too many of them. My elbow connects with someone’s ribs, sending him to tumble backward with a grunt. For a second I almost break free—
Then I remember.
I can’t afford to fall. I can’t afford a blow to the stomach.
I slacken, enough to convince them I’m done. They herd me into the vehicle. Victor slides in beside me as if nothing has changed.
The doors lock.
“I know your sister is your weakness,” he says. “And she picked one of the most unsafe countries in the world for a vacation. A terrible decision.”
“You bastard!”
He smiles and lifts his phone. A video fills the screen.
Olivia is tied to a chair in what looks like a bare room. She doesn’t seem hurt. Just furious.
“Whatever this is, it’s with me,” I say. “Leave her out of it.”
My head clears in the worst way. Nobody knows I’m here. Liam will look for me after that message, but he’ll start in Tijuana. Not here. By the time he realizes that, Victor will already have moved me again.
Victor’s smile widens.
I slap him. My palm cracks across his face, the sting shooting through my fingers.
The man in the front seat turns, one hand already raised in warning.
Victor wipes his cheek. “You’re brave when you think you’re protecting someone. Gordon Cane learned that. You handled a campus predator once. Here—” His hand clamps around my collar. “—I don’t play in classrooms.”
My pulse roars in my ears.
“One wrong move,” he continues, “and Olivia might lose a finger.”
I freeze. “What do you want?”
“Paris,” he says simply. “It wasn’t just cobblestone streets and museums. You were right about that.”
“You want my inheritance?” I laugh. “It’s a myth.”
“Oh no.” He reaches his phone and shows me a photo.
The folder in the image is navy archival stock with Mercer’s lion-and-compass crest embossed in gold. Even through a photo I recognize the weight of it. Dad used those for documents that never left his office without two signatures and a registry number.
“Just a folder,” I clip.
“It’s there, Helen. I have your father’s secret will. Do you really think I would gamble what remains of my capital on a private jet for sentiment?”
He zooms in on the crest. Beneath it sits the tiny registry stamp Mercer Authority used for family trusts—M.A. Archives, followed by handwritten numbers beside it.
“Where did you get that?”
“Pierre D’Aboville.”
The name lands like a blow.
“Uncle Pierre?” My voice cracks. “What did you do to him?”
Victor’s face lingers in a near-smile. “Sent him to rest.”
For a second the car feels airless.
I wasn’t close to Pierre. But he took care of us when we were there, when Dad was chasing deals and Mom stayed behind in New York. He made sure Olivia ate, that I kept up with my lessons, and that we were never invisible.
“You killed him.”
“I removed an obstacle.”
“Well,” I say, forcing my voice steady, “if you want the money, take it. Just give me back Olivia.”
“I knew you’d say that. You’re predictable, the responsible one, yada yada. You’re boring, Helen.” He leans back just to throw a mocking look. “Your father was clever. Of course there are safeguards, and that’s where you come in.”
The SUV turns, passing a huge, pristine billboard.
“I won’t do anything until I see Olivia.”
He seems pleased. “It can be arranged.”
And he blindfolds me.