Chapter 3 Maggie #2
"When Tyler turned twenty-five. He's twenty-seven now, so it's been available for two years."
"Did he ever ask to access it?"
My stomach clenches. "A few times. Said we should invest it, or split it, or—" I stop. "I always said no. It felt wrong. Like spending it would be losing the last piece of her."
Frost is watching me with those steady eyes, and I can see him processing, analyzing, putting pieces together I'm not ready to see.
"But why would the cartel care about this?" I press my hands flat on the table. "Tyler said they think Mother left us something valuable. Something hidden. That they were interrogating him about where it is. But this trust fund isn't hidden. It's legal. Documented. We both know about it."
"What exactly did Tyler tell you?" His voice is careful now. Too careful.
I think back to two days ago—the last time they let me see Tyler. Five minutes. He had a bruise on his face, and his lip was split. He looked terrified.
"He said the cartel thinks Mother had something.
Money, documents, or a property deed. Something she never told us about.
" The memory makes my chest tight. "He said they'd been questioning him for days.
That he didn't know anything, but they didn't believe him.
He said if I could just sign the trust documents, it would show cooperation.
Buy us time. That we'd figure out a way to escape together. "
"Did you see anyone hurt him?"
The question stops me cold. "What?"
"When you saw Tyler. Did you actually see anyone hit him? Threaten him?"
I open my mouth. Close it. Think. "No. They brought him to the room alone. He had the bruise and the split lip, but I didn't—they kept us separated. I just assumed—"
"How long has Tyler lived in Tucson?"
The subject change throws me. "Three years. Why?"
"What does he do for work?"
"Logistics coordinator for a shipping company. Why are you asking about Tyler's job?"
"Does he gamble?"
My defensiveness flares hot and immediate. "No. Tyler doesn't—what does this have to do with anything?"
"Money problems? Debt?"
"No." But even as I say it, doubt creeps in. "I mean, I don't think so. He never mentioned—"
"New car recently?" Frost's questions come faster now, precise and surgical. "Nice apartment? Always seems to have cash?"
I think about Tyler's Tesla. His downtown loft with the view. The way he always picked up the check when we got dinner, waving off my attempts to split it.
"He said he got promoted," I hear myself say. "Said the company was doing well and he was moving up."
Frost pulls out a phone—not the one I saw him use before, something different. "I need to make a call."
"To who?"
"Someone who can run background." He's already moving toward the door. "Unofficial."
"Background on what?" But I already know. My stomach knows. "Frost. What are you looking for?"
He pauses in the doorway, and the pre-dawn darkness behind him makes him a silhouette. "Confirmation. Stay inside."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone with the trust documents and the growing certainty that I'm not going to like what he finds.
I sit down hard in one of the wooden chairs. It creaks under my weight. Outside, I can hear Frost's voice, low and controlled, too quiet to make out words.
I look at the trust documents again. Really look.
Both signatures required. Both are currently blank.
The cartel needed me to sign. That's why they kept me alive. That's why they didn't just—
I shut down that thought before it can finish.
But if they needed both signatures, they'd need Tyler, too. So why was Tyler kept somewhere else? Why wasn't he in that room with me?
Unless he already agreed to sign.
Unless this whole thing wasn't about what Mother left us.
Unless it was about what Tyler owed.
No. Tyler wouldn't. He's my brother. I raised him after Mother died. I made sure he finished high school, got into college, and had a future. He wouldn't—
But the new car. The nice apartment. The cash.
"He got promoted," I whisper to the empty room, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears.
I think about the last two years. How Tyler kept suggesting we split the trust fund. How he'd bring it up casually over dinner, just floating the idea. How he'd say things like, "Mother would want us to use it, Mags. Not just let it sit there."
How I always said no.
How he'd smile and say okay, and then bring it up again a few months later.
I think about his lifestyle. His hours. The way he'd sometimes not answer my calls for days, then show up acting normal, like no time had passed.
The way he always seemed to have money but never wanted to talk about work.
My hands are shaking. I press them flat on the table, but I can't stop the tremor.
The door opens, and Frost walks back in. One look at his face tells me everything I need to know.
"Don't," I say. "Don't tell me."
"Maggie—"
"I don't want to know."
"You need to know." He pulls up something on his phone, sets it on the table in front of me. "I had someone run Tyler's financials. Unofficial. Off the books."
The screen shows bank records. Transaction histories. Dates and amounts scrolling down in damning detail.
Sports betting. Online poker. Casino cash advances.
Wire transfers to offshore accounts.
Loans. Interest. Penalties.
Tyler's name on every single one.
"That's—" My voice cracks. "There has to be a mistake."
"Look at the dates." Frost's voice is gentle, which somehow makes it worse. "This goes back eighteen months."
I scroll through the transactions with numb fingers. Five hundred dollars here. Two thousand there. Ten thousand. Five thousand. Cash advances and loans and payments missed.
Over and over and over.
"That's not possible." But I can see the dates. Can see Tyler's account numbers. His social security number. His digital signature on loan agreements.
"Los Serpientes cartel." Frost points to a series of wire transfers. "Six months ago. First loan for eighty thousand. Couldn't pay it back. Interest compounded. Borrowed another hundred thousand to cover the first debt."
The numbers swim in front of me. "One hundred and eighty thousand dollars."
"Yeah."
"Tyler owes a cartel one hundred and eighty thousand dollars."
"Yeah."
My laugh comes out broken. "No. Tyler doesn't gamble. He doesn't—he's my baby brother. I raised him. I know him." But I can see the dates. Can see his account numbers. His social security number. His digital signature is on loan agreements.
"You knew who you thought he was." Frost pulls out the chair across from me and sits down. "People change. Especially when they're desperate."
"So what are you saying?" My voice is rising, and I can't stop it. "You're saying Tyler what—borrowed money from a cartel? Got in over his head? And then what? They just happened to kidnap both of us?"
"They didn't kidnap Tyler."
The words land like a physical blow.
"What?"
"Think about it." He leans forward, his eyes steady on mine. "Both signatures required on that trust fund. Four hundred thousand dollars. Tyler owes one-eighty. What's he got if he gets you to sign?"
"Two hundred and twenty thousand dollars." The math is automatic, mechanical. "But that doesn't—he wouldn't—"
"You weren't kidnapped because of what you know." Frost's voice is quiet and absolute. "You are collateral for what Tyler owes. And that trust fund? That's how he planned to pay them back. With your signature."
The room tilts. I grip the edge of the table, knuckles white.
"No." But it comes out as a whisper. "Tyler wouldn't do that. He's my brother. He—I took care of him. After my Mother died, I gave up college and went into the military so Tyler could stay in school. I made sure he had everything he needed. I—"
I'm on my feet without remembering standing. The chair scrapes against concrete, too loud in the sudden ringing in my ears. Frost is saying something, but I can't hear him through the rushing sound like static, like white noise, like my brain is trying very hard not to process what I just learned.
"Maggie—"
I shake my head. Can't. Can't do this here. Can't fall apart in front of this stranger who saved my life while my brother—while Tyler—
My stomach heaves.
I make it to the bathroom before everything comes up.
Kneeling on cracked linoleum that probably hasn't been cleaned in years, hands gripping the toilet bowl, heaving until there's nothing left. Just bile and betrayal and the taste of copper from where I bit my tongue.
Tyler sold me.
My baby brother—the one I raised after Mom died, the one I gave up college for, the one I joined the Army to support—sold me to a cartel to pay his gambling debts.
I heave again. Nothing comes up. My body trying to purge something that can't be vomited away.
Three days. I was zip-tied to that chair for three days while Tyler was—what? Negotiating terms? Counting his money? Planning how to spend the difference between four hundred thousand and one hundred eighty thousand?
Two hundred twenty thousand dollars.
That's what I'm worth to him. The profit margin on selling his sister.
My hands are shaking so badly I can't hold myself up anymore.
I slide down, press my back against the bathroom wall, and pull my knees to my chest. Combat medic training notes my symptoms with detached precision: elevated heart rate, rapid shallow breathing, peripheral vision narrowing, and cold sweat.
Shock. Trauma response. Acute stress reaction.
Knowing the clinical terms doesn't make it stop.
I'm drowning in betrayal.
Six months ago.
Tyler took me to dinner at that expensive steakhouse downtown. The one with the dry-aged ribeye and the wine list that requires a second mortgage. He insisted on paying, waved off my protests with that easy grin I thought I knew.
"I got a promotion," he said, pouring us both wine from a bottle that cost more than my car payment. "Let me celebrate with my favorite sister."
I laughed. "I'm your only sister."