Page 118 of Pretty Nightmare

Her file never stated outright where she came from, but kids like her all come from the same place. Give or take an island here or there. They all come from the training centers.

Nick Tate’s training center. Before he died. If he’s dead.

Or… possibly… Carter’s training center. Before he died. If he’s dead. Which he isn’t, if that birthday card is to be believed.

Of course, that place is gone now. The jungle probably overtook it. I’m fairly certain the CIA and local authorities in the Caribbean never did find those. And all the people who might’ve had that information are probably dead now. So it’s a thing of the past.

I watch the girls get the boat in the water. Then Indie jumps into it, lowers the motor, and pulls on the cord like this boat is an old friend.

To everyone’s delight—and surprise—the fucking thing actually turns over. Doesn’t even sputter.

Indie beams a smile at me. “Come on. Let’s go.” She helps Maggie in and points to the little seat near the bow. “That’s your seat, Mags. That’s where I used to sit when I was a girl.”

She’s still a girl.

She just doesn’t know it.

I get in, almost tipping the little boat, and sit on the bench seat in the middle, letting Indie take care of the driving. Even if I didn’t trust her to navigate, I would still let her. Because while I am fairly good at barking directions to the crew on the various Company yachts I’ve been on, I’ve never actually learned to sail myself.

Not that navigating this little fishing boat is rocket science. Or sailing for that matter. But Indie has a plan in her mind for this day, so I drop the reins and give her room to run.

Let her take me along for the ride.

Besides, I’m still dwelling on what happened this morning. And the trip upriver is long, and the motor is too loud to actually talk. So the three of us just sit and take in the beauty of the Old Pearl River as it meanders its way north.

We boat for what feels like hours. Even Maggie starts looking over her shoulder at me, wondering where the hell we’re going.

Finally, I turn to Indie. “Where the hell is this place?”

“What?” she yells over the sound of the motor. I make a slicing motion across my throat and she cuts the engine. “What?”

“Where is this town, Indie?”

“It’s up here somewhere.”

I look around.

“There’s nothing here,” Maggie says.

And she’s right. There is literally nothing out here. I’m not familiar with the town on the river. I can’t say I even like this part of Louisiana. I prefer New Orleans. But honestly, I prefer LA. I’m not a nature boy like Nathan was. After growing up on an island and relocating to Durham, North Carolina for med school at Duke, I decided, once and for all, I was a spoiled city brat and I’m not even embarrassed to admit that.

But from what I’ve seen of this trip so far, there is no town upriver.

Like. None. No towns at all.

I look at Indie and begin to worry. She’s got a confused look on her face.

Maggie looks at me. “Maybe we should go back?”

“Yes. I agree.”

“But…” Indie is still looking around. “It has to be here, Donovan. Towns don’t just disappear.”

No, Indie. They don’t.

That town didn’t exist any place other than your mind.

By the time we make it back to our shabby little boat house, my phone is buzzing with messages from McKay and Adam, wondering where the fuck we are.