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It only took a few minutes for them to reach their destination. Haven pulled out a set of keys and unlocked the front door of an apartment. Vincent ducked around her, not waiting for an invitation, and exhaled with relief once he was safely away from the public street.
“This is your place?” he asked, glancing around the one-bedroom apartment he’d stepped into. This is the place Corrado set her up in? “It’s kind of small, isn’t it?”
“Not really. I mean, it’s bigger than the horse stall I grew up in.”
Touché.
“So was there something you wanted to talk about?” she asked, nervously sitting in a chair in the living room. “Why are you here?”
Vincent strolled over, taking a seat in the center of her couch. “I was actually hoping you would tell me about your kidnapping.”
As if by some miracle, Haven managed to turn even paler. “My kidnapping?”
“Yes,” he replied. “You don’t have to, of course, but I just wondered if you could tell me who you remembered seeing there.”
She hesitated, her forehead scrunching up in concentration. “You already know. I mean, they were there when . . . well, when you came for me.”
“Yes, I know, but I’d like to hear it from you,” he said. “I’d like to know what you remember.”
She let out a deep sigh as her gaze drifted to her hands in her lap. He could tell she didn’t want to talk about it and nearly felt ashamed for bringing it up to her, but it was important he heard it from her. Very important. “Nunzio was there. That guy Ivan was in charge. There were some other men, but I don’t know their names. Mostly Russians. And the girls . . . the nurse showed up, and then there was the other one.”
“What other one?”
Haven hesitated. “I don’t remember her name.”
“Okay,” Vincent said. “And that’s it?”
“Uh, yeah, I guess.”
“You guess?” Vincent rested his elbows on his thighs, leaning forward to look at her pointedly. “Who else was there?”
“Just people who don’t exist anymore,” she whispered. “If they ever did.”
Vincent quietly processed that, the meaning sinking in as he thought back to the images he had seen in Haven’s notebook. The memory stung. “Maura.”
“Yes,” Haven whispered. “And my mama. And Number 33.”
His eyes met hers, curiosity brewing inside of him. “Number 33?”
“A girl I saw at one of those places . . . she was for sale. She was number 33.”
Vincent frowned when it struck him what she meant. “An auction?”
“Yes. Frankie took me as a kid.”
Sickness stirred Vincent’s stomach. He never knew. “Why?”
“He said it was to teach me a lesson,” she replied. “The girl tried to escape, so well . . . Frankie killed her. He said it was what happened when people like me forget their place. It’s why, when you said you were going to remind me of my place that day, I thought . . .”
Vincent closed his eyes when she trailed off. He could still remember the look on her face when she came around that afternoon, waking up handcuffed to the post of her bed. “Please,” she had whispered. “I don’t want to die.”
Before Vincent could come up with words, Haven spoke again. “I know they weren’t really there, but I saw them in the warehouse. They talked to me. They gave me the strength to hold on.”
“Was there anyone else?” Vincent asked. “Maybe someone less desirable, like a . . . monster?”
Haven remained still, staring at him, before softly whispering, “Carlo.”
Vincent was stunned. “You know his name.”
