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“What if there's more?”
I narrow my eyes at him. He looks up at me, his gaze keen and aggressive.
“What do you mean by more?” I ask him warily.
“Maybe she could be of more help to us? More material help?”
“What do you mean?”
“Doesn’t her mother still owe us quite a bit?”
I sit back in my chair. His eyes skate over the red entries in the book, though I doubt he can really read them from where he is sitting. Still, it is something to consider.
“Are you suggesting Angel could pay her mother's debt?”
He shrugs.
“Owen, is this why you came to talk to me?” I ask. “Did you already have something in motion?”
He shrugs again. The way he’s wringing his hands, I can sense this is something he already thought out. He just didn’t prepare a speech. It’s not his strong suit.
“Owen, please just speak plainly. Are you suggesting that we —”
“— we could sell her? Sell her flower?” he blurts out, his voice breathless and excited.
My chest tightens. It's a scheme of last resort, but it has its usefulness.
“What makes you think we could do that?”
He clears his throat, leaning forward and rubbing his palms together quickly. He takes a deep breath before beginning again.
“I just remember you saying that her mother owed us. For bail. For rehab. And you asked me to think of ways to help the Family, remember?”
“I do remember,” I agree.
I remember very well. It happened last month, when the fluctuating price of natural gas emptied our shallow bank account in one fell swoop. I had a moment of panic, trying to piece out how I was going to push us through another month with almost no money coming in. A lucky check from an ex-member who had passed away appeared the next week. Of course, we can't rely on that kind of windfall every mo
nth.
But just before I got the check, Owen and I sat on my front porch one evening, watching the small, golden lights in shack windows over the small compound. He could tell something was weighing heavy on my mind. Even though he didn't know what it was. I felt far away from him. Somewhere in a dark future. I was imagining that there was some invisible countdown of nights when I would be able to watch my flock, safe in their homes. That it was almost over for all of us. And nobody knew but me.
So when he asked me what was wrong, I reached out to him in desperation. It probably wasn't the right thing to do. I shouldn’t have burdened him.
But now here he is, with an idea.
“She's ready, Silas,” he says quietly. His voice thickens, and I can tell he's really thinking about it. Those full hips. Those eager, wanting eyes.
“I don't think that would make a long-term difference,” I object weakly. What would a virgin really bring us? Another couple weeks? Maybe some goodwill? Just as likely to bring us a County Sheriff. Sheriff Dooley has been prowling our perimeter for some months, probably looking for a chance to make trouble. I’ve seen his cruiser rolling slowly back toward the main road at odd hours.
“I heard… Let’s just say it could make a big difference,” he says slowly, his eyes laser focused on mine. He's measuring my reactions, becoming more bold every second. “Maybe not even just the flower… maybe sell the whole girl?”
I spread my hands on the desk. Clearly he's thought about this quite a bit. “Go on.”
“There's been some talk… down at Dustin's. Some people have seen her. They want in.”
Dustin's… that makes some sense. A biker bar about two miles from here. I was wondering where Owen was, disappearing for hours at a time. Apparently he's been negotiating the sale of some of our assets. I appreciate his initiative, but this is a very touchy subject.
“They want in,” I repeat, turning the words around on my tongue. They want Angel. One less mouth to feed? Is she worth it? I’ll have a lot of explaining to do for the rest of the Family.
