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‘Sequester her,’ Dornan said wearily. ‘Forty-eight-hour psychiatric hold.’
There was a stunned silence. ‘She’s my wife,’ John protested.
Dornan looked longingly back at the door that led to the basement, and to his dark desire imprisoned below. How he’d love to blow off business and go down there with her. Take her away from this place, even. Show her a good time. She looked like she could use a good steak dinner.
‘You want to save her from herself?’ Dornan asked, not waiting for an answer. ‘Psych hold, my friend. She’ll be dead inside a year if you don’t shut this shit down.’
John didn’t answer.
‘I’ll see you in four hours,’ Dornan said. ‘Get it sorted, John. Is Julie at home?’
‘She’s with Celia,’ John said stiffly. ‘She’s fine.’
She’s at your house with your wife, was what John meant. It was still a rare bone of contention between the two best friends, even though Juliette was six years old now. John had been in Sing Sing Penitentiary when his daughter was born, addicted to heroin and having withdrawals so bad Dornan had come dangerously close to murdering Caroline himself for her selfish stupidity. Because while John rotted in jail for twelve months for something Dornan had done, Caroline had been shooting up and sucking the dick of every Gypsy Brother with loose morals and a baggie of smack to give her in return. As payment for his sins, Dornan and his second wife, Celia, had played mommy and daddy to a baby that never stopped fucking crying.
He hadn’t really minded, though he’d briefly contemplated throwing her out of the window a couple of times on those really long, loud nights where she’d just scream and scream. On those nights, he and Celia would take turns soothing the poor kid, stripping her down to a diaper and resting her on their bare chests. She still cried, but it seemed to help a little. He’d never done anything like that when his sons were babies, but the guilt that ate him alive every night over John being in prison seemed to ease somewhat when he gave the baby girl some comfort.
Every time he looked at her, it reminded him of that time. It reminded him that Caroline’s idiocy had almost killed a bright little girl.
But she was safe now. She was at his house, with his wife and sons. Celia had a shotgun and a pistol, not to mention his burly teenage sons, and she knew damn well how to shut shit down.
‘You still there?’ John asked down the line, and Dornan realised he’d been off somewhere else.
‘Yeah,’ he said, still looking at the house that held the girl prisoner.
‘I’ll see you in four hours,’ Dornan repeated. ‘In the meantime, sort your fucking wife out.’
He ended the call, taking a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it.
He took one drag, frowned, and crushed the cigarette under his boot heel.
It didn’t taste the same without Ana.
He climbed onto the bike and started it with great reluctance. Would she even be here when he got back? Emilio had said she’d be with them a long time, but she was kind of unpredictable, and unpredictable women were fucking dangerous to have around. Less than twenty-four hours into her stint and she had stabbed him. His fingers went to the tender flesh he’d sewn back together, and that foreign ache in his gut intensified. I want her.
He sighed as he fastened his open-face helmet. He’d much prefer it if she was coming with him, her breasts pressed against his back as he took her away to a place of his own.
One final glance, and he steeled himself, kicked up the stand, and tore out into the warm San Diego sunshine, homeward bound.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
MARIANA
They were going to sell me.
No matter how many times I turned those words around in my mind, rearranged them, dissected them and put them back together, my fate remained the same.
They were going to sell me. I’d grown up in Colombia, kidnapping capital of South America for a brief period of time in the nineties, until the Mexicans caught on that ransom kidnappings were an easy way to make money.
Dornan hadn’t returned to my room for a while. It was hard to keep track of hours and days when there was no natural light. An hour could be a minute, could be a day. But then, it didn’t matter, did it? Every minute that passed was just a minute closer to whatever fresh hell they’d decided to throw me into.
I spent so long on my own without interruption that when the door finally did burst open, I felt an odd sense of relief. Being stuck in limbo was excruciating.
My heart sank as I saw the man in the doorway wasn’t who I’d expected.
‘Oh. It’s you,’ I said.
Murphy strolled into the room, his hands in his pants pockets. The suit he wore this time was dark grey and impeccably pressed. It didn’t look cheap.
