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He smiled. His teeth were small and square. “That is not the choice. You may choose to come with me. Or you may stay here, sitting safely in your cage, and we’ll take his fingers.”
Her mind went blank. She worked to make sense of what the man had just said. “His ... fingers?”
The man’s smile had not slipped or grown. It remained oddly still. “Correct. I will stun him and remove two of his fingers.”
Remove.The world around her seemed to have slowed as though she’d entered a nonsensical nightmare. One that was awful but that she would wake from, shaking her head in bewilderment at what disturbing scenarios the mind could manufacture when left to roam.
She looked over at Evan, whose skin had drained of color. Even the angry, reddish-purple bruise surrounding his eye looked suddenly pastel. He brought his hands slowly from the bars he’d been holding on to, as though unconsciously drawing back the part of him that had been threatened.
Come with me or we’ll take his fingers.
We’ll.
“Who iswe?” she asked, her voice soft and shaky.
“I couldn’t answer that,” he said. “Even if I wanted to.”
He was just a type of servant, then? A henchman? Hired muscle? He looked more soft than solid, a roll of flab at his waistline obvious even under the dark shirt, but she supposed a Taser made brute strength unnecessary. She also was pretty sure she saw the outline of a weapon beneath his coat. He was going to deliver her somewhere. And he was prepared should she decide to fight him.
But that was if she agreed to the terms.
Come with me or we’ll take his fingers.
And if she didn’t go with him? She didn’t need that answer spelled out for her. He’d given her a choice. There wasn’t a third option, not really. Save yourself from whatever unknown fate being rented meant, or save Evan’s fingers. She felt like she was underwater, trying desperately to surface, to shrug out of her own skin rather than face this reality.
Rented.
She turned her head, meeting Evan’s one wide eye. He stared back at her. She saw fear there, yes. Horror. Sympathy. Confusion and disorientation. His lips parted as though he wanted to say something but couldn’t figure out exactly what. Instead, he waited. Waited for her to make her choice. He did not attempt an appeal. He did not give her the permission she might have been waiting for.Let them take my fingers. It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to suffer.
She didn’t want that, though. Her choice was already made.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Collector eased back in his chair, the wood creaking softly beneath his weight, as he watched the guardian step back, making room for Noelle to exit her container. He sighed.Stupid Noelle. Brave Noelle.Did she even know why she’d made the choice she had? He thought not. Perhaps she’d puzzle that out later. If later existed for her. Forthem. The boy, Evan, remained silent, his face turned slightly as he watched Noelle stand and wobble toward the door the guardian had nodded toward.
Evan. Noelle.He knew their names. All those watching did because they all had access to their conversation. But on the screen, they were still referred to as Dodger and Midori. Like horses at the track. They’d been given names. The Collector didn’t know how or why the chosen monikers had been picked or if they were random, and he didn’t care. He referred to them only as Evan and Noelle. He wanted toknowthem.
He’d viewed the entire exchange with the guardian with breathless interest. When the man had first entered, the Collector had watched as Noelle shrank back as though preparing for an attack. And Evan had raced toward what Noelle perceived as a sudden threat. His response was to meet the danger head on, whereas Noelle’s was to run. Interesting. He tucked it away. Everything meant something. Everything might be valuable ... later.
Whatever he decided thatlatermight entail.
On the screen, the door slid shut with a resounding thud, and Evan pitched himself forward, his knuckles white on the bars of his cage, head hung as his shoulders rose and fell. The Collector watched his body language, taking in the curl of his spine and the press of his skull against the metal. Then Evan raised his head and pushed himself back very slightly. For a moment the Collector had thought the boy was crying. But he wasn’t. He was enraged.Ah, good.The Collector tapped his fingers lightly on the arms of his chair.
The numbers at the top of his screen refreshed, showing the current odds. His eyes moved over the categories quickly. Those who had bet on Midori going willingly toward the unknown of beingrented, had just made a pretty penny. Those who had wagered she’d give permission for the guardian to remove Dodger’s fingers had lost. Interesting that she hadn’t asked how his fingers might be removed. She’d still been in her cage when she’d made the choice, unable to see the array of tools on the high table directly under one of the hidden cameras. Apparently, it didn’t matter whether a hacksaw would be taken to his hand or whether anesthesia and surgery would be utilized. Evidently the method mattered less to her decision than the outcome.
This was all good information to have if he was going to lay some money on the line. If he was going to become personally involved. There might very well be more risk to that than merit, however.
He pulled the report lying at the edge of his desk forward, flipping it open. There were printouts of the court docket, a few news articles, and any other publicly available references.
He had paid a private detective for this information. Perhaps it was frowned upon that the players have inside information, but how would the organizers know? He doubted most players bothered to look up specifics about the contestants. He doubted players would see anyadvantage in something like that. But the Collector knew better. The Collector understood the value of information.
His eyes skimmed the report he’d already read thoroughly. The tragedy occurred close to midnight on a humid summer night seven years prior. Noelle’s mother, Megan, who had been engaging in an extramarital affair with Evan’s father, a shipping tycoon who was twice divorced and recently remarried to a twentysomething lingerie model, was shot to death on his property.Stupid Megan. Naughty Megan.
Bennett Meyer, Megan’s husband, an electrician by trade, sued for wrongful death. According to court proceedings, the defense claimed that Leonard Sinclair had broken it off with Mrs.Meyer earlier that day, and, scorned and obsessed, she had driven to his residence and gained access to his property through unknown means. Mr.Sinclair, armed and under the assumption that an intruder intending harm was outside his office door, shot Mrs.Meyer in the chest when she lunged at him from the dark. She died before an ambulance could even be summoned.
Mr.Meyer didn’t believe Mr.Sinclair’s story, and though it was proved in court via the existence of an intimate photo found on a camera in her purse that Mrs.Meyer was indeed having an affair with the multimillionaire, her husband continued to claim that the shooting was no accident. He lost his lawsuit.
The Collector knew very well how that whole scenario played out. Mr.Sinclair hired the slickest attorneys money could buy, while Mr.Meyer mortgaged his house and his business and used every cent of his savings to pay for a lawyer who didn’t even have half the team or a tenth of the resources as the firm he went up against. The Collector knew other legal benefits had been paid for by Mr.Sinclair as well. Money could buy you your own brand of justice. The Collector had grown up in that world; he understood the inner workings.
