Callum is already laughing as Vic and Oscar climb out, taking their helmets off as they survey the damage.

The Vincents are currently struggling to get their seatbelts off without falling on their heads and breaking their fucking necks. I mean, if they did, no big loss.

I slide off the bench seat and step into the sand; it quickly covers my freshly painted toenails in the new flip-flops I grabbed in the hotel lobby. My lip gloss tastes like cherries and vengeance as I slide my tongue across my lower lip.

“Alright, alright, enough of the squalling,” Vic grumbles, lighting up a cigarette. For a moment there, I get nervous. He smokes when he's stressed-out. But then he passes it over to me, and I know this is more of a social smoking sort of situation. “Cal, Hael, get them out of the buggy.”

I watch as the boys move to do their boss' bidding. I feel mildly nervous about Mr. Vincent. Like, it's possible—not likely, but possible—that he doesn't know what his wife does. In that case, I don't know that I'd be comfortable executing him the way Oscar did Todd Kushner.

I shift from foot to foot with discomfort, causing Victor's dark gaze to slide over to me.

“You okay, wife?” he asks, cocking a brow. I glare back at him and take a drag on the cigarette. The wind blows a few loose strands of hair around my face, perfuming the air with the sweet scent of peaches and daisies. I bought this shampoo and conditioner set specifically because Callum told me I smell like peaches to him.

“I'm fine.” I nod my chin at the Vincents as Cal and Hael push them to their knees in the sand. They take the liberty of removing their helmets as Coraleigh—better known to most as Leigh—sobs and shakes, and her husband scowls at us like he has any business to be angry. This trip, this dune buggy, his clothing … likely all paid for with money earned by selling little girls. “Coraleigh, longtime no see.”

She gawks up at me with parted lips and squinty eyes, like she’s trying to place me but just can’t quite figure me out. I let my head fall back, laughter spilling from my lips like poison.

She sold me to be raped by a pedophile and she doesn’t even remember my face? Even Eric did, and he was the pedophile in question.

I drop my head back down as Mr. Vincent—who knows what his fucking name is—starts to bitch and moan.

“You could’ve killed us!” he snarls, as if we would’ve cared if we had. He very clearly isn’t understanding who holds the power right now. “I’m calling the police.” When he reaches for his phone, Hael grabs his hand and breaks it.

It happens so fast that even I’m surprised by the move. One second, two seconds … Mr. Vincent starts to scream, the sound torn away by the wind and the gentle crashing of ocean waves. With only two days until Thanksgiving, and only five until December, it’s nice and quiet and lonely out here.

Nobody to hear his screams.

“Why are you doing this?” Leigh snivels as she looks between me and Vic. Better she doesn’t glance back and see Callum’s face. There’s a reason he made a little girl piss herself at the aquarium without even meaning to. “What do you want? We don’t have any money on us.”

Victor sighs heavily and shakes his head, accepting the cigarette back from me when I offer it.

“It’s always about money,” he says, like he’s perplexed by the very idea. “Who the fuck cares about money? We’re talking about dignity here, respect for human life.”

“Right from wrong,” I add, cocking my head to one side and enjoying Leigh’s weepy, brown eyes. “Good from evil.” A smile kisses my lips as she whimpers and closes her eyes, like she’s afraid. Terrified, really. I was terrified, when I called her from the antique store, begging for her to save me.

“He’s just like my stepdad,” I’d panted, tears rolling down my face in big, fat, salty drops. “I’m afraid, Leigh. Don’t let him hurt me that way, please, please, please.”

Once upon a time, Leigh pretended to be my friend. She was good at that, at pretending. I believed everything she told me because I wanted to believe it. I wanted a friend, especially one in a position of power, someone that could save me from Pamela and the Thing. Turns out, it was all a lie. She’s nothing but a toxic bitch with a victim complex.

“I don’t deserve this,” she whines, causing me to roll my eyes. Oh, wow. It’s not even fun anymore. It’s almost like she actually believes what she’s saying. “I’m a good person. Please, we can pay you. We can—”

“Stop lying!” I scream, without even meaning to. My blood pressure is spiking, my hands curling into fists at my sides. “Just stop it. You can fake cry all you want, but we both know the truth.” I kneel down, the way Cal and Vic do when they’re trying to pretend like they’re on the same level as one of their targets. “You and I haven’t spoken in a while, but I can still smell your lies because I lived the truth. Leigh, I know you don’t remember me, but my name is Bernadette Blackbird.”

She lets out a strange whimper, closing her eyes and murmuring prayers under her breath. Why is that always the salvation of the wicked, to pray? God doesn’t want to hear their lies anymore than I do.

“You sold me—” I start, but Coraleigh surprises me by opening her eyes and leveling a glare on me that’s more irritated than anything else, like we’re inconveniencing her and ruining her perfectly planned afternoon. Well, I’ll tell you that I was supremely irritated with her when she sold me and my sisters to pedophiles.

“This is for the best, Bernadette. You can be so much more than just a lost girl from South Prescott; the Kushners have resources. If you’re a good girl, and you do what they say, I see a bright future for you.”

Lying cunt.

“I know who you are, Bernadette,” Leigh says, flicking her attention up to Oscar. He’s said nothing, but the way he’s staring down at her, I would think her instincts should tell her that something is going to go very, very wrong today. “I should’ve known this was a goddamn set-up.”

Coraleigh’s husband, still cradling his injured hand against his chest, gives her an insider sort of look, like he agrees with that statement. Figures. He must wonder how his wife brings home such hefty paychecks.

“A set-up?” I echo as Oscar adjusts his glasses and glances my way. It’s impossible for me to miss the wash of color on his arms and neck, his legs. He’s Aphrodite’s Achilles, but instead of dipping him in the river Styx, he was dipped in ink. I wonder if, like the hero of Greek legend, he has a vulnerable spot that I could pierce with an arrow of my own?

“Before Eric and Todd skipped town,” Oscar begins, tilting his head slightly to one side. His raven-black hair is tousled by the fingers of a coastal breeze, softening him for just the briefest of moments. But then I blink, and the image is gone. He’s as beautiful as a marble statue, but only half as warm. “They texted Leigh to set up this meeting.” A strange smile takes over Oscar’s face, one made up of endless voids and moonbeams. “The Kushners were going to buy a little girl.” He leans down and puts his palms on his knees in a very patronizing sort of way, like he’s leaning over to speak to a pair of naughty children. “Where is the child, Leigh?”