These were no regular cuffs. They seemed to be constructed of barbs of pointed, unforgiving, glass-sharp wire, wire that ate deeper into the already mortified flesh of my wrists with every futile movement, the same way the weight of the collar crushed against my windpipe, making every breath and swallow a struggle, too.
This was what happened, I supposed, when they thought you were an escape artist. They just made stronger and harsher restraints.
“Fuck you, bitch,” I screamed as best I could into the muzzle bit, just to make myself feel better.
Okay, enough of that. I took a deep breath. Figuring out things was kind of my thing. Problem was, the hotter it got, my synapses would start being cooked to death along with the rest of me.
Well, let’s continue to assess. Honestly, they’d kind of dropped the ball on my legs, having only looped some thin rope around my bare ankles. They’d kept the rest of my clothes on me, including the torn, dusty, unbuttoned shirt—the same stupid feather-print one Lemaya had bought me, apparently as a joke—exposing only my chest, where the sun’s rays continued to sear, layer by layer, into my already-inflamed skin. That skin was mostly dry, like the air, but some sweat mingled with the dust on my face, forming a gritty layer that only got worse as I tried to swallow or move my tongue. The muzzle and collar were already hot. In an hour or so, without shelter, they’d be like aluminum pots on a stove.
Adding that to my list of things not to dwell on, I maneuvered myself enough in the collar to give me a 360-degree view. The sand was dotted by the low tufts of sage and barrelcactuses that seemed to be a thing everywhere. Except out here, they were theonlything. And in the distance, a line of telephone poles, or saguaros, or both. A highway? Beyond that—in the opposite direction—soaring, reddish rock formations with ledges seemingly carved out of them, along with small arches and spires of the kind I’d also only seen in cliché depictions of the Wild West. They were real, though. For some reason, I felt kind of happy about that.
It was a place—like the rest of the desert, really, though I’d never admit it—I would have liked exploring, under different circumstances. I’d prefer a Porsche to a horse, though. A beautiful girl next to me, her hair bouncing in my face as she laughed with her entire mouth open. Stopping everywhere and anywhere. Chasing the mountains. Chasing the sunset. Getting lost on purpose. Getting lost forever.
Sure, okay. Of all things to start daydreaming about now, by all means, let’s make it something that boasted roughly ten million reasons why I would never, ever have it.
Back to reality, which was that this quaint Western panorama was slowly killing me. Following the sun and the mountains, all I could estimate for now was that I was somewhere south and west of the city.
Too far to be found, maybe.
Unless the serum hadn’t worked and my chip was still in, in which case Louisa, or her father, or both, would track it here. Which would ostensibly mean I’d be rescued. Except it didn’t because Resi would be waiting for them.
And this time, I wouldn’t be talking our way out. I wouldn’t be talking at all. Nobody was walking, or running, away from this one.
And then I’d really have something to feel guilty about, if I didn’t have enough already. But maybe even that was better than letting Resi or her goons find and kill Louisa where she was. Andif preventingthatmeant I’d be a slave forever, well. It would still be the easiest choice I’d ever made.
Bottom line, my one chance was to figure out a way outnow.Giving up on my other senses, I strained my ears. Maybe I could catch a sound for a clue. But all I heard was the distant keening of the wind and the occasional scuttle of sand against the shack’s wooden walls.
I was relieved at the breeze, until, instead of cooling me off, it blew sand into my eyes and down my throat. And worse, it didn’t die down. Weakly, I curled in on myself and closed my eyelashes against it, the tiny particles hitting against my skin and skittering beneath the splintered wood behind me.
When the sand died down. That’s when I’d start escaping again.
After all, someone was counting on it. One person in the world who didn’t want me to die. Two, actually. Maybe eventhree.
Which, all in all, was weirder than being chained to a hitching post in the middle of the desert.
Forcing myself to swallow, grit raking my parched throat, I raised my eyes to the vast, clear dome of sky overhead. At least there would be stars tonight.
13
HER
“Miss.” The housekeeper gently patted my arm over the T-shirt fabric. “This is doing you no good. You’re better off in your bedroom. Some aloe, a cup of tea, a few hours of rest?—”
“No,” I whispered, almost to myself. “No.”
“Loulou, it’s time to stop this.” My father’s faraway voice was gentle now, almost pitying. “You heard what I said. It was all a scam of Langer’s.” He paused, swallowing. “I know, because that’s where I sent the boy. I suppose I might as well tell you now.”
A little slow on the uptake, Daddy. “You’re wrong.”
“Mr. Wainwright-Phillips, I still don’t see how this is relevant to the investigation, and?—”
My father ignored Labrecque. “I know you think I don’t understand what you’re feeling right now, but I do. The fact is”—he cleared his throat in that painfully awkward way he sometimes had—“Iwanted to think better of the boy, too.”
I blinked, uncomprehending.
“This will shock you, but I liked him, Loulou. Perhaps—perhaps more than I should have, and in a way I shouldn’t have. More as a person, less as a slave. And I had thought that if I started treating him accordingly—with more trust and autonomy than his previous owners gave him—he’d rise to the occasion and prove me correct. So I trusted him. I gave him a chance.”
“Mr. Wainwright-Phillips!” barked Labrecque, having lost whatever patience she had. “I’m afraid we need to continue with the questioning.”
