Paul stood over her, his clear blue eyes clouded. Rainy watched him clench and unclench his fists like he was trying to pump his anger out of them. She felt strangely calm, or perhaps it was the drugs—either way, she stared on impassively as Braithe began to cry softly from her end of the table.

  He was thin, thinner than most men of his height, but what struck Rainy most were the veneers. An eating disorder would cause the signs of malnutrition on Paul’s face, and she’d bet his teeth were rotting from years of bulimia before he shelled out the money for his Ronald Reagan teeth.

  “Does it bother you to work with food when you have such an unhealthy relationship with it?” She’d won again; she could see it on his face. Everyone from the compound has a fucked-up relationship with food. He was bothered, his sallow skin flushing all the way to his eyeballs. He took another step toward her and stopped abruptly. Rainy could hear her own ragged, angry breath in the pause before he turned. She watched his sure strides toward Braithe and her stomach clenched.

  Braithe couldn’t keep her head up when Paul crouched down next to her. It bobbed upright for a minute and then settled back on her shoulder. There was a narrow window, high above where Braithe was tied; the light that filtered through made it look like she was wearing a yellow T-shirt. Rainy could only see the back of Braithe’s head, but Paul was looking at Rainy as he leaned over the woman. He slapped her, hard, across the face. Braithe barely made a sound, which could mean she was too drugged to realize it had happened or it had happened so often she was used to it. Rainy kept her face impassive; she would not give him control that easily.

  “Our little Braithe was sitting at the bar, drinking white wine like a bad cliché, when I showed up. Rocked your world, didn’t I, B?”

  Rainy made her face as wooden as possible as she listened to him; she wouldn’t give him anything to work with if she could help it.

  “You know what I thought when I saw her sitting there, Rainy?”

  She didn’t like the way he said her name, dragging out the a. Ray-nee.

  “I thought, what a sad little queen bee, sitting on that stool in her cold shoulder blouse, looking like someone just broke her heart.” Paul let all his features sag, mimicking what must have been Braithe’s posture at the bar. God, thought Rainy, why was Braithe in that bar that night? Had she called Stephen, or had she just needed to get away?

  “And someone had broken her heart, Ray-nee, that someone was your guy, wasn’t it? Your Grant.” He paused for her reaction, his narrow face turning serious with his tone.

  His blue, fishy eyes studied Braithe, and he tilted his head to the side so that it matched the angle of hers. He looked like a puppet relaxed on its strings.

  “Said she’d flown here from Washington with some girlfriends for a weekend getaway. So I asked what she wanted to get away from—” He clapped his hands twice, bouncing on one leg with the flair of a performer. Of course, Rainy thought: Vegas, he’s a showman.

  “She thought that was so, so funny. Do you know what she told me next, Rainy?”

  “I can’t wait for you to tell me, Paul,” she answered dryly.

  “She said she was there to call her ex, the man she was still in love with.” Rainy swallowed; she wished she had water to cool the aching in her throat. How long had she been here? Paul stared at her, his eyes mesmerizing.

  “She took your little game as a sign, you see? And then the psychic...you girls just had to stop to talk to that cracked nut, didn’t you?” He tapped a closed fist to the side of his head, clicking his tongue.

  “It’s not my business who she’s in love with. It’s not reciprocated.”

  “Well, see there, that’s what I thought, as well—this poor, delusional woman who arranged this...special weekend so she could come to Vegas and have a psychic confirm her high school boyfriend was the one.” He laughed, slapping his knee like it was the funniest joke he’d ever heard, and then he suddenly became very serious.

  “She showed me the text she was planning on sending him, you know...” He placed a hand over his heart, his bottom lip drooping out. “It was good, Rainy, that’s all I’ll say. Braithe should have been a writer.”

  “That’s all you’ll say, huh?” Somehow she really doubted that.

  Paul grinned, making the motion of zipping his lips and throwing away the key.

  From across the room Braithe moaned. Paul either didn’t hear her or didn’t care; he was engrossed in telling his story. “We had a toast together to celebrate, but I could tell she was nervous the whole time, waiting for Grant to text her back.”

  Rainy bit down on her tongue, forcing herself not to use it. She needed to hear him out, wanted to, but she was spitting angry that she was being forced to hear the truth from a sociopath instead of Grant. And how much of the truth was he actually giving her? Braithe wasn’t conscious enough to contradict his story.

  “He did text her back. Not right away, but his response was equally as thoughtful as hers.”

  She couldn’t hold back for another second. The anger rose like vomit. “Fuck you!” If he didn’t have her chained, she’d launch herself at him. “I need water,” she said.

  Paul shrugged. “Why should I give you water when you’re being so very rude?”

  “A dehydrated girl is no fun to play with, Paul.”

  He kicked off the fridge he was leaning against and Rainy gave a silent prayer of thanks when he pulled a bottle of water from the pack on the counter and casually walked over. She kept eye contact with him the whole time he held the bottle to her lips. Cold, mean chips of blue buried beneath a spray of blond lashes. They were unblinking as they watched her, like he didn’t want to miss a second of her suffering. She was so, so close, but she couldn’t quite place him yet.

  She tried to drink slowly to give him less of a thrill, but she sucked down the whole bottle in seconds. He carried the empty bottle over to a garbage bag and tucked it inside, then he took a bottle over to Braithe. Rainy heard the seal on the lid snap before he bent over her with the water. She couldn’t tell if Braithe was conscious enough to drink, but after a few seconds he stood up, setting the bottle on the table above her head. Was this really happening? Yes, because you made it happen. She didn’t want to look at him. She’d been staring into his eyes less than twenty seconds ago and it had been a hollow experience. She suddenly felt exhausted. She leaned her head against the pole behind her and closed her eyes.

  * * *

  When she woke, the window on the wall above Braithe was dark. She had the strong urge to pee, and her mouth was so dry she had to work her tongue free of her teeth. What time was it? He must have put something in her water.

  “Braithe...are you awake?” Her voice cracked; she scooted her butt forward in an attempt to get her blood moving and tented her knees. “Braithe...I need you to wake up,” she called louder. No answer.

  “Hey! Hey! Can anyone hear me? Help! Help!” She rocked against the table, trying to move it, but Rainy knew it was no use; it was bolted down. “Hey!” she yelled again. “Help us!

  “Braithe!” she called. “Wake up! We need to get out of here.”

  “You can’t.” The words preceded his footsteps like he’d been just around the corner, listening. Rainy went so still she could hear her own raspy breath. A few seconds later, Paul walked into view, carrying a large paper bag that smelled of food.

  “This—” he said, after setting the bag on the table that separated her from Braithe “—is in the new wing of the hotel. Construction is only set to resume in a few months, and by then we will be long gone, won’t we, B?” He tossed his keys on the counter. “No one can hear you, Rainy—these professional kitchens are well insulated. Chefs like to be able to scream at their kitchen staff without the dining room hearing.” As he spoke, he stacked containers on the table, his movements fast and jerky. Rainy could smell him from where she sat. Had he just left a shift?

  She glanced at the window and saw that the sky was lightening to an indigo. When she looked over again, he was unlocking Braithe’s handcuffs. He pulled her to her feet, where she swayed, unsteady, and then he led her to the food. Rainy watched as he sat her on a stool and placed a fork in her hand. It was the first time she was seeing Braithe’s face since the night of the dinner. Her hair was still in the topknot she’d worn that night, but it sagged off the side of her head like a piece of fruit past its prime. A few strands had escaped their pins and hung limply around her face. She didn’t have bruises, not that Rainy could see, but Braithe was so gray she matched the concrete floor. Her eyes looked swollen, but that could have been from crying. She didn’t look up when Rainy said her name.

  “She’s so zonked out she doesn’t know who you are,” Paul said, stroking her head. She was staring down at whatever was in the container, the fork poised above it. “Go on, be a good girl and take a bite.” When Braithe didn’t move, he spoke again. “Hey! I’m talking to you, you ungrateful shit, eat! God!” Throwing his hands up, he paced behind her chair.

  “You said it yourself, she’s drugged. Untie me and I’ll feed her.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “We’ve already been through this, Rainy.” He took the fork from Braithe and speared something in the box. Braithe opened her mouth and Paul spooned what looked like pancakes through her lips. She chewed unenthusiastically, her eyes on the table. He handed her the fork and she took over, robotically.

  “Braithe wouldn’t eat at first, you see. She can be really stubborn, as I’m sure you know. Anyway, we came to a deal—she eats what I bring her, and I don’t leave her in the freezer all day.”

  “You fucking psycho.”

  “Now, now, Rainy, it’s right over there—” he pointed to his right and Rainy followed his gaze to two large steel doors with what looked like vault handles on the front “—waiting for a new bitch to freeze. You’re up next!” he said cheerfully. “I brought you bacon and eggs.”

  He hummed as he unwrapped her food, setting it on the counter. He glanced over every few seconds to make sure Braithe was eating.

  “I need to go to the bathroom,” Rainy said.

  Paul nodded. “Soon as she’s done.”

  Rainy searched Braithe’s face, looking for something—a message or a plea for help, anything—but her head remained bowed, her movements mechanical. Rainy sighed, frustrated.

  When Braithe dropped her fork to signal that she was done, Paul led her to the bathroom, where she spent no more than five minutes. He had her handcuffed back at her spot with not a peep. She was as docile as a deer.

  He came toward Rainy with his keys. As he crouched behind her, she felt the pressure on her shoulders ease and the handcuffs release, and she was able to move her arms forward. It took her a minute to get up, the feeling slowly moving back into her limbs in needlelike pricks. Paul’s presence behind her made her move forward, her steps an awkward shuffle. She didn’t want him behind her, she needed to see what he was up to. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that he was smiling.

  “Move,” he said, shoving the barrel of the gun into the small of her back.

  “Did you see that in a movie?” she asked. The blow felt sharp, and then wet; he’d struck her on the back of the head. Rainy fell, sliding across the floor as her vision flashed to bright white and then black. Was there blood? She felt for it, and her fingers came away sticky.

  “Get up. You have two minutes.”

  She did as she was told, pulling herself up by the bathroom door handle and glancing back at him.

  He was still smiling.

  Rainy peed with her eyes closed. When she was finished, she washed her hands and then wet a paper towel, dabbing it on the back of her head as gently as possible. She was going to have the king of headaches. When she walked out of the bathroom, Rainy didn’t think—she just walked toward him until she was standing right in front of him. He was taller than her, but only by a few inches. She took a natural stance, tucking her head down and clenching her jaw. Then she said something in barely a whisper. Paul cocked his head and then leaned toward her to better hear her. “What was that?”

  Rainy said it again, but only a fraction louder. The gun hung limply at his side. His head dipped closer. Rearing her head back, she repeated the rules to herself: if you went in mouth gaping, you’d risk biting off your own tongue, and if you weren’t braced for impact, you could damage your neck. She snapped her head toward her target, using her body to propel her, aiming for his nose. She heard the crack before she felt it. Paul’s first scream was muffled, the second loud and pained, but he moved quickly. Rainy didn’t have time to move before the butt of the gun hit her in the temple. So this is the way you die, she thought as she fell.

  * * *

  She wasn’t dead. She was cold and in pain. Sitting up, she groaned at the wrongness of the feeling in her head. It felt big and heavy, a dull ache dragged across her forehead and into the base of her skull. She’d hit Paul and he’d hit her back, but where was he? She scooted to a sitting position, leaning her head back. She was freezing. Duct tape stretched over her mouth, she supposed, as part of her punishment, since no one could hear her in here, anyway. She felt her internal panic clock ticking faster. The walls pressed in and Rainy dropped her chin to her chest and tried to be somewhere else, but her control was a paper town. The last time she’d been inside a walk-in freezer, she’d seen her mother’s lifeless body. Did he know? Had he been there, too? She tried to think, but the pain in her head was as distracting as the cold.

  Paul’s blood was everywhere—her pants, the floor—and she knew that if she looked in a mirror, she would see it on her face. She could smell it. He was nowhere to be seen, though for all she knew he was out there beyond the freezer doors, doing something to Braithe in retaliation for what Rainy had done to his face. She squirmed against her bonds, but it was no use. Conserve your energy, Rainy, think. She could do that; she knew how. She’d spent the torturous hours in solitary, thinking. She hadn’t checked out and she hadn’t pretended to be somewhere else: that had been her time to examine what was happening to her and why. She swayed from side to side, eyes closed, doing her best to keep moving without exerting herself. He knows how your mother died, he knows how Taured used to punish the women at the compound. He might even know that Sara helped you get away. Fuck, she thought, and from deep in her subconscious, she began to remember.

  Paul had been in Kids’ Camp with her—she was sure of it. He had experienced similar atrocities, and he had become...this. She’d read about the murders as she sat in the hotel room: Sara’s and Feena’s. After Derek had told her that Sara had been murdered, it had occurred to her to Google Feena Wycliffe. There had been only two articles about Feena’s death: the first had been after her body was found in her car at a concert venue. She’d been strangled from behind and left in her car. A security guard found her in the early hours of the next morning. Police had asked the public for help, urging them to come forward if they had seen anything. The next article was published on the one-year anniversary of the murder. Still, police had nothing: no DNA, no fingerprints. All Feena’s friends had alibis, and since Feena’s purse and wallet were still in the car, undisturbed, the police could only conclude the motive was personal, but they had no idea what it was. According to her friends, she hadn’t had a boyfriend or love interest.

  Surely, if they’d questioned Feena’s friends properly, they’d know about her time in the compound...unless, like Rainy herself, she’d never told them. That sounded more likely. She’d been living a new life somewhere else and the chances that her friends hadn’t known were strong. After all, Rainy had chosen something similar for herself. It had been harder to read about Sara—her Sara. The details in her death were gruesome. Different. The police had no reason to connect the two...yet. If Paul had succeeded in killing her, Rainy was sure the police would connect all three of them back to the compound. She knew it. That’s exactly what Taured didn’t want to happen. Whether or not Paul was trying to incriminate Taured, or just lead police in his direction, she didn’t know, but she had the feeling he was out to get his former leader’s attention one way or another. And that was exactly why she’d gone to him for help. Two vultures with one stone.

  Shit. It was so cold...

  What if he doesn’t come? But she knew him: she’d been thinking about, obsessing about...and psychoanalyzing every facet of his personality for years.

  Her eyes snapped open. There it was. The connection she’d been grasping at and failing to make. He’d killed Feena by strangling her, he’d killed Sarah by shooting her. He was giving them the deaths he thought they deserved: Taured’s “special girls.” Feena had taken too much of Taured’s attention, so he’d cut off her air. Sara had given Taured a baby, taking Taured farther away from Paul or whoever he had been back then—so he’d shot her in the stomach and left her to bleed to death in the desert.

  Rainy had a sick feeling that her own death would include some type of poison...or drug, like her mother’s had. Taured had used food to lure Rainy into his office the night he’d drugged her and taken those photos of her. He’d fed her apricots in the cafeteria the night he’d convinced her to tour Kids’ Camp. And who had been there watching very carefully? Someone had been studying Taured and the unique relationship he had with each of his girls, someone obsessed with Taured and winning his approval, being the most important person to him.

  Ginger.

  25

  Now

  “Braithe, do you hear me? Do not eat or drink what he gives you... Braithe!”