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 being rented, 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 any advantage 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.
In the end, Mr. Meyer wasn’t only a widower. He’d lost his home and his business, drained his bank accounts, and gone into deep debt. Whether or not his wife deserved justice for her untimely death would never be known. She’d been placed under six feet of dirt, and Mr. Sinclair had walked free, making a statement to the media waiting outside the courtroom that he was grateful to the jury who had seen the truth and that he wished Mr. Meyer well.
How that moment must have burned.
Of course, the Collector knew very well that it had.
A smaller screen within a screen blinked to life. As the viewer, he could decide which picture to enlarge. On the smaller screen, Noelle had entered a room upstairs and was sitting on a bed, waiting. Her hands twisted in her lap. Whoever had rented her had not yet arrived.
I’m a virgin.
Not for long.
The Collector focused back on Evan, who now sat back slowly, bringing his legs up and resting his forearms on his knees. He let his head fall back against the bars and sat staring straight ahead, one eye open wide, the other barely cracked. The Collector watched him for a moment before bringing his gaze to the various odds at the top of the screen once more.
They were constantly changing, based on shifting circumstances.
Just like life, he supposed.
You had to be quick to keep up, or others moved ahead.
There was one bet that remained constant for each of them, however. Escape. Highly unlikely. There were betting rules that made such a thing virtually impossible. No, if Dodger or Midori got free, it would be because they themselves had come up with something that the creators hadn’t thought of. And then whoever had put money on that outcome would be a very, very rich man. Or woman. Though he didn’t think there were any of those. Some sports were meant solely for men. The Collector didn’t need, or want, the money. He had enough of that. And it wasn’t what drove him. But still . . . his gaze kept returning to those odds, the number causing something hot to simmer in him.
He knew why, of course. He was not a stupid man. His finger hovered over the keyboard momentarily before directing the cursor away from that bet. He’d decide later if it was one worth making. Or if it was foolhardy. Could he figure out a way to help them get free? The idea intrigued him beyond . . . everything. Was it possible? Maybe. It wasn’t going to be easy, though. He’d need a strategy. On several levels.
The boy sat motionless in his cage, staring straight ahead. “What are you thinking?” the Collector whispered, his gaze hanging on the boy’s bruised cheek. The Collector glanced at the rope they’d discarded near the back of Noelle’s empty cage. Interesting that neither of them had considered using it to hang themselves. Of course, only one could do that. It couldn’t be shared. He wondered if suicide had been the intent of the sender. A kindness, maybe. Interesting. Neither Evan nor Noelle had even mentioned the possibility, though. It hadn’t occurred to them. At least not yet. Which meant they still had fight left.
On the small screen, a man had entered the room where Noelle sat. He was old and at least twice her weight, if not three times. The Collector zoomed in, focusing on her face. Her expression was blank, but hatred burned in her eyes.
Good. Hold on to it. It will help you survive this. Anger sharpens the mind. Fear clouds it.
He clicked off that screen. He wasn’t interested in watching an old man grunt and rut as he tore into a young virgin. Many were, though. He could practically feel the excitement of all those faceless strangers emanating through the monitor.
Yes, perhaps he’d assist them in getting free after all. If he could. In the meantime, however, if they were going to stay alive, they’d need to eat more than bread and water.
He assumed the man who’d rented Noelle had sent the treats of peaches and butter earlier. A preemptive thank-you for whatever entertainment they were about to offer.
How generous.
Perhaps he was also hoping the peach juice would still be on Noelle’s skin, making her that much sweeter.
The Collector clicked on a series of keys, spending what would equate to someone else’s mortgage payment to order them each something special.
And this time, the gift came without strings. For now anyway.
CHAPTER SIX