He glared at the badge for a moment, then stood and leaned in, towering over her. “You really think you can shake me down with some bullshit about someone’s wife? You think anyone’s going to believe your lying ass? I ought to face-fuck you sitting right here. Hell, call my bros, they’d love a taste, too. Put the hammer to you good.”
She smiled, eased out the Glock, and pointed it at him. “I guess you could, Mike, but if you tried, I’d shoot you right through your cheating little heart. But hey, it’s your blood. And I’m used to the paperwork. So knock yourself out.”
He glanced at the Glock, then back to her. “You know what? I’ve got better things to do than listen to some whackjob bitch cop talking out her ass.”
It wasn’t a bad bluff. But she knew he was going to fold. She just had to show him who was holding the winning hand.
She pulled out a cheap Dictaphone she’d used to record the conversation. “Why don’t you listen to this?” she said. “And then we’ll figure out what to do about it.”
She hit “Play.” And watched as his eyes filled with rage.
30—THEN
Livia trained with Eric and Malcolm two hours a day, seven days a week. She couldn’t get enough of jiu-jitsu. She borrowed books on the topic from Malcolm and studied them in her room, closing her eyes and mimicking the techniques depicted in the photographs inside, imagining herself using jiu-jitsu against Skull Face and Dirty Beard and Square Head, breaking their elbows and knees and necks. By the time spring semester was over, she was nearly as good as Sean—especially fighting from the guard, her favorite position, on her back with her legs around the attacker’s torso. And she still had her straight A’s.
The bullies left Sean and her alone now, though people sometimes teased them because they spent so much time together, saying they were “doing it,” and laughing and making gross gestures when they would leave school together to go to Sean’s house. As long as she had jiu-jitsu, Livia didn’t care.
Rick had come to visit again—and he brought the photograph with him. The Thai police had questioned Livia’s parents, who claimed they thought the girls were going to get jobs in Bangkok and denied taking any money for them. Rick promised that her parents didn’t know where she was or how to find her, but also told her he could get word to them if she changed her mind. She knew he meant well. She also knew her mind would never change.
Rick had asked her again if everything was all right. The way he looked at her when he asked, the concern in his expression, made her sense he had suspicions about Mr. Lone. But Livia was afraid to tell him. She didn’t know what would happen if she did. Maybe it would be bad for Nason. Maybe it would be bad in some other way. And besides, Mr. Lone was probably right—no one would believe her. They would just say she was having nightmares about her “ordeal” and attributing them to Mr. Lone, or something like that. Better to endure what happened in the bathroom, and not take chances.
Lying in bed when her studying was done, she would think about what Rick had told her, about how Weed Tyler’s gang or whoever hired his gang had buyers in Llewellyn or farther east. Buyers. That explained the food and the blankets, and why they hadn’t harmed the children. They’d whipped the Hmong boy, Kai, when he tried to escape, but they hadn’t really harmed him, at least not as a product they planned to sell. And it was the same for her. What they had been making her do on the deck of the ship at night didn’t leave visible marks. No one would know how they’d used her on the way to Portland.
But they had hurt Nason. Badly. Why? Why would they have harmed their own merchandise?
To punish you, she thought. Because you attacked them. You cut Skull Face’s eye.
She covered her face and sobbed silently into her hands. Please not that. Please.
But what else could it be? Probably the men hadn’t intended to harm Nason, only to use her, the way they had used Livia. But they had been drunk, and Livia had enraged them. It was her fault. What had happened to Nason had been her fault.
Most of the time, she could push that thought away. When she couldn’t, it made her want to not be alive anymore. To stop eating, the way she’d considered on the boat.
But by the morning, the horror would have receded, and she would find a way to eat breakfast. She’d been a coward about so many things. To stop eating, to make herself die, when Nason might still need her would be beyond cowardice. It would be a crime.