“You want the girl?” she asks, exchanging a look with her husband. His face is written up in a document of terror, but his wife doesn’t seem to get it. She turns back to Oscar, eyes hopeful. “We can get you the girl. As many as you want, for a good price, too.”

“Stop playing games,” Victor says mildly, casting his obsidian gaze in Oscar’s direction. He looks … bored? I take that as a good sign. There is no danger here, in this interaction. “We know the girl’s at their place. Shall we go pay her a visit?”

“No, we don’t do business at our home,” Leigh says, shaking her head, as if this is business as usual. Even Mr. Vincent looks mildly mollified, like getting his hand broken isn’t out of the ordinary for this line of work. I guess sex-trafficking young girls is risky business.

My vision colors with red as my hands begin to shake. I flex my fingers several times, trying to work out the violent quivering that’s taking over my body.

“You remember me?” I query, confused at her nonchalance at seeing my face. Eric looked terrified when he saw me. Why is Coraleigh so … businesslike? She turns to stare at me, her lips pulling down into a frown. The tiniest trickle of blood runs down the side of her face, plopping onto the front of the aqua-colored North Face jacket she’s wearing.

“No, but I’ve heard about you,” she says, folding her hands calmly in front of her. “I’ve heard about your gang, too. I have information to barter, if we can find an acceptable price.”

Heard about us? Color me confused.

Callum looks up at Vic and frowns, fingers twitching, like he’d enjoy putting a knife to Leigh’s throat the same way that he did to Todd Kushner. Instead, he stands still, like a good little Havoc soldier. Hael just lights up a cigarette, completely unconcerned with either of the Vincents.

“We can pay,” Vic says mildly, nodding his head as if he’s deep in thought. See, the thing is, he rubs his chin when he’s actually problem solving in that pretty head of his. This is all just for fun. “But first, we want to see the girl.”

Coraleigh and her husband exchange another look before she turns back to Victor and gives a nod of her own.

“Okay, then. But if the Kushners show up asking after her, I’ll have to say I sold her to you.”

Victor grins and even though I spent the morning fucking him, and sucking his cock, the expression gives me the chills.

“I don’t foresee that being a problem,” he says, and then Hael and Cal each use a balled-up fist to cuff both members of the Vincent couple in the back of the head. There’s a very disturbing cracking sound, like bone being shattered, red drops of blood flecking Hael’s knuckles as he shakes his hand out. The boys are like a pair of well-oiled machines, the muscles in their arms hardened through bullshit and bullying.

The couple crumples to the sand, and while Mr. Vincent is lucky enough not to still be awake, Leigh starts to moan.

I take a deep breath as Cal hits her again, and again, and again until she’s quiet, and then hefts her up to toss over his shoulder.

“What are we going to do about their buggy?” I ask as Hael does the same to Mr. Vincent. The boys load the couple up in the back seat of our rental. The front end is a bit scratched up, but not to the point where one might assume we’d ramrodded someone with it.

“Drive it back to their place,” Vic says with a smile. He moves over to the vehicle and, with all five of us pushing on the side, we manage to turn it back over. “It’s just a hop, skip, and a jump a-motherfucking-way.” Victor leans over and kisses my temple, banding an arm around my waist and pulling me up against him. “Let’s get this over with so we can get back to fucking, shall we? This is my goddamn honeymoon.”

“Our,” I correct, but I’m not sure if I’m trying to tell Vic that it belongs to me and him or … all of us.

The Vincents own a mansion at the edge of the sea. It’s a five-thousand square foot, six-bedroom, five-bath nightmare with a stone wall, a gated driveway with a keypad, and direct access to the beach. According to the Zillow listing I pull up on my phone, they paid three-point-nine million dollars for it.

Tell me again how a pediatrician and a social worker can afford a house worth nearly four mil?

Oh, that’s right.

By trafficking helpless young girls to perverts.

“Swanky,” Hael whistles, opening a drawer in the kitchen and raising his brows. “The fuck? There’s a freezer in here.” He lifts up a container of ice cream, checks the label, and then tears the plastic ring off the top. Three more drawers later and he’s found himself a spoon to eat it with.

“It’s called an undercounter freezer,” Oscar says, all without looking up from his iPad. “They’re extremely expensive, unquestionably bourgeois, and paid for with money the Vincents got from selling lost, little girls.”

“Please!” Coraleigh screams, tied to her own chair in her own living room. There’s an entire wall of windows to her left, looking out at the sea and the sunshine, but there isn’t a soul on that beach because, well, it’s a private beach. It’s not open to the rabble of peasantry, the ones silly enough to work normal jobs and not exploit people for gain. Therefore, nobody will hear her scream. Nobody will see our buggies parked out front of the house. And, because Oscar is a genius with that iPad of his, nobody will see the security footage from the Vincents’ cameras. “Listen to me: we can work things out amicably. This doesn’t have to devolve into violence.”

Callum laughs, sitting on the edge of one of the counters and eating an apple he’s stolen from a nearby fruit bowl. Meanwhile, Aaron is upstairs with all of our girls, making sure they change out of their sandy clothes and into fresh pj’s. There’s another girl up there, too, the one the Vincents were going to sell to the Kushners.

She’s little and raven-haired and even though she looks nothing like Penelope, I saw her, and I just suddenly couldn’t stop thinking about my sister. They have the same eyes. Not the color of them, because Pen was blue-eyed, and this girl has an obsidian gaze like Vic. But … there’s something else there, a vibrancy and a will to live that looks like it’s trapped under a tarp, a bubble waiting to float free just so long as it isn’t popped first.

I thought that once Neil was gone, I would feel better somehow, less sad about my sister’s being dead, as if vengeance is a cure-all for grief. While I’m happy that we’ve scrubbed that monster from existence, the sadness hasn’t dimmed an iota.

I stand there in front of the Vincents, looking around at this stupidly luxurious house and wondering how someone’s brain can be so corrupted by greed that they forget the basic tenets of humanity: compassion, empathy, and kindness.

“Are we going to kill them?” I ask, partially because I’m genuinely curious but also because I know the question will scare the crap out of Leigh and her husband (whose name I have yet to learn, mostly because I don’t care to).

“Not sure yet,” Vic replies, playing along as he lounges on the curved window seat, his back against the glass, a bottle of beer in his right hand. “Depends on that information they have, the information they wanted to, uh, barter with us about.” He gives a signature anti-smile as I move over to the drawer where Hael found the ice cream, looking for more.