I can see the approval on her face-the relief that I'm finally living life again.

I shut the door behind her, grab my soda and head up to my room to read the folded papers in my pocket.

I surprised myself, too, with that little revelation. I'm going to motherf.u.c.king Mexico.

CHAPTER SIX.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been more than three weeks since my last confession."

I press my b.u.t.t more tightly down against the backs of my shins-my legs are folded under me-and glance through the curtain of my strawberry hair at the sheet of thatch that stands between me and the priest. I can't see his face, but I a.s.sume because it's the second Tuesday of the second week of the month, that it's Father Mendez, the traveling priest from Fresnillo.

"Yes, child." The gravelly voice confirms my suspicions. Definitely Father Mendez. His advanced age-eighty-one, the nuns say-means he's one of the few I trust not to have ties to the Cientos Cartel. So I shut my eyes, inhale deeply, and try to really pour my heart out.

"I must confess many sins," I whisper in soft Spanish. "The first is envy." Another breath to rid myself of my embarra.s.sment-the embarra.s.sment of being totally open and honest with a virtual stranger-and I plunge forward. "I envy the nuns who are able to leave the clinic when I can't. I feel like a prisoner, and rather than being thankful for the second chance I've been given, I'm...frustrated. I know I have no one to blame but myself, so I just keep praying for forgiveness and hoping I'll find a way to feel more grateful." I'm silent only long enough to clear my throat. "I definitely need to feel more grateful for what I have right now. But sometimes... I miss certain parts of my old life."

I close my eyes, and I can see Katrina, with her sparkly nail polish and kind smile, rubbing my calves and painting my toe-nails in the beauty parlor in Jesus's mansion. Sometimes when I'm eating rice here at the clinic, I can taste bell peppers and that yummy cheese dip that Arman, Jesus's chef, used to whip up. "I miss seeing the sun, but I miss other things, too, like taking a long bath with soap that smells good."

I also miss the more forbidden things-like the feel of a man's mouth on mine. That particular desire tosses me all the way back to eleventh grade, the year I lost my virginity to my high school band's a.s.sistant director, Sam Kline. Sam was only twenty-two, and he ended up transferring schools at the end of my senior year because he felt so guilty about what we did every afternoon in the instrument closet. But I can still see his brown eyes. Read the feeling in them. When he clung to me after we both got off, he held me tightly, like he was desperate to feel my body against his.

I press my lips together until they sting, because I'm not going to tell Father Mendez any of this; but sometimes when I remember Sam, my chest feels like there's a fire inside of it. That's how much I crave that closeness. After Sam...

There were half a dozen others after Sam, but G.o.d is only holding the last one against me-because it's the only one I'll never confess. It's the only one that really feels 'sinful'. So I skirt it, going as close as I ever do to a confession: "I'm an impure woman," I murmur, lifting my head and looking at the thatch.

"I know I'm not cut out to be a nun, but I love being here and helping. And that leads me to my worst sin since I've been in this place."

I hear the rustling of robes on the other side of the thatch, and I push myself to continue, even though I feel like I can't breathe. Father Mendez knows a little bit about me-he knows all my confessions over the last nine months-but he might have heard more. He might know exactly who I am and where I came from. The thought fills me with shame, but not as much shame as I feel for the sin I breathlessly confess.

"I'm afraid some people from my past have tracked me down. I'm afraid the explosion that blew up the cafeteria was a warning. A warning that I need to leave. I've told Sister Mary Carolina but she either doesn't believe me or she refuses to make me go." I hesitate, trying to think of how to explain, in case he doesn't remember my story or never really knew it.

"Before I was here, I was in...a bad place, with people who were bad. I managed to run away," I say, frowning at the horrible memory-which is so much more than merely running away.

"I selfishly sought refuge here, and the nuns were kind enough to take me in and train me to do ma.s.sage therapy for the children. But I'm afraid that if I want them to be safe, I need to leave. But I can't make myself leave. I'm afraid of death." My voice cracks, surprising even me. "I'm afraid to die without ever falling in love or having children. I wanted a good life, one that wasn't complicated or full of pain, but I ruined everything." I press my hands over my eyes, trying to compose myself. I take a few long breaths and find my protective sh.e.l.l again, and along with it, my rationality. My sense of responsibility. "I know that this mess is my fault. I didn't use good judgment and I wasn't living my life in a way that would please G.o.d."

Silence eats my words, and I wipe my eyes with the palm of my hands. My heart is beating hard, and for some reason I think of walking out of my second grade cla.s.sroom to Aunt Britta's van, of how my backpack felt so heavy, and I disliked being stuck in that school building all day so much. I want to cry some more, but I manage to hold it in, because I'm not a girl who cries.

Finally, I hear the slight rustle of Father Mendez's robes, and his low voice travels through the thatch.

"The Lord hears you," he says. "I don't want you to say Hail Marys. Close your eyes and see your past and understand that you have paid these debts already. Sister Mary Carolina-she wishes to shelter you. St. Catherine's offers shelter for all people and if there is danger we will trust our Lord to deliver us."

And now Father Mendez leans forward, so close to the thatch divider that I can smell a whiff of coffee. When he speaks again, his voice is nothing but a hiss. "But if you want to ensure that G.o.d keeps these children safe, I have a message. Walk out the door nearest the site of the explosion Thursday at ten o'clock in the evening."

He leans back into his seat.

"I cannot promise that the Lord will preserve your life, but I have heard your confession and I believe your heart is pure. If you perish, you will join our savior in Heaven."

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Once I decide to go looking for Meredith Kinsey, I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. It's my fault she's still in Mexico. If she's dead and gone, that's my fault too. I could have told someone. Shown someone the files I saved on a USB. Copies of e-mails that showed my father conspired with Priscilla Heat and Jim Gunn to sell one of his former mistresses as a s.e.x slave.

When I found out, last May, Cross Carlson had his own s.h.i.t going on. He was busy making money, tweaking bikes, f.u.c.king around.

He's done f.u.c.king around.

I have to drive to Vegas before I do anything else. I leave early Wednesday morning, armed with my trusty leather bike bag, plus my pa.s.sport and a fake I bought last night from one of my high school buddies, a civil servant who specializes in fake doc.u.ments for illegal immigrants. After making a pit stop at a bookstore, for a road map of Mexico, I adjusted the Mach's arm band for extra mobility and steering accuracy. Right before bed, I called my mobile phone provider and got the internet turned back on; I've e-mailed both Wil and Napo, plus my old receptionist, Martha, informing them that I'll let them know something about the shop in the next two weeks. It's a small step, I know, but it feels good.

The air is cool and crisp at 6 a.m. as I head down I-680 toward Walnut Creek and Dublin, which will get me close to I-5 South. The sky is caught between shades of blue, the gra.s.s glows yellow-silver with the sun's first rays, and on my bike, I feel okay. Capable. Good.

I got a voice mail in the wee hours of this morning from my father. He sounded drunk and said some vaguely threatening s.h.i.t about the situation between us deteriorating further if I stirred up any trouble regarding 'the situation we discussed'. If anything, it was the final affirmation that I'm doing the right thing.

I make good time through Walnut Creek, past Livermore; then my route veers eastward, then South on I-5 toward Bakersfield. I make a couple of stops to stretch my arm and shoulder, but I've got PB&J and water, plus some jerky and a couple of apples in my bag. It's enough to tide me over until I get to Vegas.

The nine hour drive is surprisingly enjoyable. I haven't felt the wind on my face the way it hits you on the highway in a long, long time. I know I must be hard-up for this when I feel my throat get thick outside L.A. It's not the most beautiful place to ride-far from it-but it just feels so d.a.m.n good to be back on the road.

By the time I roll to a stop at a gas station in Vegas, it's mid-afternoon and I'm sweaty, stiff, and tired. Still, I grin when I pull my helmet off and rub a hand back through my sticky, matted hair. I unzip my leather jacket and fish a map of the city out of my bag.

I'm looking for an upscale suburb on the west side of town. It's called The Woods, although I can't imagine there are really any 'woods' in Vegas. I find Birch Street pretty quickly and, again, feel surprised at the ordinary name.

For Priscilla Heat, I'd imagined something more exotic-and maybe she was living somewhere more exotic, before what went down in Mexico two and a half months ago. She and Jim Gunn tried to make Lizzy and I the latest victims of their budding business. While Jim Gunn got arrested right out of Mexico and charged with multiple counts of abduction, human trafficking, and murder, Priscilla didn't re-surface until March, when she got caught crossing the border with some drug runners near Nogales.

Somehow, both she and Jim Gunn got out on bail. I guess my father's not the only powerful friend they have. I don't think there's any way Jim Gunn won't get put away for life, but rumor has it Priscilla is planning to turn state's witness, so she could still come out okay.

I know for sure she's hidden in this little corner of suburbia because Hunter West told me-and he's got a P.I. on her a.s.s. Now that she's here, she can't leave. She's got a tracker bracelet, or something like that. I guess I'll find out.

The drive to The Woods takes me about forty minutes, and as I suspected, there's hardly a tree in sight. The neighborhood is gross: a bunch of three-story, Spanish style homes that sit on half-acre lots in between near identical three-story, Spanish style homes on acre-sized lots. There's a sidewalk lined with bushes. Tennis courts. Gra.s.s and flowers meticulously maintained by the HOA.

Nothing marks Priscilla's house as different from the rest. One nineteen Birch Street is a patterned stone monstrosity with a gaudy leopard fountain in the front and huge cement balconies on all sides, as if it was built for someone under a "no leaving the house" rule. The gra.s.s is so green it hurts my eyes, and as I roll closer, I can see the spray of sprinklers embedded here and there, making little rainbows in the fading sunlight.

There's no gate, so I can drive right down the winding driveway. I park the Mach between the large, circular fountain and her front porch. As I take off my helmet, I notice the porch is pink-tinted cement. Cla.s.sy.

I brush my hair down with my fingers, then think of who I'm visiting and pull it back up sideways. My shoulder is sore, so I roll it before putting my left hand in my jacket pocket. The jacket is heavy, and it's not cold here, but I can't bring myself to take it off. Now that I'm here, I feel weird. I feel naked. Exposed. I guess it's because she got one up on me that day at the vineyard. Or maybe I'm just nervous. I ring her bell.

I pull the little picture out of my jeans pocket and look down at Meredith's face while I bang on the door. It sucks being here-having to go to Priscilla Heat for anything-but I remind myself that I'm doing this for one of her victims. One who didn't escape her like I did.

I slide the picture back into my pocket and I lift my hand to knock again. Before my knuckles. .h.i.t the wood, I hear a second of static, followed by Priscilla Heat's snippy voice. "What do you want?"

I spy a discreet speaker on the wall to my right; it's maybe the size of a wallet, and painted to blend in with one of the slabs of stone. Facing it, I say, "This is Cross Carlson."

"I can see that." I glance up, then left, and there's the camera. I need to be more observant. I tilt my head back at it and shove my right hand into my pocket. "Look-I want to talk to you."

"Not interested."

There's a noise, like the connection was cut, and I say, "Wait! Are you there?"

No answer.

I ring the doorbell eleven times before I hear the speaker come on. "This is hara.s.sment." She sounds annoyed. "I can have you arrested."

I snort. Yeah, right. I direct my gaze back to the camera. "I'll stop if you let me in."

"You'll stop when I send my body guards down." She sounds intent, but something in her voice makes me think she's lying. Probably the knowledge, also provided by Hunter West, that she's almost broke.

Regardless, I try another angle. "Your trial's coming up, right? Sometime in July?"

There's a pause. When she speaks, she sounds bitter. "What do you want, Cross Carlson?" She drags my last name out, like it's a curse word, and I wonder if my father has really severed ties with her this time.

"I said I want to talk." I roll my eyes at her through the camera. "There's something in it for you. After you hear me, if you don't want to help me, you can tell me to go f.u.c.k myself. I'm not interested in spending more time with you than I have to."

Another pause, during which I can practically see her face pinch into a frown. "Come inside. Third floor, second bedroom on the right. If you see the bunnies, don't be loud or stomp. It frightens them."

The intercom goes dead and the front door clicks open. The foyer is gaudy emerald marble, but obviously expensive, so I guess she's not completely out of money.

I'm about halfway up the highway-wide sparkling stone staircase when I notice something dart past me. It's small and dark, and the shock of it zipping between my legs almost makes me lose my footing. I climb a little faster, and that's when I see its ears wiggle.

Bunnies...

I see a second set of ears, and a third.

Holy s.h.i.t, does this lunatic have a McMansion full of rabbits?

CHAPTER EIGHT.

As if in answer, when I get to the third floor landing, a large, brown rabbit approaches. His ears twitch as he sniffs my boots. I spot more rabbits roaming the lush red carpet. Most of them are white, but some are brown and others black. One is gray. I'm so shocked by them, I almost don't notice that I'm heading left instead of right. I turn around, almost squishing a really tiny white rabbit with my boot, and I hear a squeal echo through the sound system.

"BE CAREFUL!"

I turn a quick circle, looking from my feet to the ceiling, where I see more cameras. d.a.m.n. I've gotta get better at this s.h.i.t.

I roll my eyes again and make my way to her bedroom door, hyper-focused of how big and dirty my boots are on the thick carpet. Or, at least I am until I see three more of the little critters huddled together farther down the hall. Black and brown and white. I shake my head at them and knock on Priscilla's door.

It clicks open with the same magic as the front door, and I step inside what can only be described as a shrine to Priscilla Heat...and rabbits. I don't even spot Priscilla herself at first, because I'm lost on the custom, heart-shaped bed (topped by a framed portrait of Priscilla in nothing but thigh-highs); the sunken sun-shaped tub a few steps from the bed; the wall of Priscilla Heat posters (oddly, signed by Priscilla); the red, pink, and white decor; and all the rabbits. Jesus H. Christ, there are a lot of rabbits in this room. I sniff the air and am stunned to find it smells like over-strong perfume and not rabbit s.h.i.t.

Then Priscilla steps in front of me, wearing a plush pink robe with her hair piled on her head, and I realize I didn't see her sooner because she blends in with the room.

"Holy s.h.i.t," I breathe. I look around the room again, trying to get a number on the rabbits.

Priscilla smiles, revealing her freakishly bleached teeth. "There are twenty here with me in my suite. Twenty-nine more are in the house." She frowns, looking troubled. "We lost one yesterday. Prince Albert got electrocuted when he chewed through a lamp cord."

I blink. Then I focus on her eyes, checking for pupil size. If she's high, they'll be big, the way mine always were back at rehab.

She looks lucid enough, though. Perfect tanned skin, flawless red lips, shiny blonde hair. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s force the too-small robe to part, so I can see almost everything but her nipples. My traitor of a d.i.c.k twitches once before it realizes who she is.

Priscilla spreads her arms wide. "Take a seat, Cross Carlson. Anywhere is fine." She says it like a sigh, but there's some theatrics there. She's happy that I'm here. I'm sure she is.

I wave at a nearby fluffy white love seat, which ironically looks like it's made of rabbit fur. "Why don't you? I'm okay standing."

She arches a brow, giving me an exaggerated expression that falls somewhere between a pout and feigned concern. "I see you're looking better. Less like death."

She sinks into a wing-backed chair and I curl my lip. "Disappointing I'm sure."

She looks down at her blood red nails, rubbing one with the fingers of the opposite hand. I feel a streak of anger that she can use both hands.

When she looks up again, she's all business. "What do you want, Cross Carlson? I'm not interested in buying wrapping paper."

She extends her legs out in front of her, and I catch the glint of her state-issue ankle monitor.

"I'm looking for Missy King. I know you know where she is. If you tell me, I'll help you."

Priscilla snorts. It's the girliest snort I've ever heard. Her nostrils flare a little, and she makes a high-pitched noise somewhere in the back of her throat. "And send myself up s.h.i.t creek even further? No can do, senor."

I fumble for the plan I should have polished back on my Mach. Nothing comes to mind, so I have to settle for, "I can help you if you help me."

Another snort. "You can't even help yourself."

I roll my eyes again. It's not something I do a lot, but Priscilla brings it out of me. "Who's walking around and who's stuck at home with a police tracker? You need as much help as you can get. Being tied to Jim Gunn is poison."

She puckers her lips, saying nothing because she knows I'm right. I don't speak, wanting to make her ask me what I can offer her. I need to hear her ask.

She spreads her arms theatrically. "What can you do for me, Cross Carlson?"

I press my lips together as the obvious answer comes to me. "It's more what I won't do. I won't turn in the evidence I have against you, Jim Gunn, and my father. E-mails that you sent to each other about a year ago. I have them in my inbox, and I also have them printed, hidden in a few spots." One of which is Lizzy's mother's house.

"I don't believe you," she says, but her words are an angry hiss.

I pull out my cell phone, and in half a minute, "I've got one up now." Within a heartbeat, Priscilla is on me, legs and arms wrapped around my hips and torso like an oversized koala bear. Her rock-hard b.r.e.a.s.t.s punch into my chest, and her fingernails scratch my neck as she grabs for my phone. I accidentally backhand her in the struggle, and I cringe as she falls back against the white couch. She is a terrible person, but obviously I would never intentionally hit her.