“You know I’m right. Jim Woolf would sell his own sister for a byline.”

Charles settled his hat on his head and picked up his walking stick, his ivory box tucked under his arm. “And someday, you may be able to say the same.”

No, Bobby thought, watching Charles drive away, not for something as insignificant as a byline. Now for a birthright… that was an entirely different matter. But there would be time for dreams later. Now there was work to be done.

“Tanner! Come here. I need you.”

The old man appeared, seemingly from nowhere, as was his way. “Yes?”

“Unexpected guests are on the way. Please prepare accommodations for six more.”

Tanner gave a single nod. “Of course. While you were in with Mr. Charles, Mr. Haynes called. He’ll be coming by tonight to secure a companion for the weekend.”

Bobby smiled. Haynes was a premium client, a rich man with depraved tastes. And he paid cash. “Excellent. We’ll be ready.”

Charles stopped his car at the end of the street. From here the turrets of Ridgefield House were still visible. The house had stood in that place for nearly a hundred years. It was a strong house, built the way they used to be. Charles had an appreciation for good architecture, having lived in many places a rat wouldn’t call home.

Bobby used Ridgefield to house “inventory,” and the location was ideal for this purpose. Situated far off the main road, most people didn’t even know the house still stood. It was close enough to the river for convenience, but far enough away that it was safe if the river swelled. It wasn’t large enough or beautiful enough or even old enough to be on any conservator’s list, which made it simply perfect.

For years Bobby had spurned this house as old and ugly and beneath consideration, until maturity had revealed what Charles had learned long ago. Flashy packages draw attention. The mark of true success is invisibility. Being able to hide in plain sight had enabled him to pull the strings of the flashy, the pompous. Now, they are nothing but my puppets. They dance to my tune.

It made them angry, powerless, but they didn’t know the true meaning of powerlessness. They lived in fear of losing the possessions they’d accumulated, so they surrendered their pride, their decency. Their morality, which was merely a religious man’s farce. Some surrendered with barely a nudge. Those people Charles viewed with contempt. They had no idea what it meant to lose everything. Everything. To be stripped bare of physical pleasure, to be deprived of the most basic of human needs.

The weak feared losing their stuff. But Charles did not. Once a man was stripped to the bone of his humanity… then he had no fear. Charles had no fear.

But he did have plans, plans that included Bobby and Susannah Vartanian.

Bobby was a level higher than all the others. Charles had molded Bobby’s quick mind when it was young and molten and full of fury. Full of questions and hate. He’d convinced Bobby the time would come for revenge, for claiming the birthright that circumstances-and certain people-had denied. But Bobby still danced to Charles’s tune. Charles simply allowed Bobby to believe the tune was original.

He opened the top of his ivory box, lifted the queen from her slot, and pressed the hidden spring that had a lower drawer sliding out. His journal was on top of the belongings he never left home without. Thoughtfully he thumbed to the first blank page and began to write. Now is the time for my protégé’s revenge, because I wish it to be. I planted the seed years ago. I’ve only watered it today. When Bobby sits down at the computer to work, the photograph of Susannah Vartanian will be waiting.

Bobby hates Susannah, because I wish it. But Bobby was indeed correct on one score: Toby Granville is becoming more unstable every year. Sometimes absolute power-or the illusion thereof-does corrupt absolutely. When Toby becomes too big a danger, I’ll have him killed, just like I had Toby Granville kill others.

Taking a life is a powerful thing. Sticking your knife into a man’s gut and watching the life seep from his eyes… a powerful thing indeed. But forcing another to kill… that is the ultimate power. Kill for me. It’s playing God. Charles smiled. It’s fun.

Yes, Toby would soon need to be killed. But there would be another Toby Granville. In time, there would be another Bobby. And I will go on. He closed his journal, replaced it and the queen in their proper places as he’d done countless times before.

Dutton , Georgia , Friday, February 2, 2:00 p.m.

She hurt. All over. They’d beaten her head this time, and kicked her ribs. Monica firmed her lips in grim satisfaction. But it had been worth it. She’d get away or die trying. She’d force them to kill her before she let them use her anymore.

Then they’d lose a depreciable asset. That’s what they’d called her. She’d heard them, talking on the other side of the wall. They can kiss my depreciable asset. Anything, even death, was better than the life she had lived for… how long had it been?

She’d lost track of how many months had passed. Five, maybe six. Monica had never truly believed in a hell before. She sure as hell did now.

For a while she’d lost her will to live, but thanks to Becky, she’d gotten it back. It was Becky who’d tried to escape so many times. They’d tried to stop her, to break her. They’d broken Becky’s body, but not her spirit. In the short time they’d whispered through the wall that separated them, Monica had drawn strength from the girl she’d never seen. The girl whose death had rekindled her own desire to live. Or die trying.

She drew what she’d wanted to be a deep breath, wincing before her lungs fully inflated. Her rib was probably broken. Maybe more than one. She wondered where they’d taken Becky’s body after they’d beaten her to death. She could still hear the crunching blows, because they’d meant for her to. They’d opened all their doors so they could hear every punch, every kick, and every one of Becky’s moans. They’d meant for them all to hear. To be afraid. To learn a lesson.

Every girl in the place. There were at least ten of them, in varying degrees of depreciation. Some were newly initiated, others old hands at the oldest profession in the world. Like me. I just want to go home.

Monica gave her arm a weak shake and heard the resulting clink of the chain that held her to the wall. Just like every girl in the place. I’m never going to escape. I’m going to die. Please, God, just let it be soon.

“Hurry, you idiots. We don’t have time to fuck around.”

Someone was out there, in the hall outside her cell. The woman. Monica’s jaw clenched. She hated the woman.

“Hurry,” the woman said. “Move. Mansfield, put these boxes on the boat.”

Monica didn’t know the woman’s name, but she was bad. Worse than the men-the deputy and the doctor. Mansfield was the deputy, the one who’d kidnapped her and brought her here. For a long time she hadn’t believed he was a real deputy, had thought that his uniform was just a costume, but he was for real. It was when she’d realized he was a real cop that she’d given up hope.

As mean as Mansfield was, the doctor was worse. He was cruel, because he enjoyed seeing them in pain. The look in his eyes when he was doing his worst… Monica shivered. The doctor wasn’t sane, of that she was certain.

But the woman… she was evil. To her, this horror, this so-called life… it was “just business.” To the woman, every girl in the place was a depreciable, renewable asset. Renewable because there were always more teenaged girls stupid enough to be lured away from the safety of their families. Lured here. To hell.