March 27, midnight

Port Orchard

On Saturday night, while her parents were at the Clearwater Casino in Poulsbo, Paige was stuck babysitting her younger brother in the Wilsons ’ home on Beach Drive in Port Orchard. Foamy water curled and smacked against a stone bulkhead as she watched a ferry go to Bremerton. It wasn’t the last boat of the night, but she was sure it was full of people who’d been out partying in Seattle. They were the lucky ones. They understood that the world was a bigger place than Kitsap County.

Paige turned off the floodlights that illuminated the thin edge of the shore. Whenever her parents went out to gamble, it was a sure bet they’d be home very, very late. If she didn’t have to watch her little brother, Kerry, she could slip away and party with the rest of her friends. It didn’t seem fair. She’d done everything right. Good grades. No drugs. And a beauty queen to boot. Yet, as she lay on the couch with HBO flickering over the flat-screen TV, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d end up stuck in Port Zero for the rest of her life.

She popped on her Facebook account and posted some comments on her friend’s “wall.”

Watching the brat again! I hate him! I hate this town! LOL!

Later, her phone pinged with a text message from a number she did not recognize.

YOU EVER DO ANY MODELING? HAVE A LEGIT AGENCY. WOULD LIKE TO TALK.

Paige answered with the speed of a practiced teenage two-thumbed texter.

U R GROSS.

He answered, CALL ME.

I M NOT STUPID, she texted back.

YOUR LOSS. BYE.

The HBO special she was watching about life in a house of prostitution concluded, and Paige went off to bed. As she pulled up the slippery satin duvet, she heard the ping of her cell phone once more.

It was a new text from the supposed modeling agent:

DIDN’T MEAN TO BUG YOU.

She texted:

OK. NO BIGGIE.

STILL THINK YOU COULD BE A MODEL. GOOD LUCK TO YOU.

Paige slipped under the covers. It was after 1 A.M., and the house was deadly quiet. She’d checked on Kerry, and he was asleep, butt up in the air. The cat was out for the night. The dishwasher had cycled. It was the same as any other Friday night. She wondered if every other Friday night for the rest of her life would be the same. Sure, she’d get older. She’d go out on her own. She figured that her Fathoms scholarship would get her nothing more than a quarter at Olympic Community College in Bremerton. The only way out of the town was either to get pregnant by a boy whose family had money or something totally unexpected taking place.

She picked up her cell phone and pushed the call feature for the number of the man who had offered her what she hoped was her golden opportunity.

A ticket out of town.

Paige didn’t tell anyone about the contact with the agent. She didn’t want to hear anyone say that the Fathoms o’ Fun crown had caused brain damage. She remembered what a boy at South Kitsap had posted on Facebook when she won the pageant:

Paige Wilson is a Port Orchard “ 10,” but that’s a Seattle “ 4”!

She would prove them wrong. All of them.

Melody Castile looked one last time at the home page that she and her husband had put up with images of young, pretty women they’d pirated from the Internet. She knew it was as easy to erase as it had been to create. A gallery of women with pearly smiles, streaked hair, and big dreams had been search-and-click-easy to find. It was a hidden site, the kind that could only be found if a link was provided. No search engines picked it up. Password protected and accessed by approved readers, it was a phantom Web site. A trap.

Melody hit the delete button, and Dantastic Models was no more.

Although no one knew it, neither was Paige Wilson.

The Poplars Motel was a few blocks south of the Kitsap Mall in Silverdale. If there had been any poplars at one time, they’d been replaced by a rotating assortment of the kinds of businesses that populate strip malls off major thoroughfares: teriyaki huts, copy centers, bridal boutiques, and the like. Paige Wilson had heard of casting calls taking place in motel and hotel rooms, so she thought nothing of the request to meet at one. She’d talked to the woman who ran Dan Prendergast’s agency, Mercedes, and she indicated that Dan was based in Oxnard, California, and would be in the Kitsap area only for two days.

“Dan saw your photo on the Lighthouse Web site,” she said. “Always looking for fresh faces.”

“I was a little concerned,” she said, “but I went to your site and saw that he represented a lot of different girls.”

“Oh, yes. One of our girls might be on America’s Next Top Model next season,” she said.

Mercedes asked if she’d be coming with her parents or a chaperone. “No worries if you do,” Mercedes said. “Just, sometimes they get in the way. Good intentions can ruin things. Not everyone understands the process. No nudity, of course, but some of the shots will be slightly provocative. Wholesome but sexy.”

Paige understood where Mercedes was coming from. She felt Queen Mother Maggie Thompson would put a halt to things before they got started, saying that modeling was not in keeping with the Fathoms image. Her parents, on the other hand, would tell her to get her head out of the clouds and focus on reality.

Maybe a job at Wal-Mart?

“Bring your laptop,” Mercedes said. “That way we can download some test shots right away.”

Paige played the conversation over in her head Sunday afternoon as she pulled her red beater Datsun into the parking lot of the Poplars. There was no risk. Mercedes sounded so nice. At the worst, she’d get some test shots that she could upload on her Facebook when she got home.

“Paige?” a voice called out as she emerged from her car.

“Yes?”

“I’m Mercedes. Dan’s running late. He’s at Red Robin having lunch. We’re supposed to go meet him there.”

Paige started for her car.

“We can take mine,” Mercedes said. “We’re coming back here anyway to take test photos.”

Paige looked admiringly at the silver yin-and-yang necklace that hung from Mercedes’s neck.

“It’s special, isn’t it?” Mercedes smiled.

Paige reached over and touched it. “I’m a silver girl too,” she said.

“My husband bought it for me. Handmade. I just love the things he does for me.”

“You’re lucky,” Paige said.

“We all are,” she said, not meaning a word of it. “Lucky as can be.”

Paige Wilson craned her slender neck. “Hey, I think you missed the entrance to the Red Robin,” she said.

“Oh, dear,” Mercedes said. “I’ll turn around up ahead.”

Paige shrugged. “No problem.”

The car pulled into an office park that had been built to resemble the feed silos of a farm and circled around the empty buildings.

Paige crinkled her nose. “What’s that smell?”

“Just a second,” Mercedes said.

From behind the passenger seat, a hairy hand with a chloroform-soaked cloth came at her.

There was no struggle.

With the exception of Midnight Cassava, there hadn’t been much of a struggle with any of them. Celesta had fought a little. Skye had fallen into darkness with the second breath. Midnight had put up a tough-chick fight by the elevator. That had been messy. Carol had slumped like a sack of flour to her garage floor. And now Paige Wilson looked like she’d fallen asleep after a long car trip.

Melody turned in her husband’s direction as he returned the cloth he’d used to subdue Paige to a Ziploc bag. He was grinning, and she knew she’d pleased him. Still, she had to ask anyway. His approval meant everything.