My thoughts became foggy. Maybe my call had gone through, and the police had heard the whole struggle. I kept thinking I heard sirens. Eventually I closed my puffy eyes and gave in to the drug.

In bed, I turn onto my side, wincing from where Carter threw me on the ground earlier. This is one of those news stories that start with an ending. Because who would take another person with the intention of ever letting them go? But if it’s money they want—revenge, or to send a message—then there must be some mistake. I live my life quietly. I’m not worth anything to anyone.

The question overwhelms my mind—why?

It’s only in the tranquility of the late afternoon and the wearing off of the sleeping pill that my sense recalibrates.

I can still feel the smudged clues on my fingertips from that newspaper. Frida’s voice is close enough to the surface that I can recall her exact tone when she said the words Riviera Cartel.

“At lunch I thought the tattoo on his forearm looked familiar—a small rose.”

Tall. Broad. Threatening. Our taco lunch. I was justified in the uneasiness he inspired. He knew I walked through downtown to get home.

“Hey, guess what? You were right about Guy Fowler.”

Our eyes met in the restaurant, and I blushed under his flattery. I practically threw myself at him despite the warning in my gut. I thought he was interested. I thought he liked me. He stared at me like he wanted me. And now he has me.

When there’s a knock at the door, I sit up. It takes ages to cross the room for all my hesitating. The chain scrapes the wood floor behind me. My bottom lip is almost bloody. I brace myself when I ask, “Who is it?”

“It’s Norman, dear.”

I exhale to ease my racing heart, but my relief is tinged with frustration. Norman won’t give me the answers I want. Or, worse, he can’t.

“Have you had enough time alone?” he asks when I crack open the door.

I blink at the sinister-sounding question.

“Come downstairs for dinner.” He looks at my feet. “Or I can bring it up here. Your choice.”

I follow his gaze. If I told him I knew the truth about the Cartel, would it help or hurt? In my situation, knowledge is power. I decide to keep it to myself. “I don’t want to stay in here anymore,” I say.

“Very good. Then I’ll take that off.” He rubs his chest. “Please don’t try anything. Carter is eager to keep you locked up, and I fear the Master of the House won’t hear my argument against it.”

“You don’t want me locked up?”

“I don’t think it’s necessary. I believe your reaction was out of character. Wasn’t it?”

I glance down.

“Why don’t you change into something more appropriate, and we’ll get you fed.”

The way he says appropriate turns the silkiness of my gown grimy. “Change into what?” I ask.

“You have a closet full of clothing. Surely you can find something in there?”

I look over my shoulder at the closed doors and then back at him. “That’s for me?”

“Of course it’s for you, Cataline. I already told you so.”

“Why?” I ask through a painfully dry throat. “Why me?”

His expression is sympathetic. “I’ll send Carter up with the key to the shackle. When you’re ready, I’ll be at the base of the staircase. Take your time.”

I close the door, set my forehead against it, and inhale. I take time to look through the closet’s contents. There’s something for every occasion, from soft t-shirts and jeans to cocktail dresses and ball gowns. There are shoes, handbags, even fine jewelry. I pull open the top drawer of the built-in dresser. Delicate, lacy underwear is carefully sorted and separated into neat piles. Each piece, no matter the coverage, is sexy and sheer. The following drawer holds matching bras, stockings, and knee-high socks. Tears surface when I reach the bottom compartment. Intricate, stiff lingerie feels sturdy and structured in my hands. Black, red, and white variants of lace, satin, and gauze. All of it would fit me; even the bras are the correct cup size. I can’t fathom, won’t fathom . . . I squeeze the garment in my fists until the corset stays bite into my palms.

Frida and I assumed we were immune to the city’s seamy side because we were poor and quiet. My stomach turns when I realize the only valuable thing someone like me has to give. Guy knew all along I was ripe for the picking.

I unclench my hands and finger the fine lace with the delicacy it deserves. I might’ve liked to wear this for someone like Calvin one day, though there’s a good chance he’d not even notice me in it.

I chase the thought away and throw the garment on the floor. I slam the drawer shut, praying I’ll never have to open it again.

I choose an outfit and wait until Carter knocks. He comes in and goes straight for my ankle without looking at me. The cuff unlocks with a loud click, and he stands.

“This is my job,” he says.

“What?”

“You didn’t have to stab me with a fucking fork. I got a family, you know. There’s no escaping, not unless the Master of the House says so. So just chill out.”

“What does he want with me?” I ask, unintentionally glancing toward the closet.

He shrugs. “Like I said, I’m just doing my job. Easier for me if we lock you in a room all day and feed you pills, but they say it’s okay for you to wander around. Fine, but that can be taken away. You know? I got no problem doing what I have to do. Norman’s an old man. You hurt him, and I might be forced to hurt you back.”

I turn my face away, and he leaves. He doesn’t take the cuff and chain with him. I change into a chunky sweater, hiding my hands in the sleeves. Jeans cling like a second skin. I expect resistance when I pull on the bedroom door, but it opens. In the empty hallway, I venture the opposite direction of the stairs. Socks, purposely chosen, mute my steps. Even in the unlit corridor, I can see the house is magnificent. I gently try the handle of each door I pass with no results.

Defeated, I trudge back the way I came. Down two flights of curving staircase, I take each step slowly, as though I’m descending into hell. Norman is there as I reach the final bend, and when I hit the bottom, he holds his hand out to me. I automatically place mine in his, jerking it back just as quickly.

“When the Master of the House is in, dinner attire is required. But when it’s just us,” Norman says with a friendly wink, “this will do.”

His attempt at comfort is lost on me. All I hear is someone I don’t know telling me what to do. He ignores my scowl and leads me through a gold-lighted foyer into a high-ceilinged dining room.

Calling attention to the center of the room is a sturdy table with fat, carved legs. It’s long and imposing, with a high-backed chair at each end and ten in between, five on each side. The red runner down the middle is edged with gold trim. I feel insignificant when I sit in the oversized end chair that Norman directs me to. As soon as I hit the cushion, a considerably rotund man is setting a dish in front of me.

“Normally Norman will deliver your food,” he says, shoving his hand between us, “but I’ve been waiting all day to meet you. I’m Chef Michael.”

I can almost feel the dark bags sagging under my eyes when I stare blankly at him.

He straightens up and clears his throat. “It’s not often that we have guests.” He laughs in a quick burst, touches his strawberry-blond hair, and shrugs at Norman. “Not often at all, actually. I’ve made this especially for your arrival. Asian-style quail on a bed of wild rice.”

His tone is irritatingly proud, so I say, “I’m a vegetarian.”

Norman looks down his nose at me. “No, you are not.”

I frown, incensed that he’s called my bluff. I look up at the chef with pleading, watery eyes. “I’m being held hostage,” I tell him. “Please. You have to help me.”