Father told me that when he built this house, he took pains to make sure that sounds traveled very little. "Especially from the cells on the bottom floor," he said. "I found I always lost my patience with the noisy ones. There were times, I have to admit, that I dispatched some of them more quickly just so I could have some peace and quiet. You can't imagine how dreary it can be to have to listen to hours and hours of human tears and whining."

Thanks to Father's foresight and the thick stone cell walls his masons built, Elizabeth and I both sleep late the next morning, undisturbed by any noise generated on the floor below us. As usual, I wake first. Leaving my pregnant bride still lost in her dreams, I stop outside our bed chamber, near the spiral staircase, when a few muffled sounds drift up from the cells.

Glad to know the effects of the Dragon's Tear wine have abated, curious to see the condition of our guests, I descend the stairs-the muted noises growing louder, taking form. Casey Morton sobbing and groaning.

When I near the bottom, she stops. I stand in the shadows, out of view of the cells, and listen to the rustle of bodies moving, the metallic clinking of chains. Jorge Santos murmuring in the darkness, "Casey, honey, relax… We'll get through this."

She shrieks instead, loud enough to make me wince, the scream fading only as she runs out of air. Then she begins to moan again, ignoring Santos's assurances, her cries building in volume. Before she reaches another crescendo, I flip the wall switch, turning on all the ceiling fixtures at once-their bright lights erasing all the shadows, shining through the iron-barred doors of each cell. Casey throws one manacled hand over her eyes to block the glare, cowers on her cot and yowls.

I step into my captives' line of sight. Jorge Santos, still in his wetsuit, his left forehead covered by a purple welt from his accident the day before, sits on his bed, blinks from the light as he stares at me. Iron chains attached to an iron ring around his neck and iron manacles around each wrist and each ankle limit his range of motion to only a few feet on either side of his bed. He makes no effort to fight against his shackles. Not so Casey Morton in the cell next to him, separated from Santos by a two-foot-thick stone wall and similarly restrained. She jumps from her bed, tries to move as far from me as she can, tugging and yanking on her chains to no effect.

Already the manacles have rubbed her wrists red, almost raw. Before she hurts herself further, I yell, "Stop!"

Casey freezes, staring at me, gasping air like a frantic animal, her blond hair tangled and spiked, her bruises and cuts from the day before covering her face in an irregular pattern of welts and scabs. Blood has caked on the side of her wet-suit where a gash in the black material offers a glimpse of the white skin and the dark red wounds beneath.

Fear, I decide, will do more to still her than any soothing talk. I almost growl my words. "Casey, I keep a pack of wild dogs outside. Do you remember seeing them chase your boat when you and Jorge sailed close to the island?"

She nods.

"If you don't quiet down, I'm going to have to put a few of them in the cell with you. Do you understand?"

She nods again, looks at the floor.

I move on, stand in front of Jorge's cell. "I think your friend will be quiet for a while," I say.

"You're a prince," Santos says, his tone acid. He examines his chains. "Is this what you did with Maria? You drugged her and held her here until you killed her?"

"No." I fight the temptation to explain how I feel about his sister's death, to dismiss it as an accident. "I never drugged Maria. I never had her down here."

"Maybe…" Santos shrugs. "At this point I guess there's no reason for you to lie." He locks eyes with me. "But I know you know what happened to her."

His eyes possess the same shape, the same color as Maria's. I find he reminds me too much of her. It irritates me that I still care about his sister's death, and it bothers me that Elizabeth has engineered events in a way that forces me to be reminded of her constantly. Better, I think, that he and the woman had died. I look away.

Santos irritates me more by adopting a smug expression, almost a smirk, as if he's won a point in a contest of wills. "I notice that you didn't deny that you killed her," he says.

Sighing, I shake my head. "No, I didn't deny it. I didn't say I did it either. I don't think discussing Maria now serves either of us very well…" I let my voice deepen, turn menacing. It's time, I think, to remind him his fate depends on my good will. "It certainly doesn't serve you."

"Maybe not," Santos says, refusing to be intimidated. "But it's hard to ignore that your sweet, young wife drugged my girlfriend and me. And"-he holds up his wrists to show off his chains-"I do have a problem with being locked up and chained to my bed." Santos pauses, looks as if he's considering something, then nods his head. "As a matter of fact, I have to admit, I've already decided. I'm going to have to kill you both."

I grin at the incongruity of my prisoner threatening me.

"And how do you plan to do that? Don't you think the chains and the locked cell will get in your way?"

"Well, I didn't say it wouldn't be a challenge." Santos laughs.

His laughter catches me off guard and I let myself join him, wishing things could be different, wondering how hard it will be to control this man. Our mirth lasts only a moment, then fades into silence-Santos glaring at me, me returning his stare.

In the next cell Casey Morton grumbles, "How can you laugh? You know the bastard's going to kill us."

"Are you?" Santos asks.

"Not unless I have to," I say. I see no reason to explain their eventual fate. "Of course, the two of you are going to have to stay here. You'll be expected to help maintain the household and the grounds-"

Santos whoops and laughs. "You're fucking nuts! This is America. You want to make us slaves?"

I frown, consider rushing into the cell and striking him-beating him until he learns humility. "Enough! You need to speak and act with more respect. Look around you. Test your chains. You and your friend have no options. You're going to have to learn to accept that."

"And if I don't?"

"There are dogs outside that would like the opportunity to meet you," I say. "Or I could leave you locked up without food or water. I could hurt the woman or you dozens of different ways. I could kill her and let you live… or vice versa." I shrug. "Or I could kill you both. Or you could cooperate and live fairly comfortable lives."

Santos looks around his cell. "You think this is comfortable?"

"It could be made more so."

"We need to get out of these wetsuits," the Cuban says.

"It can be done," I say. "But first, you mentioned a note yesterday."

Santos grins as if he has the upper hand. "We need food and dry clothes. And Casey needs for her cuts to be taken care of."

I nod. "First tell me about the note."

"It came in the mail from the attorney that bailed me out, the one I didn't hire. He said it was from his client in California."

Scowling, I say, "Go on."

"There wasn't much to it. It said, 'You're on the right track. Peter DelaSangre killed your sister.' Then it said, 'If you ever need help bringing him to justice call,' it listed a number, a local one…" Santos pauses, shakes his head. "I can't remember it now… and then it said, 'Please call any time day or night.' There wasn't any signature or name."

"Did you ever call?" I ask.

He smiles. "No, I wanted you to myself." Santos pauses again, his grin turning smug, then says, as if he's earned some new concession, "Casey and I should stay in the same cell."