girl, her name had been Sarah Hale . . . and she’d disappeared more than two years ago.
Swaying out of the way of a family posing in front of the castle, she veered off to the left, unsure exactly where she was going as she thought back. She really had given more than two years of her life to this.
The girl’s father had come to her. His name was David Hale. Sarah had run away after an argument, determined to go live with her mother in New Jersey.
The body had been found in Pennsylvania eight months after Dru had agreed to take the case. She’d returned the retainer he paid her. Wrapped up the odds and ends of all other jobs she’d been working on. And started following the threads of this one.
It hadn’t been anything directly connected to Sarah that had led her to Florida. It had been a tangled web, and one of those threads had led to Orlando. A source had hinted at something rather twisted that took place among some of the jet set, and she’d made her way through a short list of those people until she’d found the right thread to pull on. All it took was the right memory, the right connection . . . and one of those men had a memory, a connection to Patrick.
Like everything else, it had come to her in a flash, a solid chunk of memory—he’d bought a young woman, a pretty woman in her twenties who’d come to America from Cuba, thinking she’d get citizenship and a new life. She’d ended up some man’s slave, courtesy of Patrick and his . . . associates.
Ever since then, Dru had been in a state of hyperawareness as she tugged at those strands, pulling those threads. Her mind made connections that didn’t seem possible, but sure enough, all the pieces fell into place.
Except the past few months she’d just been . . . stuck.
Waiting. Digging, slowly, patiently. Patient as a bloody saint, in her opinion, but it was taking too long.
There was darkness here. All tied in to money and lust and greed, and it went deep, very deep. Still following her leads, working the case on her own, she’d placed herself in Patrick’s way.
He had a thing for long, leggy brunettes, and that’s one thing she had working for her. The other thing—she could get a glimmer of what he wanted with just a touch. It wasn’t anything she’d consider true mind reading. She knew she had psychic skill, but her strongest ability lay in picking up things already past, those memory flashes that haunted her so.
But that weaker gift was still enough for her to pick up on his needs, his wants, his likes . . . his perversions . . . and she used it. Manipulated herself until she was the very image of the type of woman he was looking for. And she got deeper, and deeper, into this mess until there was no way she could get out, not unless she saw it through.
Seeing it through . . . that would require one simple thing.
Hard evidence.
It wasn’t like she could go to the police and say, Pardon me, sir, but the man who wants to marry me is a slaver. Yes, yes, I know slavery is illegal, but it still happens and I think you should investigate him.
That would go over rather well, she was sure.
Proof. Had to have proof. And she had to be careful, too. He already had plans in place for what he’d do if he suspected he was being watched. Those girls would die, and they’d die horribly, in a way that was unlikely their bodies would ever be found.
She needed proof. She needed to protect the women, the girls he still had tucked away somewhere on a compound. And she had to do it all without him realizing what she was up to. No big deal, right? If she had to take more of his abuse, if she had to tolerate his touch . . . her skin crawled just thinking about it, but she could handle it.
Whatever it took to see this through, to make sure there were no more screams once she walked away from here.
Exhaustion pulled at her. Weary, she sank down on a bench and covered her face with her hands. Out here, under the fading summer sun, it was easier to pretend she wasn’t afraid. But she was. She could pretend she wasn’t running