Say, for local business owners. There would be payment involved.”
Local business owners. The phrase turned Ash’s stomach. “We aren’t going to take you back in time, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I could make it worth your while.”
“No, thanks,” Ash said.
Mac’s eyes darted to the makeshift desk under the window. Ash followed his gaze to a small black Glock.
“Go for it and I shoot.” Chandra slid a thumb over the gun’s hammer. “Where do you keep the rest of the girls?”
Mac inched toward the desk. “If you think I’m going to—”
Chandra fired, sending a bullet straight through the pimp’s thigh. He howled with pain, dropping to his knees. Blood leaked onto the floor.
“I was aiming a bit higher than your leg,” Chandra said. “Should I try again?”
“She’s not very good with that thing,” Ash said.
Mac pushed his fist to his mouth and bit down on his knuckles. A tear oozed out of his eye and slithered down his cheek. He had his other hand pressed to the wound in his leg, blood gushing through his fingers.
“They’re—they’re upstairs,” he gasped, cringing. “Room Three-C.”
Ash glanced at Chandra, half expecting her to shoot again, but she only tucked the gun in the back of her jeans, scowling at Mac as she darted out of the room. The young dark-haired girl hesitated for a moment and then followed her.
Ash tipped his chin to the pimp bleeding on the floor. “Pleasure doing business.”
Mac’s moans followed him out into the hall; his ears were still ringing with them when he reached the stairs.
Room 3C looked flooded from the outside. Water sloshed around the bottom of the door, and the wooden frame was rotted clean through. Ash lowered a hand to the doorknob and leaned against the wood with his shoulder, hoping the door would just collapse beneath him. But it held.
“Damn,” he muttered, relaxing. The curtain to the side of the door flicked as one of the girls looked out.
“Let me,” the small, dark-haired girl said. Her voice was deeper than Ash expected, making her seem much older than he’d originally guessed.
The girl slipped past him and knocked softly. “Mira,” she said. “It’s me. Open up.”
There was a beat, and then the door creaked open. A redheaded girl with a face full of freckles peered out. Her eyes flicked anxiously from Ash to Chandra.
“Who are the people, Hope?” Her voice was a thin rasp.
“I don’t know,” Hope said. Then, with an attempt at a grin: “They shot Mac.”
“Did they?” Mira pushed the door open wider. Behind her, Ash could see a small dim room with low ceilings, lit by scattered, flickering candles. A few girls were spread out across a bare mattress, dressed in sweats and oversize flannel shirts, playing cards. Another sat in front of a cracked mirror, trying to curl her hair with her fingers.
Mira considered Ash. “Are you our new pimp, then?”
“What?” Ash felt the backs of his ears flare. “No. God no.”
“You shot Mac.”
“Actually, I shot Mac,” Chandra cut in. “Does that make me your new pimp?”
“Neither of us is going to be your new pimp,” Ash said.
Mira didn’t look convinced. “You shot Mac out of the goodness of your heart, then?” Her eyes traveled down Ash’s body, assessing him. “Nobody does something for nothing.”
“We’re looking for someone. A girl. Small, with long, dark hair.” Ash nodded at Hope. “Like her.”
The corner of Mira’s mouth twitched. “There are no other girls like her, my friend.”
She started to push the door closed.
“Wait.” Ash wedged his foot between the door and the frame, holding it open. He felt his heart beating in his throat. This couldn’t be it. “Please.”
Mira’s eyes softened. “We have all lost someone. I’m sorry.”
Ash exhaled unevenly, half his breath releasing in a ragged spurt. His disappointment felt physical, like something had been carved out of him.
He’d been so sure she would be there.
He remembered the lift of hope he’d felt when he heard the guy at the bar’s story. It had been nearly three weeks since Dorothy had disappeared. That was nineteen nights, each of them filled with hours and hours of darkness. Ash had spent every minute of that darkness staring at the ceiling above his bed, imagining ways he might’ve saved her.
The hope that she might be here had worked as a salve for a while, numbing his pain, giving him something to plan for. It was much easier to storm into a brothel with a gun than it was to face the truth.