Page 8 of Shadow Waltz

Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside, and I looked up to see guards escorting another “lot” past my door. A girl this time, maybe nineteen or twenty, with hollow eyes. She moved like a sleepwalker, like her soul had already checked out even if her body hadn't gotten the memo.

I'd seen that look before, in mirrors and in the faces of other survivors. It was the look of someone who'd given up, who'd decided that fighting was more painful than surrendering. It was the look I'd worn for three years in the Hamptons, when I'd convinced myself that being owned was better than being dead.

The door at the end of the corridor opened, and a woman stepped into view. Even from a distance, I could tell she was different from the guards and attendants. This one moved with authority, confidence, the kind of presence that came from being in charge instead of just following orders.

She was elegant in the way that money could buy but couldn't fake, wearing a tailored suit that probably cost more than a car and carrying herself like she owned the place. Which, for all I knew, she did. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and when she turned my way, I caught a glimpse of sharp features and eyes that missed nothing.

She stopped at Miguel's cell first, speaking in low tones with the guard who accompanied her. I couldn't make out the words, but Miguel's responses were animated, defiant. Good for him. At least one of us was still fighting.

When she reached my door, she gestured for the guard to open it. No point in starting a fight I couldn't win, but I wasn't going to cower either.

“Ash Carter,” she said, stepping into the cell like she was entering a boardroom instead of a prison. “I'm Carina Morales. We need to talk.”

Her accent was American with traces of something else underneath. Spanish, maybe. She moved with a slight limp that she didn't try to hide, and when she sat on the edge of the cot, I noticed the way her left leg moved differently than her right.

“About what?” I asked, remaining standing.

“About your history,” she said bluntly. “This isn't your first time through the system, is it?”

I kept my expression neutral, but inside I was calculating. How much did they know? How much could they prove? “What makes you think that?”

Carina smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. “Because you're not acting like a first-timer. You're not crying, you're not begging, you're not trying to bargain your way out. You're observing, cataloguing, planning. That's not the behavior of someone who doesn't know what's coming next.”

She was good. Better than I'd given her credit for. But then, you didn't survive in a business like this without being able to read people.

“So what if it's not?” I asked.

“So it makes you more valuable,” Carina said, consulting her tablet. “Experienced merchandise fetches higher prices, especially if it's been properly broken in. Buyers pay extra forsomeone who knows the rules, who won't require as much... training.”

The way she said “training” made my skin crawl, but I kept my voice level. “And if I don't want to be anyone's properly broken merchandise?”

“Then you'll learn that wanting and getting are two very different things.” Carina set the tablet aside and really looked at me for the first time, like she was seeing me instead of just reading about me. “But I think you already know that, don't you? I think you learned it eight years ago, and you've been running from it ever since.”

My blood went cold. They knew. Somehow, despite all my careful planning and new identities and constant moving, they knew exactly who I was and where I'd been.

“How?” I asked.

“Fingerprints. DNA. Facial recognition software. Take your pick.” Carina's voice was matter-of-fact, like she was discussing the weather. “You've been flagged in our system since you escaped from the Whitmore estate three years ago. We've been tracking you ever since.”

Three years. Three years of thinking I was free, of believing I'd finally outsmarted the system that had owned me. Three years of looking over my shoulder and jumping at shadows, never knowing if my paranoia was justified.

Turns out it was.

“Richard Whitmore reported you as stolen property,” Carina continued. “Put out a substantial bounty for your return. When you didn't surface, he assumed you were dead. Most runaway merchandise don’t last long on the streets.”

“But you knew better.”

“We knew you were too smart to get yourself killed by accident, and too stubborn to kill yourself on purpose. We also knew that eventually, you'd make a mistake. Get desperateenough to trust the wrong person, or unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

She was right, and we both knew it. Julian's betrayal hadn't been bad luck or poor judgment. It had been inevitable, the logical conclusion to a game I'd been losing since the day I ran.

“What happens now?” I asked.

“Now we determine your market value and find you a new home. Preferably with someone who appreciates quality and has the resources to keep track of their investments.”

“And if I refuse to cooperate?”

Carina's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes. “Then you'll discover that there are many different kinds of cooperation. Some voluntary, some not. I think you'll find that voluntary is preferable.”