Page 165 of Wicked Brutal

Arthur looks back down at the three records. “Bella’s application is different.”

Iz’s attention snaps to him. “How?”

“It wasn’t initiated by Calvin.” A beat. “Or Verlina.”

Now Iz doesn’t say anything.

Dad leans forward. “Who initiated it?”

Arthur rotates the laptop. The line is sitting there.

SPONSORING REFERRAL: ASHBOURNE FOUNDATION.

The room goes completely silent. Iz stares at it. Then at Bella’s name. And for once, there’s no joke waiting.

Callum reaches for the three pages. He lines them up more precisely. October eighteenth. October eighteenth. October nineteenth. “This changes the significance of Roman’s date.”

Arthur nods. “Substantially.”

Mom closes her laptop. The sound seems too loud. “Three girls from Edgewood.”

I stare at the names. Becca. Bella. Ally. Three girls who had nothing to do with Cat and Penny being kidnapped. At least, that’s what we thought.

My phone sits beside Ally’s application. For months we’ve been following men. Every time we find another connection, we add another man. Another company. Another account. Another fucking crime.

But those aren’t the names sitting in front of me now. They’re girls. I look at Cat. Then Penny. Then Becca. Bella’s name on the page. Ally’s beneath my hand. Five girls.

And suddenly the red string isn’t tightening around the men.

It’s tightening around them.

The first thing I notice when I come downstairs is the man standing in our foyer. The second is that he looks like he could bench-press me. Which, considering my current weight is approximately me plus one lime, probably isn’t that impressive. Still. He’s big.

Dark suit. Black coat folded over one arm. Short hair. Maybe late thirties. He stands beside the front door with his hands loosely clasped in front of him while my dad drinks coffee at the kitchen table like having a strange man posted in our house before seven thirty in the morning is completely normal.

I stop in the doorway. Tobias looks up from his cereal. “That’s Daniel.”

“Thank you, Tobias.”

Dad clears his throat. “Sit down, Alison.”

My stomach has already decided breakfast is offensive today, which is unfortunate because I’m starving. Pregnancy makes absolutely no sense. I am hungry enough to eat the table. The smell of eggs makes me want to die. My boobs hurt. I had to pee twice last night. And Ryan sent me a screenshot at one seventeen this morning demanding to know who decided our baby was the size of a lime because, according to him, limes “vary significantly and this is medically irresponsible.” He followed that with three different lime measurements from Google.

I love an idiot.

Dad folds his newspaper. “Daniel will be taking you to school from now on.”

I look toward the foyer. Daniel doesn’t react. Of course he doesn’t. He’s probably been professionally trained not to react when eighteen-year-old girls silently wonder whether he’s been hired to drive them or kidnap them.

“Why?”

Dad’s eyes come back to me. “Because I said so.”

I take a bite of toast. “Okay.”

“You will go directly to school in the morning. Daniel will collect you at three fifteen and bring you directly home.”

My chewing slows. Today. Today. Darla. The baby.