AND PEOPLE CONTINUED to die. Anyone who knew anything was at risk.
It was two thousand miles from Virginia back to the island of Trinidad and the bright blue house where Esther Walcott had grown up, just outside the capital city of Port of Spain. That’s where she’d run to after the raid on Mr. Nicholson’s club.
Mum and Bap had welcomed her home with open arms and, more important, asked no questions about the life she’d left behind so abruptly in America.
Two years of hostessing and recruiting for the club in Virginia had left her with a nice bank account, if nothing else, and she planned on putting it toward a hair and nail boutique of her own, maybe even something at Westmall, like she’d always imagined as a girl. It seemed like the perfect way to start her life over.
But when she woke up on that third night home with a man’s hand pressed tightly over her mouth, and heard the American accent in her ear, Esther knew that she hadn’t run far enough.
“One peep and I’ll kill everyone in the house. Everyone. Do you understand what I’m saying, Esther? Just nod.”
It was almost impossible not to scream. Her breath was coming in fast, high-pitched gasps, but she managed to nod yes.
“Good girl, smart girl. Just like at the club in America. Where’s your suitcase?” She pointed to the closet. “Okay. Very slowly, now, I want you to sit up.”
He got her propped up in bed and pasted a length of tape over her mouth before he let go. It was seventy-five degrees out, but she was shaking as if it were thirty. The touch of his rough hands on her stomach and breasts made her feel practically naked. And vulnerable. And sad.
When a light showed under her door, Esther’s heart flip-flopped—a rush of hope at first, but then dread. Someone was coming!
The intruder turned to her in the semidark and held a finger to his lips, reminding her of what was at stake. Her family.
A moment later, there was a soft knock. “Esther?” It was her mother’s voice, and all at once, more than she could take. Her right hand flew up and clawed the tape off her mouth.
“Run, Mummy! Man has a gun! Run!”
Instead, the door to the bedroom flew open. For a moment, Esther saw the wide shape of her mother shadowed against the light from the hall.
There was a soft popping sound, nothing like a regular gunshot, but Miranda Walcott clutched her chest and collapsed to the floor without another word.
Now Esther was screaming—and couldn’t have stopped if she’d wanted to. Next she heard her father’s voice, coming closer. He was running!
“Esther? Miranda?” he called out.
The intruder left her side, heading for the door, and she threw herself after him, if only to catch his ankles, make him fall somehow.
Instead, she hit the floor hard and again heard the awful popping sound.
Something shattered in the hall, and her poor Bap crashed against the wall.
Sparks of white light played at the edges of Esther’s vision, and the room swam even as she scrambled up onto the bed again. With both fists, she pushed and clawed through the screen mesh in the window.
It wasn’t far to a patch of black sage bushes below, and she was more outside than in when strong hands latched onto her ankles and started to pull. Her body scraped hard over the wooden sill as she reversed direction.
One more time, Esther screamed, knowing that the neighbors would hear, but also that it was too late to matter.
They were going to kill everyone who knew anything.
And anyone else in the way.