Page 79 of Prodigal Son

“I’m sorry,” Albie said, “but it is.”

“Ugh.” She turned away and sank down into the nearest booth. The pub had been cleared of regular customers. Clive waited, bound with chains, a few rooms away, and she wanted to know what he knew.

Just as much as she didn’t want to know.

She’d worked so hard to secure herself a stable life of models, fashion shows, and clothes. One that didn’t involve drugs, or guns, or any kind of illegal shit.

And yet here she was. Caught up in a Lean Dog plot, a respected businessman a hostage in the next room.

Albie sat down across from her, his face serious.

“Raven. Darling,” he said.

She turned her face away, but his words pressed on.

“This isn’t pleasant, but we have to get to the bottom of this. So long as Dad is in the crosshairs, we all are.”

Her phone chimed with a voicemail.

“Raven.”

“I know, okay?” She finally looked at him. Glared. “I get it. But I don’t like it.”

He smiled. “None of us do.”

She fished her phone from her pocket, finally, and opened up her voicemail.

It wasn’t Cassandra’s voice. Above a din of shouting and indiscernible noise, Raven heard: “Raven? Raven, this is Emily Davis. Cass’s friend.” Breathless, frantic. “These guys in a van – Raven, they took her! They took Cass!”

Twenty-Two

“Raven. Raven, I need you to breathe. Okay? Take a deep breath.”

Albie was prepared for the slap that came his way, weak though it was, and caught his sister easily by the wrist.

She bared her teeth and shrieked at him. A broken, animal sound of rage and pain and terror.

He’d never seen her like this. He’d seen her cry, elegant tears dabbed away with manicured nails; furious tears dashed away with pocketbook tissues. He’d seen her angry; heard her shout; seen her stare thoughtfully, steeped in the kind of depression that models made look so appealing in magazine spreads.

But this was a mother bear separated from her cub. This was frenzied, mascara-running, hair-falling-down desperation, and it broke his heart.

He wasn’t going to let her hit him, though. And he wasn’t going to succumb to it himself. He couldn’t afford to.

“Raven…” he started again, still holding her wrist.

“Don’t youdare!” she shouted. “She – she – they took her! They took her, and–” Little flecks of spit sprayed his face. Her chest heaved as she sucked in breath after useless breath, hyperventilating.

“I know, I know. And we’ll get her back. We will.”

“She’s bloodysixteen, Albie!”

“I know, love, I know.”

“Then stop being so fucking reasonable and save her, you emotionless asshole!” She swung with her free hand, and he caught that too. “God, I hate you!”

“I know.”

“Stop saying that!” Then she pulled back, shoulders dropping, twisting away, and he let her go. They were in the kitchen, and she braced her hands on the edge of the stainless countertop, head dropping down between her arms as she struggled to breathe through the panic. “She’s your sister too.” This last quiet, reedy, clinging.

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