Mark

Is this your girl?

The message pops up on my computer screen as I’m sitting at my desk in Juneau, sliding a pencil up and down.

Leaning forward, I tap my middle finger on the mouse pad, and, “What the fuck?” I shout, sitting forward in my chair.

It’s been three months. Three fucking months. Ninety days of searching, scouring the dark web for any signs of “Doll-Baby,” the username I read over Molly’s shoulder in Nice. I found old queries on Silk Road connecting Esterhaus to the White Pass line where they found him, and I know it’s how she’s finding her victims.

What I don’t have are two important pieces of information—where they are now and who’s next. Since the old theater in New Orleans burned to the ground, everyone associated with the place has scattered. One by one, the five members of the sex club are dead or missing.

Esterhaus was the last one I could find alive.

Guy has completely vanished.

My eyes fly around the browser window. The entertainment section of NOLA.com has a hazy candid photograph of Lara in profile. She’s standing in a bar beside a piano. The pianist’s back is turned, but I’d recognize that guy anywhere.

“Of course she’s with Roland,” I say, wondering why the fuck I didn’t track down that guy first.

How did you find this? I message back.

Check the headline, is the reply.

It reads “Dark Angel Returns.”

Resurfaces, is more like it.

Snatching up my phone, I book a plane ticket to New Orleans as I’m walking to my supervisor’s office. She has more guts than I thought going back to New Orleans, but where else would she go? Roland has always had her back.

Donovan Lee is sitting at his desk, studying an open folder. He’s classic native Alaskan, with straight dark hair and bronze skin.

“Knock knock,” I say, taking a chair in front of him.

“Fitz.” He looks up and smiles briefly before looking down again. “What’s on your mind?”

“I need to take a few days off, sir.”

That gets his full attention. He rocks back in the chair and studies me. “What for this time?”

“Personal matter. I found my daughter.”

He nods, looking grave. “Nothing hits you like family.”

If only he knew.

“It’s a slow month.” He glances at the file in front of him. “I suppose we could do without you for a personal matter. If it’s only about a personal matter.”

Clearing my throat, I scoot back in the chair. I consider how much I can tell him without revealing my motives. Legally, I can’t do anything about Lara’s past or mine in New Orleans. Still, I can try and get some answers. I can get my family back.

“It’s possible Esterhaus was part of a sex trafficking ring that extended from New Orleans to the Pacific Northwest to the Yukon Territory.”

“Pacific Northwest…” Donovan puts a hand over his mouth, thinking. “The chief in Seattle is one of my oldest friends. He might appreciate a tip like that. How much evidence do you have?”

“When I lived in New Orleans, I worked at a theater in the French Quarter. A burlesque show.”

His eyebrows rise. “Good for you. What capacity?”

“I started on the set crew, but after a few weeks, I became a sort of everything guy for the owner. I ran errands, oversaw deliveries, and verified IDs and stood guard outside a room where… sex parties took place.”

“Nothing illegal about that if it’s not in a private home and they have the proper licensing.”

“Unless the female participants were there against their will.” My jaw tightens. “Unless the men paid to have sex with minors. In that case, it goes from a group of kinky consenting adults to sex trafficking.”

Donovan’s brow lowers, and he leans back in his chair. “You were a part of that?”

“At the time, I didn’t have hard evidence of what was happening. As I’ve studied further since I left that place, I’ve learned more.”

“It’s going to be hard to prove a bunch of strippers weren’t consensual participants in a sex club.”

“With all due respect, sir, burlesque dancers are not strippers, and exotic dancers are not automatically prostitutes.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Sounds like you have a personal interest in this matter.”

I look at my hands, thinking about my response. From the start, I’ve done everything in my power to keep the girls off the radar. It’s getting harder the deeper we get, the more they run.

Donovan interrupts my thoughts. “So this Esterhaus was a member?”

“I saw him there a few times. He claimed he got out because he didn’t like the way things were being handled.”

“And now he’s dead.”

“Yes, sir.”

On the train, Esterhaus told Lara he’d divested his interest in the New Orleans club because he didn’t agree with the decisions, but Molly hunted him down and killed him anyway. The level of violence indicated rage, revenge.

I’m willing to bet Esterhaus didn’t get out before they molested a thirteen-year-old girl, who’s now on the trail of every man involved in her abuse.

Guy. They have to be searching for Guy. He’s the only one I haven’t been able to find, and he was arguably the leader. He had more power than Gavin. He was the one who hurt Lara, who had me beaten almost to death when I tried to save her. A wince passes through me at the memory.

“Fitz?” I blink up to see Donovan leaning forward on his desk. “You still with me?”

“Yes, I was just remembering some information. I’m sorry.”

He grins and nods. “I like it when my men are passionate about the cases they work on. It means they’re more likely to get results.”

“So you’ll approve the trip?”

He nods. “Keep in touch, keep your expenses to a minimum. Let me know what you find but don’t cross any jurisdictional lines. You’re officially traveling to see your kid. This isn’t your case down there.”

“Yes, sir.”

Roland plays at a popular piano bar a few blocks northwest of where the theater used to be. He’s halfway through a raucous version of “Piano Man” with the entire drunken crowd singing along when I enter the dim-lit room.

It’s a smaller bar off the main building with dark-wood paneling on the walls and vintage furnishings. Small tables are scattered throughout with the piano on an elevated stage in the center.

An enormous fishbowl is placed at the side of the piano, and patrons walk forward and drop napkins in it constantly. I check my watch. It’s five minutes until two a.m., which makes this the last song of the night.

All the tables are full, so I stroll across the red-brick breezeway separating the smaller bar from the open-air patio out back. A large fountain is in the center, and the tone is quieter, more relaxed.

“May I take your order?” A waitress wearing a uniform of dark green shorts and a white shirt with a green bow tie waits expectantly.

“I’m just meeting someone, thanks.”

She nods and continues on, and I realize this part of the establishment is open all night. Leaning against the black wrought-iron fence, I wait for the final strains of the Billy Joel classic to end and the cheering to die down.

Twenty more minutes pass before the place has almost completely cleared out, and I step inside to see Roland disappearing through a side door.

“Shit,” I hiss, pushing aside chairs to cross the room before the door slams shut.

I’m too late. It closes in my face, and I have to run through the brick courtyard again, pushing my way through a mob of drunk tourists milling about.

“Watch it!” A man shouts, but I keep going, down the half-block to Toulouse Street.

I skid around the corner, my shoes slipping on the damp flagstone, but I see him far ahead, walking fast. My heart pounds. I’m sure he didn’t see me in the bar—it was too dark and crowded—and I know I can find him tomorrow, but I can’t help believing he’s leading me to Lara. My desire to see her drives me forward.

He walks two more blocks north before stopping abruptly in front of an older home. It’s nicely renovated, and as he passes through the wrought iron gate, I realize it’s a duplex.

Voices erupt from inside the moment he opens the door, but he quickly shuts it behind him. I walk down to the corner to wait, unsure if this is his home or someone else’s.

Another half-hour passes before a silver Accord with a pink Lyft sticker in the window pulls up to the curb. The door of the house opens, and Roland steps out with a girl I recognize. It’s Evie. I’m more convinced than ever Lara has to be inside.

“See you tomorrow,” she calls, and they embrace briefly before she trots down to the waiting vehicle.

Once she’s gone, I’m through the gate and up the steps to his narrow front porch in record time. My insides hum, and I take a few steadying breaths before I knock. They’re here. Lara, my daughter…

Swallowing the knot in my throat, I raise my hand and bang on the solid wood. The noise of footsteps from inside approaches the door.

“Did you forget something?” He calls, opening the door and freezing. “Mark.”

All the rage I’ve suppressed for ninety long days breaks to the surface, and it takes an indescribable force of will not to grab him by the neck. When I was here before, we were the same size. Now I’m quite a bit larger than this guy… this guy who’s been helping to hide my wife and child from me, a baby I’ve never even seen.

“Where is she?” It comes out as more of a growl than a question.

To my surprise, he doesn’t even hesitate. Stepping back, he waves his hand in a sweeping motion, allowing me entrance. “Right this way.”

I’m on his heels as he leads me through the narrow house. He stops at a door, which he opens slowly, carefully. I push him aside and enter the closet-sized room.

A lamp in the shape of a large tree with little animals circling at the bottom casts a soft yellow light, and I have to duck slightly to avoid banging my head on the doorjamb.

“What is this?” I’m confused until I see the crib against the wall. My mouth goes dry, and my heart beats painfully harder with each step.

The scent of baby powder is in the air, and when I look over the white rail, my breath disappears. Inside is a tiny body wrapped tightly in a pink blanket. Her head is covered in a halo of light brown hair. My sight goes blurry, and I reach up to push the wetness aside.

“You can pick her up if you’d like,” Roland says from where he’s waiting at the door. “She’s a pretty solid sleeper.”

The anger, the driving desperation, all of it melts as I stand looking down at my baby girl’s sleeping body.

“I don’t know how.” My voice is quiet.

A shuffling behind me, and Roland is at the side of the crib reaching in to lift her gently. Her little face scrunches in a frown, but he puts her on my chest, her forehead touching my neck, and the last shred of my fight disappears.

“Mark Fitzhugh, meet your daughter, Jillian.”

I cup her body in my hands, and hold her against my heart. My eyes close, listening to her breathing, feeling her warmth through my shirt. She’s here… soft, angelic, tiny, and so real.

When I can speak again, I blink over to see Roland touching his eyes. He smiles, and I wonder why I hated this guy so much all those years ago.

“She’s so little,” I whisper.

“She’s actually right at the seventieth percentile for size and weight.”

“I don’t know what that means.” Her face moves, and she makes a little grunting noise. Another piece of my heart melts.

Roland’s eyes are soft as he touches her back. “It means she’s perfect.”

Fuck, he didn’t have to tell me that. My hand cradles the back of her head, and I lower her gently. I want to study her little face and see all the ways she looks like me, all the ways she looks like her mother.

“I never knew babies could be so small.” Smiling down, I look at her pixie nose, her rosebud lips… I want her to open her eyes so I can see if they’re blue.

“She’s grown quite a bit,” he says. “You’re coming in at the good part. She’s making eye contact and smiling. Three months is the magic time.”

The magic time was all of it. The pregnancy itself, when she was born. I’d wanted to be there for every moment stolen from me. From us. My stomach tightens, and I glance up at him. “Where’s Lara?”

“Come into the living room.” He ducks out the door, and I follow him, walking slowly as if my footsteps might disturb Jillian.

I scan the wood-paneled room. Leather furnishings are arranged in a way that divides the living area from a compact dining area. The kitchen is through a wide, open doorway in the back. Two doors are to my left, and I assume they lead to bedrooms.

“Is she here?”

Roland sits on the edge of a leather armchair, leaning forward. “Sit on the couch, and we can talk.”

I stop in the center of the room and study him. The house is quiet, and I don’t understand. “Where is she?”

“She left this morning.”

“Left? Where did she go? Why did she leave the baby with you?” The questions pour out, but as quickly as they form, I know the answers. “She’s doing it again.”

“Sit.” He motions to the couch, but I can’t sit down. My pulse is racing, and holding my daughter has changed everything.

“Okay, don’t sit.” Roland clears his throat and looks at his hands. “I need to fill in the blanks so you’ll understand what’s happening.”

“I think I know what you’re going to say.” Lifting Jilly so her head is against my chest, something shifts inside me in a way I never expected. “Molly was raped, and now Lara feels it’s her duty to help her pursue this vigilante justice.”

His eyebrows rise. “She told you that?”

“I was with her on the train when they found their last… victim.” I’m not even sure what to call those bastards anymore.

Jilly’s head moves, and she emits another little baby sound. I’m already imagining her saying her first words, learning to walk, ride a bike… I remember when Molly was just a sweet kid. I accused Lara of treating her as if she were her daughter.

Putting to words, speaking out loud what happened to Molly provokes a desire for vengeance in me I didn’t have ten minutes ago. I can’t even think of someone hurting Jillian the way Molly was hurt. I don’t know the level of brutality I would inflict upon the man who tried. And in Molly’s case, it was four men.

“They’re going after Guy.” As I say it, my muscles tense. “It’s why she left the baby with you. Molly found him… You have to tell me where they went. It’s not safe.”

“They’re not going after Guy.”

His words pull me up short. “What?”

He shifts in the chair, and I can tell by his body language there’s more to the story I don’t know. “Guy is dead. He died in the fire.”

“There’s no record of his death. I searched all the reports. I searched everywhere—”

“You worked for Gavin. You know he could keep things out of the news.”

“Still, there would have been a police report…”

Dark eyes meet mine, and he shakes his head slowly. “He called in a favor.”

Landry. Gavin had that corrupt cop in his pocket. “But why?”

Roland shrugs. “He didn’t want the publicity. Didn’t want the investigation…”

“So it was foul play.” I’m not surprised by this. “Perhaps he was able to keep the official record sealed, but there is still a record that should include cause of death.”

“Maybe… I never looked.”

My brow furrows, and I sit down on the couch. Jillian snuggles against my chest, and I smooth my hand over her little back as I recall the list of names. “If Guy is dead, Esterhaus should have been the last one.”

“He should have been.”

“I don’t understand.”

When Roland’s eyes mine, they’re serious. “They’re going after Gavin.”

I’m on my feet before he’s even finished speaking. “We have to go after them. Now.”

Holding Jillian in one hand, I dig for my phone with the other. She starts to fuss, and Roland stands to take her from me.

“How long ago did they leave? Where are they?”

“Seattle. They left this morning. She texted me her hotel and the room number in case I needed to reach her.”

His words hurt more than all the kicks to the stomach I took that night so long ago when I tried to save her. “She won’t reply to any of my calls or texts.”

Roland’s chin drops. “She blocked your number.”

Shit, I take it back. That hurts more.

Clearing my throat, I continue typing on my phone. “I’m getting two plane tickets from New Orleans to Seattle. Grab your things. You’re coming with me.”

“I have to work. Besides, Lara would kill me if I brought Jillian out there.”

“And I’m not leaving the two of you here like sitting ducks.” Our eyes clash and for a moment, I think he’s going to argue. Instead, he exhales and starts down the hall.

“I didn’t want her going alone in the first place.”

“I’m calling a Lyft. We leave in ten minutes.”