10

INDIA HEARD a low wail, but only when Briggs drew her into his arms did she realize the sound was coming from her. Why? What did she ever do to these monsters to deserve their wrath? What kind of animals were they to want to harm an innocent child?

“I’ll find her,” he said, already leaving the room. “Call your mom to come stay with you until one of my teammates can get here.”

“Where will you even start?” In her peripheral vision, she caught the curtain flutter, and then noticed a slip of paper had been pinned to the bottom right corner. “Briggs, look . . .”

He turned her way.

She read aloud, “Whether Bridgette lives or dies is in your hands. Tipsy Crab—now. Oh God . . .” India ran to the diaper pail alongside the changing table and retched. “Frenchie? Roger? They’re my friends. They took my baby. They took my baby.”

She couldn’t breathe. Think. Panic swelled and surged in undulating waves she found it hard to stand through.

“Let’s get you dressed,” Briggs said, helping her remain upright. “Do you have a gun?”

“No-I-don’t-have-a-gun.” Her words came out in a tumbled, crying screech. “This is paradise. No one needs a gun in paradise.”

“Right.” He withdrew a lethal-looking pistol from his shorts pocket. “After all you’ve been through—you should have been first in line this morning at the permit office.” Next, he fished out a cell phone.

“Who are you calling?”

“Friends. I’ll have them meet me at the restaurant.”

“What do you mean, just you? I’m going.”

“The hell you are. I don’t want you in anymore danger.”

“These people—my so-called friends? Somehow waltzed into my condo and took our baby without us knowing. They’ve shot our boat out from under us. Messed with my brakes. Killed my cousin. At this point, I’m pretty sure there’s nowhere whoever is doing this can’t find me, so call your team, but I’m going. End of story.”

India stormed to her bedroom, made quick work of pulling on a utilitarian bra and panties followed by khakis and a floral blouse. When had those people broken into her home? Had it been while she and Briggs had been fighting? Even worse, while they’d been having sex? If something happened to Bridgette, she’d never forgive herself. What kind of mother was she? Would this nightmare surrounding Turtle’s death ever end?

While she’d gotten ready, Briggs had been in the living room on his phone.

He ended his call as she entered. “Are they coming?”

“Yeah, but unfortunately, as with everything around here, logistically it’s going to take time. In other news, my friends Nash and Jasper found the Pearl on East Caicos. No one’s currently aboard, but they’ll stick with it until someone shows up. Did you get a good enough view of the guy chumming the water to testify?”

“Probably not. I never even thought of that.”

“No worries.” He kissed the crown of her head. “Where are your keys? I hitched a ride from the marina. If these guys are as bad as most drug thugs we encounter, they’ll rack up enough international trafficking charges to send them away for a very long time. Hopefully, a sympathetic judge will tack on Turtle’s murder.”

She took her Jeep keys from a kitchen rack, handing them to Briggs. “I’m too antsy to drive. Do you think Bridgette’s okay?”

“I know she’s fine. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have invited us for a chat. For whatever sick reason, they’re using her for a bargaining chip. Twisted, but effective. One thing’s for sure, it’s awakened the shit out of my paternal instinct.” He took the keys. “On my watch, no one’s ever harming so much as a hair on our baby girl again.”

The ten-mile drive to the restaurant seemed endless.

The only lights were in tourist zones, meaning the narrow, winding road was dark. Caicos pines formed macabre shadows.

“She’s going to be perfect,” Briggs took India’s hand, giving her a firm squeeze.

India swallowed hard and nodded. “I can’t believe this is happening. Frenchie and Roger? They’re pillars of the community. Everyone loves them. Nothing about this makes sense.”

“Agreed. Just further proof about the universe having a sick sense of humor.”

They made the rest of the trip in heavy silence, India clasping Briggs’ hand the whole way and trying not to cry.

He finally pulled into The Tipsy Crab’s empty lot. The restaurant was dark. Not even the usual security light shone on the side of the building. Thin moonlight and a stiff breeze danced with the bushes’ shadows.

“Where are they?” India asked, panic lacing her tone. Her heart beat hard enough to hear in her ears. She pressed her hand to her aching chest. “What do we do now?”

“Wait. They know we’re here.”

He was right.

Seconds after he killed the engine, Frenchie emerged from the kitchen’s side door. Its unholy screech filled the quiet night.

India’s pulse revved even higher when her so-called friend charged the passenger-side door. She tried opening it with enough force to shake the entire vehicle, roaring upon finding it locked. “I’m so fucking sick of dealing with you.” Hammering the heel of her hand against the window, she shouted, “Get your ass out of the car!”

“Game on . . .” Briggs said under his breath.

“Still have your gun?” India asked.

“Locked and loaded. Safety off.”

“Don’t shoot her until we have Bridgette.”

“Granted.”

“Are you deaf?” India jumped when Frenchie banged again. “I said get your scrawny ass out of the car!”

“Where’s Bridgette?” India shouted.

“You’ll find out inside!”

“Play along.” Briggs opened his door. “Follow me.”

“How about picking on someone your own size,” Briggs said to Frenchie once he stood outside of the Jeep.

“Screw you. Get inside.”

India unlocked her door, gingerly exiting the vehicle on legs threatening to buckle. She no longer knew the woman standing before her. Kind, funny Frenchie had been a lifelong friend. A second mom. This lady with flared nostrils and bulging eyes carried herself with a frightening intensity. This woman looked capable of anything.

“Frenchie,” India begged, hating the weakness in her tone, “please don’t hurt Bridgette. No matter what you think I’ve done, she’s innocent. Please let her go.”

“Quit whining and get inside. You’re ruining everything.”

Frenchie kicked her. Kicked her!

Briggs charged the waitress, but Frenchie proved shockingly fast at pulling a shotgun out from behind a bush. “Don’t even think about it, soldier boy. My gun’s bigger than yours.” She stepped back, waving the barrel at him. “Both of you quit wasting my time and get the hell inside. Give me your piece, Baby Daddy.”

Briggs begrudgingly complied.

India entered first, finding Frenchie’s husband, Roger, seated at the restaurant’s normally cozy kitchen table. He also held a mean-looking rifle. How many times had she been there under much happier circumstances? None of this made sense. “Roger, why are you doing this?”

He shrugged.

“Shut up.” Frenchie slammed the back door behind her. “Sit down. You, too, Baby Daddy.”

“Bitch!” India said under her breath. “I considered you one of my closest friends.”

“I still am. Which is why you’re here—with him.” She nodded toward Briggs. “Instead of at the bottom of Caicos Bank with poor, dumb Turtle and his boat.”

“Wait—” Bile rose in India’s throat. “You’re behind what happened to my cousin?”

“Nope. But I know who is.”

“Where’s Bridgette? Is she okay?”

“Patience. She’s the cherry on top of this little tale. Sit back and listen. At the end, you’ll have an informed decision to make, so you’ll want to pay real close attention.” With the gun leaned against her chair, Frenchie lurched forward, resting her elbows on the table. “India, my pet, do you have any idea what an average condo sells for on our lovely island chain?”

“No? And what does that have to do with my daughter?”

“Everything. Just so you’ll be informed, according to a 2016 Sotheby’s estimate, we’re looking at right around $939k. Meanwhile, minimum wage sits at $6.25 per hour. I don’t know about you, but I find that criminal.”

“Where. Is. My. Daughter?”

“You should be ashamed,” Frenchie said, “that your entire life you’ve been a proud business owner, yet not fully aware of the full scope of your holdings. They’re really quite outstanding.”

Briggs slapped the table hard enough to make all present flinch. “Quit the song and dance routine and cut to the chase, Frenchie. What the hell do you want in exchange for our daughter?”

“See?” She winced. “That’s where things get dicey. The Little Palm Subsidy Organization voted and it wasn’t unanimous. India could have kept her mouth shut about what she saw happen to Turtle, but like her cousin, she had to keep blabbing and blabbing about things that don’t concern her—well, actually, they very much do. But she’s too stupid to realize that without the financial backing of our company, she’d be living in a hut on the beach.

“Get to the point,” Briggs repeated. “Where’s our daughter?”

“She’s fine.”

“That’s not what he asked,” India said.

“Such a shame, because that’s all I’m telling you. Like I said, we took a vote. Because we all like you, Bridgette gets to live—just not with you.”

India’s gaze narrowed. Her stomach cramped. “I don’t understand.”

“Sure you do. But just in case you really are confused, I’ll dumb it down for you. In exchange for your life—and maintained silence—Bridgette has been sold to a lovely European family. Rest assured, she will be spoiled rotten and have the finest of everything. But if you so much as breathe a word of this conversation to a stingray, I’ll have her killed, do you understand? Forget what happened to your cousin. Forget you ever had a daughter. If you agree to these terms, the head of our organization invites you and Baby Daddy to walk out of here alive.”

A low tremble took hold of India’s body. A kind of fear she’d never known.

This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.

My poor baby girl. She must be so afraid.

“I won’t just have her killed,” Frenchie said, “but gutted. She is, after all, going to be living in a real live castle. It has a torture chamber, so it might as well be put to appropriate use. Can you imagine? Her teeny, tiny body on a rack? Or maybe you’ll go blab to mainland police when she’s a toddler? Or maybe sweet sixteen? Oh—and Baby Daddy, don’t think I can’t see your crafty wheels turning. If something happens to me, there are plenty of others in our organization who will make good on this promise.”

“I won’t just kill you,” Briggs said, “but every, last one of you. I will burn you all to the ground.”

Frenchie laughed. “You can try . . .”