She focused on what was in front of her. The front door. The squeak of footfalls against the tile floor. The bright fluorescent lights.
Ignoring Maddox, Orion shouldered the door open, holding it for Jaclyn, when a man stepped up to them, creeped up on them. They braced themselves. Orion hated that her first instinct was to cower. To submit. It shouldn’t be that way. That’s what her mind told her. But years of conditioning, of torture, said differently.
“Orion, Jaclyn,” the man said, smiling. “Is it okay if I address you by your first names?” His thick brown mustache twitched.
Orion and Jaclyn didn’t reply, didn’t do anything except stare at the man long enough for Maddox to catch up to them.
“Who are you?” Maddox demanded, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder, pushing him back a few steps.
She rolled her eyes. It was a little late to be protecting her.
The man seemed undisturbed as he steadied himself, dusted his hands down the front of his sport coat, and said, “I could sue you for that, Detective.” He smiled smugly, motioning toward himself. “My name is Lucas Spector.” His voice was smooth and greasy. “I’m a lawyer. I’m Ms. Darby’s lawyer. Along with the other two ladies. I was simply trying to make my introduction.”
Orion blinked. She had not hired a lawyer. And by the look of his suit, he was expensive. She didn’t have any money, considering she didn’t have a bank account, and she was guessing her parents left her nothing but debts. Jaclyn had looked up this GoFundMe thing, but Orion was dubious that anything on the internet would translate to actual money or support. Maybe enough to buy her a few steak dinners.
She realized that she had no marketable skills. No college degree. No résumé. Nowhere to live. She had nothing but the clothes on her back, the tennis shoes that were too small and stained with her blood. As much as she had a hatred for lawyers and authority figures, she sensed opportunity.
She stepped around Maddox. “I didn’t hire a lawyer.” Orion made sure to raise her brow in challenge, meet his stare evenly, not act like a victim.
He smiled at her. It was more like a predator making a show of teeth, which didn’t unnerve her. He was making no pains to hide what he was. She respected it. “Oh, but you will. I’m here to make sure you get what is owed.”
“Owed?” Orion repeated.
Maddox stood behind her radiating fury. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his hands fisted at his sides. “That is enough,” he said, voice firm. “I don’t know who let you in here, but I’m about to forcibly remove you if—”
“I want to hear what he has to say,” Orion said, not looking back. She was impressed that she kept the fury from her voice. Maddox answering for her, trying to step in, whether it was out of duty to his badge or to the ghosts of their past, was not acceptable.
The lawyer liked this. His smile widened, taunting Maddox a little before he moved his full attention to Orion. “Juan Del Rio was on parole. For sexual assault and attempted kidnapping. You were kept captive for ten years. You have lost income. Lost education.” He eyed them both. “Lost life. I think that requires some compensation, considering your state failed you by letting a known predator take you and torture you.”
Maddox tried to speak. To argue. “She doesn’t need—”
“She doesn’t need anyone speaking for her who has no idea what she needs,” Orion snapped at him again.
As much as it pained her to do so, as much as her instincts screamed against her, her pride spoke louder. She held out her hand. “Orion Darby. I’m interested in hearing what you have to say.”
He took her hand. His grip was firm and dry, hands softer than hers. “I’m interested in getting you everything the three of you are owed. And I mean everything.”
Orion wanted to laugh at the statement.
What they were owed was a childhood.
A prom.
A high school degree.
A first kiss—for Shelby—a second kiss for Orion.
The ability to laugh.
Beyond that, they were owed the blood of all of their enemies.
But no lawyer was going to get them that.
She’d get the blood all on her own.
But the lawyer could get her a lifetime of steak dinners. And that would be just fine.
Eight
Three Months Later
“Shelby, honey, do you want me to run you a bath?”
Shelby gritted her teeth. Run her a bath. At four in the afternoon. There would likely have been pajamas, fresh out of the dryer, waiting for her after the bath, laid out perfectly on her bed. They would have ducks on them, or flowers. They’d be flannel and made for kids. And Shelby would feel that faint, awful familiarity . . . a reminder of her years in The Cell, the baths and the nightgowns.