The Prey

“Dawn is in charge here,” Ronaldo said. “She’ll take care of you.” He pulled a small key from his pocket and unlocked the cuffs, removing them from her bruised, scraped wrists and slipping them into his back pocket.

They both turned at the sound of heels tapping against the stone. A striking woman of about forty with sleek auburn hair cut in a shiny, short bob appeared. She wore a green silk halter-top, a patterned batik sarong wrapped around her slender hips and long legs, her tan midriff bare. At her throat, she wore a stunning choker made of a thick strand of yellow gold set with easily a dozen diamonds and rubies in an alternating pattern. “Ah, hello,” she said in a fluty, cultured voice. “You must be Mara. I’ve been expecting you.”

The woman didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed or perturbed by Mara’s nakedness, tear-streaked face and overall disheveled appearance. She turned to Ronaldo and flashed perfect white teeth in a gracious smile that didn’t quite reach her artfully made-up eyes. “Thank you, Ronaldo. You may wait here while I get this girl cleaned up and groomed.”

Turning back to Mara, she flicked her gaze appraisingly over Mara’s face and body as Mara touched her aching wrists. “My name is Dawn. I take care of the girls. Come along.” She put a cool hand on Mara’s back and pushed her gently forward toward the hallway from which she’d come. Mara threw a beseeching glance in Ronaldo’s direction. He was seating himself on one of the chairs, a cell phone in his hand, not looking at her.

Not knowing what else to do, Mara allowed herself to be led away, the sandals still on her feet clacking alongside Dawn’s high heels in the otherwise silent hallway. They passed several closed doors that were bolted from the outside, stopping at the entrance to a large bathroom that contained a round sunken tub filled with steaming, fragrant water, a bank of sinks, three curtained showers and four toilet stalls. A massage table, draped in snowy white linen, was set up in a corner of the space. Everything was gleaming tile and gold-streaked marble, no manacles or prison cells in sight.

“Climb in that tub,” Dawn directed, pointing toward the bath. “Wash your hair and scrub your face. We’ll apply fresh makeup, something that doesn’t smear from a few tears. But first I need to wax that little bush of yours. Ever since it became popular on the porn sites, all our pussies have to be bald as babies’ behinds.”

What the fuck? The woman’s matter-of-fact, chatty tone about what she planned to do to Mara was almost more frightening than the menacing threats made by the men. She was behaving as if all this were the most natural thing in the world, as if she dealt with abducted, naked, terrified women every day of the week.

Oh my god, she probably does.

Mara drew in a ragged breath. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. The words repeated in an endless loop in her mind, as if by thinking it hard enough, she might somehow make it true.

“Please,” she begged, trying to appeal to Dawn woman to woman. “Did they kidnap you, too? Is there any way off this island? Are you here voluntarily?”

Dawn laughed, a tinkling, hollow sound. “Of course I’m here voluntarily, darling. I run a very profitable little enterprise for Mr. Wallace. My girls are the best, the very best—I make sure of it.” Her tone was pleasant but there was steel beneath the words, a hardness in her blue eyes. “Now”—she clapped her hands sharply—“get in that tub. We don’t want to keep the gentlemen waiting.”

“Please, please,” Mara begged, aware even as she did so it was useless, but unable to stop. “There’s been some horrible mistake. I’m not supposed to be here. I was supposed to be going for a job interview. I don’t know what’s going on. I—“

“What’s going on,” Dawn interrupted, “is that you are now the property of Pirate Island. You don’t have to worry about what happened before or how you got here. That’s over and done with. All you need to do going forward is exactly what you’re told.”

Mara started to protest but Dawn stopped her again with a raised hand. “The Wallace family is filthy rich and very connected in North Carolina and beyond. They own half the state, including many of the politicians who run it. As far as I know, most of their other businesses are legit, but you won’t find Pirate Island on any balance sheet. Now climb into that tub this instant or I’ll call Ronaldo in here to throw you in. Get a move on.”

Mara climbed into the water, which, despite her terror, was deliciously hot and soothing. She leaned back and submerged herself until only her face was showing, wishing she could sink below the surface and simply disappear.