Page 29 of Never Bound

“Awful,” said Milagros, probably expecting the shock on both of our faces.

“Oh.” Scratch the thing about the sacrifice.

“We fought all the time. Given that I just got out of slavery, it should come as no surprise that I was constantly accusing her of being controlling. But I was just as hard to take. I was like a rebellious teenager sometimes, testing the limits. But deep down I was just scared of losing her. After all, she let me go once, and I couldn’t bear the thought of it happening again.”

“Same here,” called Erica from the other room. I stretched my neck to see where she was seated, which appeared to be a wrought-iron patio table strewn with papers, scrolling on a laptop. Behind her, doors opened to reveal a white brick wall covered in overgrown leaves and vines, walling off a garden that looked like it could have contained a deck and maybe even a swimming pool, tiny as it was.

Erica rose from the table and entered the kitchen, eschewing the wine and pouring herself a glass of lemon-infused water. “She had the world at her doorstep for the first time in her life. Why would she stay with me when not only was I a fugitive who was keeping her from the free life she deserved, but I’d already abandoned her for the five years when she needed me the most? Worse, I knew that if I tried to force her to stay, I’d be as bad as her former owners. After all, Ihadbeen complicit. My family owned slaves, too.”

“But the great thing is, even though she came from them, shewasn’tthem,” said Milagros, shooting Erica an unmistakably loving gaze. “She learned and grew and changed. She had a pilgrim soul.”

“So did you, you know,” chimed in Erica again matter-of-factly. “And I hate to interrupt couples’ therapy, but I think—among other things—I just found out what happened to your former gardener.”

HIM

Pilgrim soul.I didn’t believe in souls—or pilgrims, for that matter—and yet I thought about that phrase as I surreptitiously watched Louisa chew on a curl, observed purple hummingbirds flicker between the flowering vines, and tried to shake off the weirdness of drinking wine at a table with three free women. Oddly enough, it was the second time in my life I’d been invited to do that, but it was the first time I’d done it without being ordered to, and without the women in question clearly being more interested in tastingmethan what was in their glasses.

For a wide variety of reasons, I decided that likely wasn’t the case here. Which was why I could still devote part of my mental energy to figuring out where I’d heardpilgrim soul. It was probably in one of the dense volumes the professor had ordered me to plow through after he was satisfied that my literacy was up to par—and that usually only left me longing for chemistry and physics again. Either the Bible or Shakespeare, I decided. Didn’t that account for like half of English literature?

“According to this, he’s no longer a slave,” Erica said.

“Thegardener?” I practically spat out a mouthful of Spanish wine, much as I hated to waste it. “Are you fucking kidding me? Someone freed that disgusting psychopath? Unbelievable. Well, it’s official. There’s no justice in this world.” But as outraged as I was, it was worse to watch Louisa shudder to think of the man who had taken delight in terrorizing her—for years, from what I’d gathered—unleashed on the free world. And to not be able to do anything to ease her worry.

“Well, to be fair, I don’t know if he was freed, necessarily,” said Erica calmly. “He’s just no longer being actively tracked by the slave database.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Does it say ‘location unknown’? Like my sister?”

Erica peered at the screen. “As a matter of fact, it does.” She looked back at me. “You said you thought they might be physically removing the microchips, which is a solid theory, given what we know about the girl found in the desert here—according to my well-placed source in the medical examiner’s office, the injuries to her arms and back would be consistent with trying to locate a chip. By the way, do you have the bracelet?”

I’d told Erica about Maeve’s bloody bracelet over the phone, but I hoped she wouldn’t make me produce it again. It had been bad enough to have to show both MaxandLouisa. I knew the hope was in vain. I’d examined it a little since then because I had to, though it made me sick to look at. But so far, it was the best physical “evidence” we had. I produced it from my pocket and placed it in the center of the table. Exhibit A.

Erica leaned forward, her eyes narrowing as she examined the bracelet closely. “Look at this,” she murmured, fingers tracing the grooves, unflinching. She wasn’t like Louisa, I realized. In her years in the underground, she’d seen worse, no doubt. “The blood … it’s somewhat fresh, isn’t it? This wasn’t done with surgical precision but in haste.” She lowered her voice slightly. “Possibly during a struggle.”

I turned to her sharply. “Is she—”

“I think she’s still alive,” she said quickly, and I believed her. I had no doubt that sparing my feelings was fairly low down on her list of priorities, if it was there at all. “The fact that this was done hastily suggests they were interrupted or rushed.”

Louisa still looked concerned, though she didn’t say anything.

“They wouldn’t need to hurry if she weren’t alive to resist,” I explained cautiously. “And believe me, Maeve, for someone who loves fairies and unicorns so much, is a hell of a fighter when she wants to be.”

“But we do need to act,” broke in Erica. “This kind of violence, it escalates. We don’t have much time if we’re going to get to her before …” Her voice trailed off. All right, so maybe my feelings weren’ttotallyunimportant to her. “Anyway, to regrettably bring us back to the gardener, if it’s the same people, it’s not unreasonable to think they might have givenhima similar treatment.”

“Well, if that’s the case, at least we can take comfort in the fact that he suffered horribly,” I remarked, hoping the dark humor might coax a smile out of Louisa as if it could possibly be that easy. “Wait,” I said. “Who was his last owner? Please say Max Langer.”

“I hate to disappoint you, but it wasn’t a ‘who.’ It was a ‘what,’” said Erica.

“Damn,” I said wistfully. “I thought we had him.”

“Specifically, a company that doesn’t seem to exist anywhere. Except for one place.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Here.” She turned the screen to face us.

“Two-eleven Cholla Avenue?” Louisa read aloud. “Whose address is that?”

“According to real estate records, up until his death, it belonged to one Gerhard Langer.”

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