Livia Lone (Livia Lone #1)(28)

“Help how?”

“Mr. Lone is an important man in this town. He owns several businesses—an ammunition factory, a pulp mill—that employ a lot of people. His brother is a US senator—a powerful man in the American government. Mr. Lone’s children are grown, but he and his wife will take you into their home until something more permanent and satisfactory can be arranged.”

Livia looked at Mr. Lone, not trusting him, not liking him. But she felt the same way about all these people. Even Tanya.

“Can Mr. Lone find Nason?”

Nanu spoke with Mr. Lone, then said to Livia, “Mr. Lone is very well connected, through his business interests and through his brother. And he promises to try.”

If America was like what the hill tribe people said about Thailand, Livia knew a rich man could be more useful than the police. Not that she could trust his words. But what choice did she have? She couldn’t go back to her parents. She wouldn’t. And if Nason was in America, Livia needed to be in America, too. She would find Nason somehow, help her somehow.

“All right,” Livia said. “If he can find Nason.”

Nanu spoke again with Mr. Lone, who looked at Livia and nodded as though eager for her to understand.

“Yes,” Nanu said. “He says he knows how important Nason is to you.”

It was only much later that Livia realized how ominous those words really were.





17—NOW

It was pretty obvious from the cell phone metadata what was going on between Masnick and Weed Tyler’s wife, but metadata alone might not be enough to ensure Masnick’s compliance. For that, Livia wanted something a little more . . . persuasive.

So late at night, she started riding up to Bothell, where Jardin lived with her teenage daughter in a two-bedroom ranch. She would park the Ninja in the shadows of a construction site near the house, set the Gossamer to spoof a cell phone tower for any calls coming to or from the two cell phones of interest, and then wait, sitting on a cinderblock, thinking of Nason, crickets chirping in the dark around her.

The first two nights, she got nothing. On the third, the Gossamer lit up with an incoming call. Livia listened in with an earpiece, her heart pounding with hope.

“Hey, you can’t come tonight.” A woman’s voice. Presumably Jardin.

“Damn, are you sure? I was just about to head over.” This time a man. She had never spoken to Masnick in person and so couldn’t be certain, but it had to be him.

“I’m sorry. It’s Vela. Her light’s still on. She hasn’t been sleeping well.”

Vela was Jardin’s daughter—the one she’d been pregnant with when Tyler had been sent to Victorville. The girl was a high school sophomore now. Livia had been right. The woman on the phone was Jardin.

“It’s okay,” the man said. “Nobody’s fault. I was just . . . I wanted to see you.”

“I know. I wanted to see you, too.” There was a pause, and she added, “Mike, what are we going to do?”

Bingo. And not Mech. That was a gang moniker. She called him Mike, a more intimate form of address.

There was another pause. Masnick said, “I don’t know.”

“He gets out in a week. Why do you think Vela’s not sleeping?”

“I know.”

“I want to tell him.”

“Jesus, Jen, we’ve been over this. That’s just not an option.”

“Then what is?”

“I’ll think of something.”

“In a week? We’ve known this was coming for years.”

“I’ll think of something. I’m not going to lose you. I love you, Jen.”

“I love you, too.”

“Listen, I’m going to leave the phone on. If she falls asleep, call me, okay? I just miss you.”

“Okay. I should go.”

“I’ll think of something. I promise.”

They clicked off. Livia confirmed the unit had recorded the conversation, then removed the earpiece and sat for a moment, stunned despite what she had already suspected.

I’ll think of something, he had said.

Well, maybe he wouldn’t have to. In fact, she might just think of something for him.





18—THEN

Livia moved in with the Lones. She disliked them intensely—Mrs. Lone especially. She sensed Mrs. Lone, with her pinched face and expensive-looking necklaces, resented Livia’s presence in her house. Or that she just resented Livia.

Livia had never seen such grandeur, except on the village television. The house had two floors—four, if you included the basement and the attic—with common areas downstairs and bedrooms above. The property was enormous, surrounded by sloping grounds and perfectly manicured green grass. It had columns, with the flag for America waving from one of them alongside a massive front porch. Inside was really inside—no breeze from without, no humidity, no sounds. Livia couldn’t even tell if it was raining except by looking through the windows. Some of the floors were made of smooth stone; others were wood, covered with soft rugs. There were paintings on the walls. There were machines to make the air inside dry and cool—too cool for Livia, who needed extra blankets to be comfortable at night. There was no shared village spigot or privy; instead, the house had five separate rooms for toilet and cleaning. No one took dirty clothes to the river here, or hung them on a rope in the sun—instead, they used cleaning and drying machines. There was a giant refrigerator for keeping food cold, and even for making ice. The ice was the one thing about the house Livia liked. She was fascinated by how cold it was, and hard, and how she could make it melt by swirling it in her mouth. But she learned not to take it if Mrs. Lone was in the kitchen, because Mrs. Lone would watch her as though expecting her to steal something.