Retribution (Secrets & Lies #3)(56)
“Just a little. When I knew that I had a true daughter that I loved, and I needed the words to tell her,” I whisper. “Thank you. You asked what you can do in this? You can be our strength, for all of us.”
“I can do that,” Andrea says, patting my back as she hugs me tighter. “I can do that for sure.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Melissa
The house is straight out of Halloween swamp tours and trips through the so-called “Haunted New Orleans” that you see advertised in the tourist magazines around town. It doesn't help that we're seeing it all through the headlights of the car, the sun setting sometime while I was out. It's creepy really, and I shiver despite the warmth from the car's heater.
We're not in New Orleans specifically, but south of it near Lafitte, just on the edge of the wildlife preserve. I saw that from the street signs the past few miles. It's an older plantation house, the willow trees gnarled and heavy, gray-green Spanish moss hanging from their branches like a zombie's clothing. The grass is overgrown, and I can hear the mud squelching under the car's tires even as we drive up the barely recognizable driveway. I can smell the wet, heavy scent of the bayou nearby, and part of me, the artist, thinks that it's a great place to do a very intense landscape.
“This was a rice plantation back in the 1700s,” Peter says up front, still driving. For the past hour I've been awake, he's been chatty, like an overenthusiastic taxi driver or a tour guide. “They tried to make a go of it with indigo, cotton, and a bunch of other things during the 1800s, but never could make it quite work. The house isn't in the best of shape, but any port in a storm, right?”
Isis, who still has her gun out even though my wrists are cuffed and my ankles tied together, gives me a helpful poke in the ribs. “I suggest you comment.”
“It has a charm,” I say, trying to go along with it. “The house looks in bad shape though.”
“Well, I'd planned to turn this into a retreat house, tear down the main building and put up something better,” Peter says, and in his voice I can hear something that worries me. The good cheer, the glee in his voice sounds forced, like he wants something more than just my commentary. “Unfortunately, your brother and sister seem determined to make my life difficult. It's nice to know I have at least one halfway decent daughter.”
“Halfway... decent?” I ask, shocked. I want to say more, but Isis gives me a warning shake of her head, and I bite my tongue for the moment. Still, I can feel anger building inside me, and when the car stops, I'm slow to react, I'm too busy trying to not scream at Peter.
Peter ignores it though and gets out, tapping on the hood of the car. “Come on, come on!”
Isis looks over and gives me a professional look. “If you want, I can knock you out again and we can drag you upstairs, but I don’t think that would be good for you. Too many tranquilizers in too short a time, bad for the heart. If you behave, I will untie your ankles and you can walk up the stairs. Be warned, if you try and fight me, I'll shoot you in the calf or the knee. It won’t be fun.”
There's no mercy in her eyes, no taunting, just the dead even tones of a professional. “Fine, I can walk.”
“Wise decision. I warn you now, even though it’s useless, if you want to have a chance to live long enough to see your family again, do not agitate Peter. His temper is... short.” Isis pulls a knife and cuts the rope around my ankle. “You can open the door yourself.”
I get out, not moving as I see that Isis is already out and has her pistol on me, and I take a moment to compose myself as best as I can. I can feel Nathan's strength flowing through me as I square my shoulders and turn toward the stairs, acting as if I'm heading for a polite dinner instead of having a gun pointed at my back.
Mounting the creaking, sagging stairs, I stop at the door, turning to the side and letting Peter unlock the back door, where I go inside to find a house that's not quite as broken down on the inside as it looks on the outside. The walls are at least mostly dry, and the floor seems relatively safe. “Didn't think places like this existed anymore after Hurricane Katrina.”
“The pilings on the foundation were just enough,” Peter says, leading me to what looks like it used to be a bedroom. “The stairs to the second floor are f*cked though, but I make do.”
“I can tell,” I reply, looking at the camp stove that's in the kitchen area. “Guess you're not into wood stoves?”
“Oh, we'll fire it up later,” Peter says, giggling like he's looking forward to a good comedy movie or something. He points at a wooden rocking chair in the middle of the room. “Sit.”
I do, and Peter licks his lips, his scarred face looking nearly emotionless even as his voice cracks slightly. “Now, hold still, and remember that Isis still has her gun on you.”
Like I could forget with Isis standing in the doorway, her pistol not pointing at me but still ready next to her leg. Peter gets down and uses Velcro straps to attach my ankles to the legs of the chair, running his hand creepily up my leg as he does.
“Keep your filthy hands off me,” I hiss, pushing his head away with my cuffed hands. “You don't have that right.”
“I don't have the right?” Peter says, backing up. He gets to his feet, then turns his back to me looking at Isis. “You hear that? Dumb bitch thinks I don't have the right. Like rights matter to her right now.”