Brodie watched Chip Craine, shirt untucked, face ruddy and glistening with sweat, plead with his granddaughter in the Volvo. He’d been in there five minutes; Brodie, disgusted by the whole thing, had called dinner, and the men were chowing down in Bunkhouse B.

What could that fucker possibly say to her? The girl knew what she’d heard, would’ve recognized the whimpering of another little girl.

But Craine had been working on Lucy her entire life, and Brodie couldn’t comprehend the isolation and vulnerability Craine had engineered. A few minutes later, Chip led the sobbing child from the car, holding her little hand in his. Despite the rain, they walked to the farmhouse slowly.

As they passed Brodie, Craine gave the foreman a vulpine smile, teeth bared in triumph. He’d clearly won—or was about to win—a major victory, to move on to a new stage in his relationship with his granddaughter.

It made Brodie’s skin crawl. He watched the door close behind Craine, and lingered on the deck. He thought about ringing the bell and telling Craine about the mess in the boat shed, knock the wind out of his sails, maybe buy the little girl a few more days of innocence. But his instructions were clear—completely hands-off with Craine. And even he didn’t cross the people who’d made the rules.

Brodie told himself that, had it been anyone else, he’d have gone in there and killed them. This was certainly true, but it had never occurred to him to question his role in supplying Craine with girls. And even if it were pointed out to him, he’d have said it was Bentas who arranged the girls for Craine, that the girls were older than Lucy, got paid for what happened in the basement, and usually came to the farm with the consent of their guardians. Besides, they were Mexican.