The Cage (The Cage 1)

He didn’t even blink at her words. “I know you didn’t kill that woman, Cora. I know who your father is because I met with his men three times after the accident. I collected checks from them. They were paying me to keep quiet about what I saw that night.”

The aching in her head vanished. The sound of the rain faded, and the smell of the cherry blossoms. Slowly, her hand dropped. “What do you mean?”

“The night of the accident. Your father’s political fund-raiser. He’d had too much to drink. The car was swerving all over the bridge. All I could make out was your dress—green silk—as you were yelling for him to stop. The headlights were so bright. And then the car went over.”

Dimly she realized that the rain had stopped outside, but it didn’t matter. “How could you have seen that?”

A second passed, a second she knew would change everything. “I was in the other car,” he said. “The one your father crashed into before he swerved off the bridge. I was in the passenger seat.” His voice broke. “The woman who died was my mother.”

Dread filled Cora the same way water had filled her father’s car that night: rushing in too fast to stop. She had been accused of a woman’s murder. Involuntary manslaughter. The woman’s name had been Maria Flores, and her teenage son had been with her, though Cora had been so occupied trying to help her father get control of the car she hadn’t seen either of their faces through the windshield.

Luciano—that had been the son’s name. Luciano Flores.

“Call me Lucky,” he had said.

She doubled over, struggling to breathe. “Your mother? My dad killed your mom? You said she died when you were a little boy!”

“I . . . lied. I didn’t want you to know.”

Her body started to rack uncontrollably. Not just a nameless face anymore. Not just a grave with plastic flowers she had visited once, secretly, at night. She’d tried so hard not to think about that woman or the son she left behind. Smile, her father had said, even when you’re hurtingi

What a fool she had been. She should have never listened to her father, when he told her to push aside her true feelings. Why had she taken advice from a man who’d had too much to drink and killed someone?

“God, Lucky. I’m so sorry.”

Lucky was by her side in a second, his arms around her. “No. If anything, I’m the guilty one.” He flexed his hand, the one that was always giving him trouble. “I . . . I tried to kill him at first. My dad kept a gun in case of intruders. But his men stopped me, and offered me money instead if I corroborated some story he’d come up with, saying you were behind the wheel. He said you wouldn’t go to prison. He said you’d get off on parole. I didn’t care—I had no idea who you were. I figured his daughter was just as bad as him. So when the police questioned me, I told them it was you driving. They asked how I was sure, and I told them with your long hair and blue eyes, that you were a hard girl not to look at.” He shook his head. “I took his money and got on a plane to Montana. I knew if I stayed in Virginia, I’d change my mind. I’d drink too much one day. I’d kill him.” He paced beneath the tree. He kept wiping at his face, even though the rain had long since dried. “I let him get away with it.”

She closed her eyes. The memory of water choked her. Her father had jerked the wheel so hard it sent them careening into the river. The impact had stunned her. It hadn’t been until water poured in, and her father had shaken her awake, than they’d both managed to flee the drowning car, swim to shore, and wait shivering for an ambulance.

“He said a drunk-driving conviction would have ended his career and put him in jail for decades,” Lucky continued. “But you hadn’t had a sip to drink. He said you could claim it was an accident; that you’d just gotten your license and there was a glare on the windshield on a rainy night. Involuntary manslaughter. He said you wouldn’t get more than community service.”

Sitting on the bank, shivering in each other’s arms, still reeling from the crash, they hadn’t known the judge would make an example out of her.

Lucky said, “At the time, I was angry. I wasn’t thinking straight. It wasn’t until after the trial that it started eating away at me. Had I sent an innocent girl to prison? You were always in the newspapers, looking so angelic, and I started to realize that it wasn’t your fault you were related to him. He’d played you just like he’d played me.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what he offered you. I hope it was more than I got.”

She leaned against the tree trunk, feeling her head pulsing. She hadn’t told anyone the truth of what had happened that night. Not her mother. Not even Charlie. And now this boy who she’d only known a few weeks, who she’d just had her lips all over, knew her secrets.

“The Kindred must have known,” she said. “It can’t be a coincidence that they would put us together.”

“Maybe they put us together because of this. So that I could make up for what happened. I didn’t know what to think when I saw you standing on that beach. I thought it was some kind of punishment for my sins. Then I got to know you. You weren’t anything like your dad. You were his victim. And my victim. And dammit—you were pretty. Even more pretty in person than on TV. You do this thing sometimes where you run your fingernails over your lips when you’re thinking, and you have no idea how much that killed me. How much I wanted to kiss you.” He paused. “I wanted to make it up to you. I’ve been trying. I had your back when they accused you of stealing food. I’ve run mazes and swung from trees because you asked me to. I nearly ripped Leon’s face off because he insulted you.”

She stared at him in a mixture of fascination and horror. The mazes? The fight with Leon? He took a step toward her, but she pulled back, wishing the shade didn’t hide his eyes. In a certain light they were the color of coffee, but now they looked black.

“We came up with the escape plan together, Lucky. You didn’t just do it for me.”

A petal fluttered down to his shoulder. He didn’t bother to brush it off. Cora just stared at that petal, wishing he would speak, wishing he would say he believed in their plan.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was so quiet it almost sounded like a stranger’s. “You wanted to go home so badly that you thought some sharpened sticks were going to get us out of here. But Rolf was right. We’d never have escaped from them. I went along with your plan because I wanted to make you happy. I still do—”