I’m looking for an upscale suburb on the west side of town. It’s called The Woods, although I can’t imagine there are really any ‘woods’ in Vegas. I find Birch Street pretty quickly and, again, feel surprised at the ordinary name.
For Priscilla Heat, I’d imagined something more exotic—and maybe she was living somewhere more exotic, before what went down in Mexico two and a half months ago. She and Jim Gunn tried to make Lizzy and I the latest victims of their illicit business. While Jim Gunn got arrested right out of Mexico and charged with multiple counts of abduction, human trafficking, and murder, Priscilla didn’t re-surface until March, when she got caught crossing the border with some drug runners near Nogales.
Somehow, both she and Jim Gunn got out on bail. I guess my father’s not the only powerful friend they have. I don’t think there’s any way Jim Gunn won’t get put away for life, but rumor has it that Priscilla is planning to turn state’s witness, so she could still come out okay.
I know for sure she’s hidden in this little corner of suburbia because Hunter West told me—and he’s got a P.I. on her ass. Now that she’s here, she can’t leave. She’s got a tracker bracelet, or something like that. I guess I’ll find out.
The drive to The Woods takes me about forty minutes, and as I suspected, there’s hardly a tree in sight. The neighborhood is unremarkable: a bunch of three-story, Spanish-style homes that sit on half-acre lots. There’s a sidewalk lined with bushes. Tennis courts. Grass and flowers meticulously maintained by the HOA.
Priscilla’s house is a patterned stone monstrosity with a gaudy leopard fountain in the front and huge cement balconies on all sides, as if it was built for someone under a “no leaving the house” rule. The grass is so green it hurts my eyes, and as I roll closer, I can see the spray of sprinklers embedded here and there, making little rainbows in the fading sunlight.
There’s no gate, so I can drive right down the winding driveway. I park the Mach between the large, circular fountain and her front porch. As I take off my helmet, I notice the porch is pink-tinted cement. How cute.
I brush my hair down with my fingers, then think of who I’m visiting and pull it back up sideways. My shoulder is sore, so I roll it before putting my left hand in my jacket pocket. The jacket is heavy, and it’s not cold here, but I can’t bring myself to take it off. Now that I’m here, I feel surprisingly nervous. Probably because of my hand. Also could be because she got one up on me that day at the vineyard. Or maybe I’m just nervous. I ring her bell.
I pull the little picture out of my jeans pocket and look down at Meredith’s face while I bang on the door. It sucks being here—having to go to Priscilla Heat for anything—but I remind myself that I’m doing this for one of her victims. One who didn’t escape her like I did.
I slide the picture back into my pocket and I lift my hand to knock again. Before my knuckles hit the wood, I hear a buzz of static, followed by Priscilla Heat’s snippy voice. “What do you want?”
I spy a discreet speaker on the wall to my right; it’s maybe the size of a wallet, painted to blend in with one of the slabs of stone. Facing it, I say, “This is Cross Carlson.”
“I can see that.” I glance up, then left, and there’s the camera. Shit. Of course there would be. I tilt my head back at it and shove my right hand into my pocket. “Look—I just want to talk to you.”
“Not interested.”
There’s a noise, like the connection was cut, and I say, “Wait! Are you there?”
No answer.
I ring the doorbell eleven times before I hear the speaker come on. “This is harassment.” She sounds annoyed. “I could have you arrested.”
I snort. Yeah, right. I direct my gaze back to the camera. “I’ll stop if you let me in.”
“You’ll stop when I send my bodyguards down.” She sounds intent, but something in her voice makes me think she’s lying. Probably the knowledge, also provided by Hunter West, that she’s almost broke. I bet she doesn’t have even one guard here.
Regardless, I try another angle. “Your trial’s coming up, right? Sometime in July?”
There’s a pause. When she speaks, she sounds bitter. “What do you want, Cross Carlson?” She drags my last name out, like it’s a curse word, and I wonder if my father has really severed ties with her this time.
“I said I want to talk.” I roll my eyes at her through the camera. “There’s something in it for you. After you hear me, if you don’t want to help me, you can tell me to go fuck myself. I’m not interested in spending more time with you than I have to.”