Of course, the Feds had swooped in and taken over the case almost immediately. It was a kidnapping, after all. Not just across state lines but into another country. But Aria had access to some information, and anyway, what he had requested from her was of a more general nature.
He flipped the page in the file, understanding why she’d flagged this one. “He told police he was kept in a cage,” Evan murmured, the hair on the back of his neck standing up.
He almost startled when the waitress placed their drinks down on the table, closing the file that had photographs of a skinny man with multiple lacerations on his arms. He was surprised to see that he was an old man. He looked pale and wide eyed. Shock.
“Are you ready to order?” the chipper young girl asked.
“Do you want a minute?” he asked Aria.
“I’m ready if you are.”
He wasn’t, but he usually got the same thing when he ate at an Italian restaurant. He waited as Aria ordered a pasta dish and then put in his order for chicken parmesan. When the waitress turned away, he opened the file again. “He was kept in the basement of a warehouse in . . . Texas.” Texas. That wasn’t even close.
“I know,” Aria said. “That was the only thing that seemed off. Unless whoever abducted you moved or works with a large network.”
Whoever abducted you. He was tempted to correct her, to make sure Noelle was included in that sentence. It hadn’t been just him who was abducted. They’d been a team, and it felt wrong—even now—not to acknowledge her. He pushed thoughts of Noelle aside, though. Of all the things that still caused those old scars to pull and stretch uncomfortably, it was the thought of Noelle.
Noelle, who he hadn’t seen since that spring day in San Francisco.
He forced his mind back on the file in front of him and what Aria had just said about a large network. “I’ve always thought it was possible,” he said. “We were on camera constantly. People were watching. They could have been stretched all over the globe, as far as I know.” Some of them anyway. He figured the ones who had paid money to rape them or beat them had been closer to where they were kept in Mexico, in a dirt-poor town a few hours across the border.
Aria sipped her wine, her gaze stuck on him, eyes sad. She seemed to adopt that look any time he talked about the crime committed against him, or even alluded to the things he’d suffered. Her sadness said something given that the work she did on a daily basis was tragic as hell. “And yet, in all this time, there haven’t been any reports of a similar abduction,” she said as she set her glass down.
“Maybe whoever they abducted died in their cages.”
Her mouth set. “They would have been found eventually, though, right? I mean, especially if this was a trafficking network. It wouldn’t have just stopped with you. Things as lucrative as selling humans seldom do.”
He sighed. It was a horrifying fact. “No, you’re right. I just can’t believe it . . . ended. That after we escaped, whoever was behind what happened to us packed their bags and called it a day. This was sophisticated stuff. Cameras. Potentially flying people in who had rented us from behind a computer somewhere. This was a big operation.”
“The problem is, it was conducted from a random abandoned factory in Mexico.”
Yes, yes, he knew that very well. The FBI had looked at the owner of what had once been a textiles business. The business had set up shop on the outskirts of several low-income towns, hoping to not only attract a workforce but help address the poverty of the area. Evan wasn’t sure where that plan had gone awry, but the business owner had moved back to the States less than five years after construction was complete and the doors were opened. It had remained abandoned for three years before Evan and Noelle found themselves caged in what had once been a large workshop teeming with seamstresses creating apparel. “And an abandoned factory that burned down at that,” he muttered. Maybe there would have been more forensics to find had the entire place not gone up in flames. For a second he smelled the smoke, felt the burn of his lungs as he pulled in a breath. He let out a long exhale, taking a deep swallow of his beer.
“I appreciate this,” he said, tapping the folder. “It might be something.”
She nodded. “Or he might be batshit crazy,” she said on a small laugh. “The guy is seventy years old and has been in and out of rehab. Also, he’s currently in the slammer for breaking and entering, so if you want his story, you’ll have to go visit FCI Beaumont in Beaumont, Texas.”