“Maybe that’s it, then,” Kat said.

“What’s it?”

“Maybe she’s afraid of how you’ll react.”

Brandon shook his head. “She knows I want her to find somebody.”

“Do you? You just said all you have is each other. Maybe that was true. But maybe that’s changing now. Just imagine how hard this is for her. Maybe she needs to pull away a little.”

“That’s not it,” Brandon insisted. “She always calls.”

“I get that. But maybe, well, maybe not right now. Do you think she’s in love?”

“Mom? Probably.” Then: “Yeah, she’s in love with this guy. She wouldn’t go away with a guy she didn’t love.”

“Love makes us all forgetful, Brandon. It makes us all a little self-involved.”

“That’s not it either. Look, this guy? He’s a total player. She doesn’t get that.”

“A player?” Kat smiled at him, maybe understanding a little. He was being protective. It was sweet, in its own way. “Then maybe your mom will end up with a broken heart. So what? She’s not a child.”

Brandon shook his head some more. “You don’t understand.”

“What happened when you went to the cops in Greenwich?”

“What do you think? They said the same thing you did.”

“So why did you come to me? That’s the part I still don’t understand.”

He shrugged. “I thought you’d get it.”

“But why me? I mean, how do you even know me? And how do you know people call me Kat?” She tried to catch his eye. “Brandon?” He wouldn’t let her. “Why do you think I can help you?”

He didn’t reply.

“Brandon?”

“You really don’t know?”

“Of course I don’t.”

He said nothing.

“Brandon? What the hell is going on?”

“They met online,” Brandon said.

“What?”

“My mom and her boyfriend.”

“Lot of people meet online.”

“Yeah, I know, but—” Brandon stopped. Then he muttered, “Perky and cute.”

Kat’s eyes widened. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

She flashed to her YouAreJustMyType profile. The heading Stacy had chosen for her: Cute and perky!

“Are you . . .” She felt a sudden chill. “Wait, are you stalking me online or something?”

“What?” Brandon sat up straight. “No! Don’t you get it?”

“Get what?”

He reached into his pocket. “This is the guy my mom went away with. I got it off the website.”

Brandon handed her the photograph. When Kat saw the face, her heart yet again plummeted down a mine shaft.

It was Jeff.

Chapter 13

When Titus first started out, this was how he found the girls:

He wore a suit and tie. Let his competition wear sweats or low-slung jeans. He carried a briefcase. He wore horn-rimmed glasses. He kept his hair short and neat.

Titus always sat on the same bench in the Port Authority bus station, second floor. If some homeless guy was sleeping there, he gave it up pretty fast when he saw Titus coming. Titus didn’t have to say anything. The locals just knew to stay clear. This was Titus’s bench. It gave him a perfect bird’s-eye view of the south terminal gates 226 through 234 on the level below him. He could see the passengers get off the bus, but they couldn’t see him.

He was, he knew, a predator.

He watched the girls depart, like a lion waiting for the limping gazelle.

Patience was key.

Titus didn’t want the girls from the bigger cities. He waited for the buses from Tulsa or Topeka or maybe Des Moines. Boston was no good. Neither was Kansas City or St. Louis. The best were the runaways from the so-called Bible Belt. They came in with a mixture of hope and rebellion in their eyes. The more rebellion—the more you wanted to stick it to Daddy—the better. This was the big city. This was where dreams were made.

The girls came in demanding change and excitement—something had to happen for them. But in truth, they were already hungry and scared and exhausted. They lugged a too-heavy suitcase, and if they had a guitar that made it better. Titus didn’t know why. But if he found one with a guitar, it always upped his chances.

Titus never forced it.

If the setup wasn’t ideal—if the girl wasn’t the perfect prey—he let it go. That was the key. Patience. You throw out enough nets—you watch enough buses come in—you would eventually find what you needed.

So Titus waited on that bench and when he saw a girl who looked ripe, he made his move. Most times, it didn’t work out. That was okay. He had a good rap. His mentor, a violent pimp named Louis Castman, had mentored him well. You talked politely. You made requests or suggestions, never commands or demands. You manipulated the girls by making them believe they were in charge.

You wanted them pretty, of course, but that wasn’t a prerequisite.

Most times, Titus used the model rap. He had made up good business cards on heavy stock, not the cheap, flimsy stuff. Spend money to make money. The cards were embossed. They read Elitism Model Agency in fine calligraphy. They had his name on it. They had a business line, a home line, and a mobile phone number (all three numbers forwarded to his mobile). It had a legitimate address on Fifth Avenue and if the girls mistook Elitism for Elite, well, so be it.

He never pressed. He was commuting, he would tell the girls, from his home in Montclair, a wealthy New Jersey suburb, and happened to spot her and thought she might do well in the modeling business “if she didn’t already have representation.” He pretended to be above horning in on a competitor. At the end of the day, the girls wanted to believe. That helped. They had all heard stories about models or actresses being discovered at the local mall or at Dairy Queen or waitressing.

Why not a bus terminal in Manhattan?

He told them they’d need a portfolio. He invited them for a model shoot with a top fashion photographer. This was where some balked. They had heard this line before. They wanted to know how much it would cost. Titus would chuckle. “Here’s a tip,” he would tell them. “You don’t pay a real agency—they pay you.”

If they seemed too suspicious or worried, he would cut them loose and return to his bench. You had to be willing to cut them loose at any point. That was the key. If, for example, they weren’t runaways, if they were just here for a short vacation, if they stayed in constant touch with a family member . . . any of those, and he simply moved on.