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“I’m in the mood for Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, first movement. Oh yes, that will do.” He walks to the table and grabs the remote. The new girl gapes but says nothing. She mirrors my first glimpse at this terror—questions, fear, dread. He morphed from a tender and passionate lover to a psychotic monster getting his jollies on girls dancing to classical compositions. Yeah. It’s a shock to the system.
Anger cracks like a whip up my sagging spine, snapping me to attention. Maybe I have some fight left yet. “You know he’s conditioning us, right? We’re nothing short of Pavlov’s dogs. Dancing at the music. You...new girl. You don’t want to be here, do you? Good beds, obedience and good food. It’s Stockholm’s you’re feeling, ladies. Believe me, I know this. I know battered woman syndrome when I see it. We’re stronger than him together. We can get out, and I can get you help. I know a place you can go. My—”
“Silence!” he commands. His tongue lashes like a cat-’o-nine-tails. The new flower fades, turning inward on herself and assuming the same position as the other women.
“This is why I don’t leave you alone together. You present as such a delicate flower, but you’ve been nothing but a thorn in my side.” His body begins to shake, and I realize I’ve struck a nerve. I’ve put a crack in his armor. It doesn’t scare me; it invigorates me.
“Shut. Your. Mouth,” he says through gritted teeth and a hardened jaw. “Or the pain you felt last night will be nothing in comparison to what I’ll do next.”
Haunting piano music begins. One little note and then the next like raindrops pitter-pattering, building steps to his castle of torture. It evokes heavy black clouds and bloodthirsty bats circling his den of iniquity. I know what comes next.
The choice I have to make.
“Garden Girls...bloom for me.” His words are breathy and full of anticipation.
Pliés and pirouettes begin in a room that reeks of defeat and hopelessness.
The new girl rises to her bare feet, taking in the other garden girls’ positions and mimicking them, but it’s messy and clumsy.
He praises her with clapping, a wide mouth full of perfectly straight white teeth grinning with pleasure.
Then he casts his wicked gaze on me, awaiting my choice.
I swallow hard. I feel the burn in my groin. My pulse quickens and my chest constricts. Sweat breaks forth all over my body.
But I do not bloom.
I cannot bloom.
I fear I’ve sealed my fate.
Chapter Eight
Manteo
Sheriff’s Office
Sunday, September 2
9:45 a.m.
Ty shifted in the uncomfortable metal chair in the sheriff’s office where he was interviewing Ethan Lantrip, aka Skipper. Ty tossed a look behind him knowing Violet was there scrutinizing the entire shebang.
Next to him sat Deputy Grady Dorn, who prided himself on his metaphorical guns as much as his shiny sidepiece. Ty strained to hold in a sneeze, but Dorn’s cologne was overpowering. Was the guy speed dating or conducting an interview? Dude.
“Who are you again?” Skipper asked.
“Strange Crimes Unit. FBI.”
“What exactly is that?”
“They hunt down sickos who kill people based on their religious beliefs,” Deputy Dorn said.
“Well, not—” Ty blew off Dorn’s explanation. No time to correct him about the cases the SCU investigated or aid Skipper, who was obviously stalling for time until he requested an attorney. “How long did you date Amy-Rose?”
Skipper tucked a lock of dark hair behind his ear. In person, the weathered look fit the cool fisherman vibe he was putting down. Like Florida Georgia Line pioneering a new cool face to country music. Skipper was all sea captain, down to the captain’s hat, wrapped into some kind of retro look. Whatever worked for the guy. Ty wasn’t going to knock it.
“I wouldn’t say we dated. We hooked up a few months. She liked the boat rockin’.”
