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She called the secondary number.
It rang twice before she heard a woman on the other end. “Hello? Catherine, is that you?”
“No, this is Bexley Hemmingway. I’m calling about Catherine. Is this Mrs. Overly?”
“Yes. How do you know my daughter?”
“I’m her therapist. She hasn’t shown up for her appointment or answered her phone. I wanted to check in with her, and this number was an emergency contact.”
Catherine’s mother sniffed. “Catherine hasn’t been home in two days. Hasn’t shown up to work or answered any of my calls or texts. It’s not like her. I called the police twenty minutes ago and filed a missing persons report. I’ve been watching the news. I know what’s happening, and Catherine is a flower name.” Her last words came out garbled.
“It is?”
“Catherine wheels. Are you sure her appointment was today?” Mrs. Overly asked.
“I am. I’m so sorry. Maybe she went off for a few days for a breather. Some of what we’re working on in therapy is tough, but you know this. She’s mentioned you know all about her problems and were the one to suggest a therapist.” Deep in her bones, she didn’t believe Catherine took a breather. Not with a flower for a name.
“I don’t think so,” she said through a shaky whisper. “The police say they’ll look for her, but...” She left the words hanging. The words of finality. “If she does show up or call, will you let me know?”
“Of course. And will you do the same?”
“Absolutely. Is there anything the police should know? From her appointments with you?”
Nothing Bexley could confide in them. “I’m happy to talk to them. And I have connections with the FBI who are in town. My—my younger sister went missing a week ago. I understand.”
The woman remained silent, then broke down into tears. “I want her back.”
“I know. Me too.” Every day she had to get up, get dressed and go through the day-to-day activities and routines. See clients. Deal with Ruth’s Refuge homes and finances. Be a mom. Buy groceries. And all with Ahnah and what might be happening to her on a constant loop in her mind. She ended the call, scrolled to Tiberius’s name and tapped.
He answered on the second ring. “Bexley, everything okay? Is it Josiah?”
“No. Josiah’s fine. It’s about a client. She’s been missing for two days and her name is a flower.”
Kipos Island
Monday, September 3
Sunlight dances in the solarium, casting shadows on the tile, and the heat warms my naked body. I’m in the cage. I’m done tallying the broken fingers and burns. I have new ones since my stand against blooming.
I’ve been under twice. The little yellow school buses baptize me into sweet darkness, and I hope with each time he’ll have given me too much and I’ll stay immersed in that unaware bliss. My sister tells me when we breathe our last breath, angels come to usher us into the arms of Jesus.
Any arms are better than those of the man who sits on his chaise with a folder open. I can’t tell what he’s looking at, but he’s invested in it as he no longer pays attention to his garden girls. The newest one sleeps in the room next to mine. I hear her crying in there right now. At some point it’ll stop or simply become dry tears and sobs no one but God can hear.
Classical music plays. I know this one. Für Elise by Beethoven. I played it at a recital when I was ten and butchered it, but the audience clapped anyway. He doesn’t command us to bloom. No one speaks.
The strong smell of his espresso reminds me how much I miss good coffee. He doesn’t bring us coffee. We are allowed water and orange juice and for dinner sweet tea. A breeze sweeps through the room from the open door and I all but salivate. Open doors are freedom.
He closes the file and frowns, then catches my eye. I am not in a seated position like the others, though I wear the bun he put in place before escorting me to my thirty minutes of sunshine. Just. Like. Prison.
“Why flowers?” I ask, my throat hoarse from not using my voice today. There’s no one to talk to. But I’m curious, and if he was once logical and reasonable and seemingly sane, I might be able to appeal to that person. Get on that level. Connect. Sitting on his green chaise, reading while sipping espresso and listening to music make him seem absolutely normal. No one would suspect he’s locked women in cages. Three are empty. One has been empty all along. One is for the newest victim who I know is in her room. I heard the buzzing of the tattoo gun late into the night and early morning.
Where is the other one who was inked the most? Where could he possibly find another inch of skin to create a flower?
He sips his espresso and puts the tiny cup on a saucer with a quiet clink. “You do not speak unless spoken to first. You know that.” He swings his legs over the chaise, and my blood pumps so hard it hurts. I flinch and cower in my cage, hating myself for becoming this, but the pain he inflicts is becoming impossible to stand up against.
I’ve done my best.
But he doesn’t rip me from the cage. Instead he grips the bars and smirks. He knows he’s wearing me down, getting me right where he wants me. And I know that in only a short time, I’ll be twirling and dancing.
