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“Obviously me,” Violet said. “I’m the boss.”
Ty struck a Bruce Springsteen pose, his arm up overhead, one foot kicked behind him. “Fine,” he conceded.
“Come on. They have Skipper at the sheriff’s office in Manteo. After we question him, we can chat with the boutique manager, Leslie McDonald.” She pointed at Owen’s laptop. “Anything at all to help us pinpoint where our UNSUB might work or live?”
“Not so far. But I’d say he’s on Blue Harbor Island. Maybe Nags Head area. Or he’s here on the island often for business. Knows the locals. He’s not taking tourists.” He handed Ty the list of missing women from the past year.
“Thanks.”
“Everything cool?” Owen asked in a low voice.
“Yeah. He thought if I went with Fiona, I’d tick off the killer and he’d make a mistake. And he might, but I said no.”
“Bexley Hemmingway holding you here?”
No. His son was. And a killer.
Kipos Island
The Garden
Sunday, September 2
I can hardly walk to my small bathroom for the searing pain. Hot angry tears blur my vision as I relive last night. No more broken fingers. The cracked bones clearly don’t work on me. Last night after my great brave—or stupid—stand, he did come for me. He came in deliberate steps and a velvety voice, but the frigid fury behind his eyes revealed I was in more trouble than anticipated.
One never acclimates to pain. I can’t say I’m used to it. I’m not. I never was. I expected it, though, in the past—and last night—but expecting it and enduring inflicted torture are two different things.
He’d used the flicker of fire to my groin. The tender area between my thighs and pelvis is now riddled with angry red puckers. This is how he’s going to break me. Not with fractures but fire.
I don’t cry over the suffering but over the fact it’s only a matter of time before I succumb and rise when he demands I bloom. Before I arc my arms over my head and dance like all the other garden girls.
I’m better than this. They are better than this.
But I’ll end in submission. I can’t endure the fire. Can’t walk through it. Can’t pace in the midst of it. No one is in the flames with me. Only the enemy holding me in, and through the affliction, his true nature manifests. He is not the angel masquerading as light, teasing me with lust and a delusional fantasy of living happily ever after. Lies drip from his forked tongue and flattery from his fangs. Feeding me false hope to ensnare me in his trap I can’t escape.
An hour ago, he brought me a breakfast tray as if he hadn’t strapped me down spread-eagle and tortured me through quiet lulls to accept the punishment, bloom where I’m planted, resign myself to the fact that this is my fault and I gave myself to him. I’m being reborn and remade, which takes time. I must be patient. And all I could think about was poking his eyes out with the plastic fork. One gorgeous eye, then the other. Marring his mask of beauty. Slicing through the facade to reveal the serpent he truly was inside. His organs black as night and rotted with maggots. He is walking death, decay and destruction.
His footsteps clack down the hall and he reaches my door, unlocking it and then entering. His masculine cologne might as well be decomp smeared on his smooth skin. Nothing about him is appealing, and the thought of being with him sours my stomach. How did I ever willingly walk into this psychotic freak show?
He eyes my full tray of eggs, bacon and toast and my untouched orange juice and water. I roll onto my side, facing the wall, and wince at the soreness. Any movement is searing. I’m exhausted and can barely lift my head. My mouth is like cotton saturated in molasses, but I will not drink.
“You must eat, but it’s your choice.”
I almost laugh at his words. I have no choice in any matter. He’s a liar. The father of lies.
“I brought you an ice pack. You can take it with you to your basket. It’s time to bloom.” His presence grows closer to me. I know this because the atmosphere that swirls around him is bitter cold, and the hairs on my arms and neck rise to attention. His weight jostles the bed as he sits, and his hand runs through my hair. “I need my garden girls this morning. I need you to dance for me. Open up and bloom. I need the company and companionship. I need the release. Come now. Please don’t make me ask again.” His slight Southern accent is rich, buttery, and calm as usual, and it sends a wave of chills through me. “I’ll have to find new places of pain so the beauty of your sweet pink flowers won’t be overshadowed. So many buds. Aren’t you ready for gorgeous blooms? You’d be so pretty with them.”
He’s talking to me as if he’s coaxing a lover to dinner. His tender touch is like porcupine needles across my exposed flesh. I don’t welcome or want it. But I lie silent and unmoving. I’m not sure how much fight is left.
“What do you decide?”
I remember the red-and-black gas lighter clicker. The same kind I use to light my vanilla cookie crunch candle. I rise, and he brushes my hair, then pins it in a bun on top of my head.
I walk like one of his minions to his secret garden of horrors and step inside the cage without so much as a pause. I glance over and notice a new garden girl today. She is as naked as the rest of us. Her hair isn’t pulled into a bun. Not yet.
But there is a breaking point for everyone. That moment when your soul rips until there’s nothing but numbness and the light slowly dims and your eyes become hollow wastes of space because you see nothing. No future. No happiness. Nothing but gray, bitter cold.
She has a few tattoos but not many. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s only days into her living hell. I wonder which room he’s confined her to. This could work to my advantage. She might be beaten down, but she’s not broken. If she has some fight, I might have an ally.
