Page 110 of Wicked Nightmare

Beaver must have sensed my internal distraction. He started squirming again, his voice taking on a whiny edge. "Listen, I can help you. I know things. Important things. If you let me go, I can—"

I cut him off, turning away from the phone to face him. "Oh, you're gonna help us alright." I crouched down to his level, close enough to smell the blood drying on his chin. "But I don't think you understand your situation here, pal."

I reached down and tightened the zip ties around his wrists. He hissed as the plastic cut deeper into his flesh, the skin purpling beneath it. With any luck, his hands would just fall off.

"See, you're not leaving this room until we say so," I continued, tapping the phone on the counter as I thought. "And how much pain you experience in the meantime? That's entirely up to you and how cooperative you decide to be."

It was easy, slipping back into this. The interrogator. The guy who could make someone talk with a smile and a zip tie. It was comfortable in the way only fucked-up things can be comfortable, the way a knife handle fits your palm after enough use.

But there was something different this time. A thought I couldn't shake. That maybe we could use this situation to do something useful for once. Not good. I didn't do good. But useful. Strategic. Something that would benefit more people than just us.

I pushed it aside. One step at a time. First, we needed answers.

"Now," I said, locking eyes with Beaver. "Let's start with you telling us everything you know about these neural chips."

He grunted. Clenched his jaw. Refused to answer. So I went back to the phone, swiping through screens while he sat there dripping blood onto our floor. Each new detail helped the puzzle come together. They had tracking systems on their operatives too, labeled with four-digit numbers and a letter denoting some kind of hierarchy. Which begged the question: they wouldn't just hand this information to anyone. So who the fuck was this guy to them?

"Fuck me," I muttered, scrolling through a list of coordinates. "They've got these bastards tagged like animals. All of them. Including the operatives."

Lakey clicked her tongue. "What else you got there, sugar?"

Before I could answer, the floor creaked behind me. Rose had moved towards Beaver, silent, her eyes locked on him. She'd been so quiet I'd forgotten she was in the room. The look on her face stopped me. Not fear. Not the timid girl who'd been sleeping on our couch a week ago. Something harder. Something that had switched on during the break-in and hadn't switched off.

"Well, look who's joined the party," Lakey chirped. "Want another shot?"

Rose straightened her back, chin up. "That man," she said, jerking her head towards Beaver, "he told me he loved me. Said he'd save me."

Oh, sweet little flower. No mommy or daddy to tell you that men were dogs. This fucker had been playing the long game, and his clock had run out.

"Did he now?" I sighed, turning to face our captive. "Ain't that sweet. You hear that, Beaver? Sounds like you've been playing Prince Charming."

Beaver struggled against his bonds. "Rose, baby, you don't understand—"

"Shut it," I snapped. To Rose, I said softer, "He played you, sweetheart. But we're gonna make it right. I suppose no one taught you that men will say anything to get in your pants."

I caught Lakey's eye. We were on the same page. This fucker was gonna pay.

Funny how things change. A week ago, I wouldn't have given two shits about playing hero. It was one of Lakey's favorite things to sarcastically call me when I got protective. But now? Looking at Rose, at the way her face crumbled when she said the word "loved" about a man who'd been sent to drag her back to a lab? Something had shifted. Not just for Lakey. For me. For whatever I was becoming in the wake of this girl's presence.

Christ. I couldn't figure out if it made me stronger or weaker, but watching Rose's shoulders loosen just slightly, just enough to tell me she believed us, I couldn't bring myself to care about the answer.

Did that mean I wasn't a psychopath? Or did it mean I was capable of caring about someone as long as I considered them mine? Something to file away and research later. When I had time. When we weren't standing in a blood-splattered living room at four in the morning.

Lakes sauntered over to Rose. Her gait softened, which was its own kind of surreal. Lakey didn't soften for anyone but me.

"Oh, honey," she sighed, placing her hand on Rose's shoulder. "Men are such lying bastards, aren't they?"

Rose's eyes fell to the floor before looking up again, filling with tears. "I... I thought he cared. He'd sneak into my cell at night and tell me he loved me. He brought me extra rations. Tried to make sure they picked the other girls for the more corrective punishments." Her voice cracked. "How... how can he lie? He said he'd save me."

My shoulders tensed. Extra rations. Sneaking into her cell at night. Telling a girl with no frame of reference for what love looked like that he loved her, while she was locked in a facility where they cut people open for research. That wasn't love. That was grooming. And it made my blood run so hot I had to look away from Beaver before I killed him and lost our only source of information.

"That's what they all say," Lakey sighed, patting Rose's arm. "But don't you worry. We'll take good care of you."

I couldn't help but smirk. Lakey playing the protective mama bear. It made me want to get her daughter back. Not eventually. Now. There was not a single woman out there who could have as many different personalities as mine and still manage to pick the right one when the moment required it. She was a chameleon. A killer, a comedian, a mother, a psychopath, a protector. All of it. All at once. And right now she was the person Rose needed her to be.

Meanwhile, Beaver was putting on a show. "Rose, please! I do love you! This is all just a misunderstanding!"

I rolled my eyes. "Save it, Romeo. Your act's about as convincing as a three-dollar bill."