Page 101 of Inflict

Connor cursed under his breath, and then decided to go in search of something else, something that might end up confirming all of the things he had been suspicious of regarding Sean. The first place he went was to his father’s office. The one place the man kept locked up tight whenever he wasn’t in the home, and sometimes, even when he was, if he had people he distrusted inside the place.

Upstairs, Connor knew with absolute certainty that something was wrong.

The office was unlocked.

The door was wide open.

The desk was still as perfectly organized, each thing in its place as it had been for years, like nothing was amiss. As though the large leather chair behind it was simply waiting for Sean to sit his arse back down, and get to work.

The office should have been locked.

He’s gone.

Connor ignored his inner voice and walked deeper into the office, going for the desk and the drawer that his father never left unlocked, even when he was sitting in his chair. The drawer where his father had brought out the picture of his mother holding him as a new baby. It didn’t matter if it was locked, as Connor would simply break the feckin’ thing open, but apparently, that would also be unneeded.

It, too, was unlocked.

He knew you were coming.

He knew you would do this.

He was waiting for you.

Connor continued to ignore the taunting voice in his head as he pulled open the drawer to find stacks upon stacks of folders. Some were labeled with strange titles, things like Before and others said After. Some had the word “Perfect” in big, bold letters, others were characteristic attributes, green eyes, dimples, too dark.

He grabbed every single folder he could and dropped them on the desk with a loud thump, opening the first few and flipping through what was inside. Pictures—so many feckin’ pictures. Women of all sorts of ages, young teens, older ladies, and all in between. They varied in size, but almost all were petite, and very naked in the images. Blondes, strawberry-blondes, and even light brown hair. All with green eyes.

Only the ones with attributes like freckles, or similar shaped lips, and red tints in their hair seemed to get that perfect label.

Some of them, Connor recognized.

Women who had been in his home over the years. Girls who had tucked him into bed. Others that packed his lunch for school. One who had even made him something for Christmas, once.

He almost didn’t open the After file, but his instincts acted before he could stop himself. It was the very same women, their attributes that made them perfect were on display in each shot, and others, full body, wrapped in rope and dead.

All of them were dead.

He counted the girls, knowing there might be more that Sean had never documented, and came to a total of seventeen.

Seventeen women.

Seventeen souls.

All similar in appearance, all ghosts, forgotten by the world.

All victims.

Connor flipped through the images again—the ones of the women alive—and couldn’t help the realization settling deep into his gut, and making him sick at the thought.

All could have been Evelyn.

He had no doubt—none at all—that this was meant to be her fate. Perhaps she had just been too young as a wee lass when Sean had first taken her, and so he had put her somewhere where she could grow into his … preferences. Perhaps he hadn’t killed her that night he went after Declan, because Sean had seen his perfect victim in a younger form, and simply couldn’t pass it up.

He looked like this man.

He had come from this man.

He was raised by this man.