Page 86

"Right, well, we've been receiving complaints, Vincent. Missing persons cases are dropping on my desk like flies on shit."

"And you're wondering if I have anything to do with it? I'm hurt, Graham," Vincent mocks. I hold my hands together under the table, pressing my nails into my palm. Please, please realise what he's doing.

"It's Chief Rowland, to you."

Vincent leans back, a small laugh escaping his lips as he glares at Chief Rowland. He stretches his arms over the back of the booth, leg crossed.

"So, Chief," The way he says it now sounds more like a threat than a name. "What do you want me to do about it?"

Rowland shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers gliding over the glass nervously. "I want to know where John Farrel is."

My head bows immediately, eyes stuck to the floor.

"I'd also like to know. He was a good employee, always had the best eye for things." I hear the way he clears his throat to hide the laugh. I pinch down harder into my hand as I try desperately not to react, to force the image of the crows from my head.

"If I find out you know something, Vincent, there'll be consequences. The deal we had before, it's over." Rowland's voice is sharper. "It's done."

Vincent shakes his head, laughing, leaning forward. "I decide when it's fucking done. You seem to forget, I know everything about you, Graham. I know your little wife works in the nursery around three streets from here. I know your preteen daughter goes to ballet every Tuesday. I know the sick, twisted fucking depravities you hold on your laptop that you watch when you think your wife is sleeping." The venom in his voice sinks into my skin. Rowland's eyes bulge from his head, his hands shaking against the glass. I expect something to happen, for Vincent to maybe pull out his dagger and plunge it into Rowland for his defiance, but he doesn't. He leans back, the smile returning quickly to his face. So this is how he does it: if he isn't using violence or threats, it's blackmail. I swallow, thinking of Rowland's poor family, of what might happen to them, and worse—my thoughts linger on the laptop. I'm not naïve to the world. I always knew these sick people existed, but I never really thought about who they could be. He's the Chief of Police, for God's sake. He's supposed to help people.

"Vanessa," he calls over his shoulder. A woman dressed in a small, skimpy, black leather dress heads over, tray in hand, her blonde hair tied in a bun on the top of her head.

"Mr Reigns, so good to see you again." She smiles, her voice sultry.

"Shut the fuck up and get my good friend Chief Rowland another whiskey."

"I don't want—" Rowland tries to speak, but Vincent cuts him off instantly.

"You'll accept my drink, and then you'll leave. You'll go back to your shitty terraced house, you'll kiss your daughter goodnight, you'll maybe even give your wife a pity fuck, and then in the morning, you'll go to work. You'll find any file named Farrel, and you'll see to it they vanish." Vanessa returns, her smile replaced with a thin line as she places the whiskey glass down on the table. I watch as Rowland takes the glass, letting it linger at his lips for a second as he decides his next move.

"And what will you do?" he asks Vincent.

"What I always do, Graham. I'll go about my day like nothing happened. Like someone who doesn't have the Chief of Police in the palm of his hand."

Rowland nods, draining the whiskey. He slams it on the table and shifts to move. His eyes finally land on mine, lingering for the shortest moment.

"Will her name pop up?" he asks, and when he does, my heart sinks into my stomach. No one reported me missing. No one knows. My eyes glass over, a single tear streaming down my cheek. No one cares enough to notice; there are no teams searching, no picture of me on the news.

"No." Vincent smirks, his hand wrapping around my shoulder as he pulls me into his side. "This one's different."

Rowland raises a brow as he slides out of the booth and begins to walk away without another glance, taking my last hope with him.

"Thank God that's over," Vincent groans, adjusting his tie. "Just being close to vermin like that is enough to make my skin crawl."

My eyes slowly move as I turn to face him. He isn't real. He genuinely isn't a real person. "Vermin like that?" I can't stop the question. I need some clarity on his delusions.

"Well, yeah, you heard me. I don't need to spell out what he is, Amora. He's the worst kind."

I do nothing but stare at him in disbelief that these words are falling from his mouth.

"Don't look at me like that." A line appears in the middle of his brow, confusion spreading across his face. "I'm not like him. I could never be like him. Fuck, Amora, he enjoys children. It's sick."

Who knew even a sadistic rapist could have boundaries. I keep my comment to myself, harbouring it away with the rest I keep buried.

"Come, I want to take you to meet some friends." He slides out of the booth, holding a hand out for me to take. I don't. I slide out of the booth, keeping my hands by my side. He surprises me by not pushing it. He walks forward into the crowd, and I have no choice but to follow until we reach a set of stairs leading into a basement.

The dungeons, I guess. I swallow, thinking back to the girls trapped in the cells below the manor. I hope they're okay. I hope they're surviving. We descend into the darkness, the air shifting into something more suffocating with each step, the music changing into something darker.

Vincent's hand finds the small of my back as he coaxes me through the dark space that's barely lit. Candle lights hang from the dark stone walls as my heels click against the floor, and the sounds of pleasure emerge from behind another door. I take a breath, staring into Vincent's eyes as he hesitates to push it open.