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I take his hand in mine and run my fingers over the bloody welts around his wrist. “I’m sorry I put you through this.” I swallow hard. “Quinn was attacked. Not me.”
“I wouldn’t put it past Quinn to fake an attack. To throw suspicion off of him.”
“I doubt Quinn would’ve pulled his own tooth,” I say, returning my gaze to the crime scene image. “He won’t go anywhere near dentists. He’s squeamish about anything that has to do with them.”
Colton stares at the image from over my shoulder. “I don’t understand why he’d use a bowline knot to hoist the victim,” he says suddenly.
My head jerks up. “What?”
“At this crime scene. He tied a bowline knot.” He gets closer to me to whisper. “If it were me, I’d use a blood knot. Ten times as strong, better to support a body, and it’s more poetic. Keeping to the theme of the Blood Countess.”
I turn my gaze on him. “Who would use a bowline knot?”
He shrugs. “It’s a basic knot. Easy to learn. So really anyone. But you mostly see it used on boats. Like sailboats.”
A surge of hope springs me to my feet. “See if Simon has access to a boat. No wait… Pull up Lyle Connelly’s financials and look for—”
“I have it,” the tech says. “There was a title transfer between Connelly and Whitmore five months ago. A sailboat was gifted to Whitmore. To avoid paying taxes, Connelly’s lawyer drew up the paperwork in a charity’s name registered through Whitmore.”
I’m back at the front, staring at the screen as if I can find Simon on the map. Proctor stands beside me. “Bring up every boat slip between Arlington and DC. He might not have it registered in his name. Crosscheck the slips and the names of the boats.”
“I found one, sir.” The tech transfers the data from one screen to another, zooming in on an aerial view of the Columbia Island Marina. “The Countess. It’s docked at the marina now.”
“That’s just a few minutes away.” Quinn’s voice comes from behind.
I whip around. “Am I removed from the field?”
He frowns. “Could I order you to stay put?”
“Not a chance.”
16
The Countess
Sadie
My necklace rests safely in the pocket of my hoodie. There’s a tiny glimmer of optimism sparking within me that Avery is still alive—and I don’t want to corrupt that hope, that faith. Normally, I don’t give in to superstition. But I feel like as long as I don’t show anyone…if no one actually sees the proof of her blood…then it won’t come true.
Since the attack on Quinn at TRI, the UNSUB has gone silent. He’s sent no communication to me about Avery’s condition. And one piece of evidence in the form of Simon’s DNA has granted us a warrant to search his sailboat with strict parameters to locate Avery there.
It’s the most logical place as to where she’s being kept.
The Feds have taken the lead on this assignment. After Proctor thoroughly reamed Quinn for my side op, he almost benched Quinn and the whole task force for our blatant disregard of protocol. But seeing as they need our numbers to make a clean
collar of Simon Whitmore, and to assure the operation goes down safely, it was in his best interest to let us “tag along.”
I don’t care about the bureaucracy. I’ve never been concerned with politics. And quite frankly, I went into this field knowing my ethics were questionable. You don’t come out of the other side of a dark moment in time to the light. It doesn’t conclude on a fairytale ending. Prince Charming doesn’t swoop in and save the damsel in distress. The heroine doesn’t suddenly experience a life-altering realization that she can conquer her demons and become a beacon—a role model for all suffering souls to follow in her footsteps…
This is not that story.
My abductor will forever taint my reality. The nightmares will live on inside my soul, and I will cry out in the middle of the night. Though there is now someone there to wrap his arms around me when the dreams claw me back down to the dungeon, they will never truly cease to exist within me.
And now, through me, because I have altered a moment in time through my own lingering, haunting darkness, another soul has been touched. Avery will never truly overcome this. She will search for someone to hold her in the night, and she will seek acceptance for her altered reality not only from herself, but from everyone she comes into contact with in the future.
We’ll share a similar but silent bond—we’ll look into each other’s eyes and know: we’re the same. But we will never talk about it. Not to the depths or extent that it has irrevocably impacted our lives.
This is our secret world.
