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“Nothing. It’s a feeling I had. That the basement was trying to tell me something.”
“Tell you what?”
I shrug. “That’s just it. I don’t know.”
“Try and think about something else. I can’t help you,” he mutters, walking over to a cupboard and storing his medical equipment.
“You can. I wouldn’t ask unless it’s really important. I’m sorry if I’m going to upset you, but I’ve been over and over it and you’re the only one who has the answer.” I take a deep breath. “I want to ask you about the videos.”
He slams the cupboard closed and rounds on me. I don’t need any medical equipment to tell me that his blood pressure is suddenly through the roof. “We are not talking about those videos.”
“I know it hurts. I wouldn’t ask you if there were any other way. Maybe if you showed me—” Before I’ve even finished the sentence I can tell it was absolutely the wrong thing to say.
“You’re not watching those fucking videos!” he shouts. Lorenzo pushes both his hands through his hair and growls. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. But I mean it, princess. I’ll die before I ever let you watch those videos.”
I didn’t mean watch the murders, but he made it sound like the recordings began with just their sisters alone in a room and I want desperately to see that room. But I don’t speak. There’s barely controlled rage simmering beneath the surface that Lorenzo fights to get under control.
He walks over to me and grips the metal table either side of my hips. His hair is wild and his cold blue eyes are troubled. “All right. I believe you when you say it’s important. If there’s something you really want to know, ask me, and I’ll try to answer you. But I’m not showing you anything.”
I nod, resolving to do this as quickly as possible, though not painlessly. I can already tell it’s causing him horrible pain. “What did that basement look like?”
“It was just a basement. There wasn’t anything special about it. Dark. Damp. The walls were crumbling in places. There was a vent high on the wall that let in a little light. It could be any basement in Coldlake or beyond.”
Disappointment washes over me. I feared that’s what he’d say. “Did you ever draw any conclusion about the killer from…”The way he killed your sisters.“How he did it?”
Lorenzo’s eyes bore into mine. “That he’s a sadistic fucking asshole and a coward who hates women as much as he hates the Coldlake Syndicate.”
Hates women. I agree with him there. There’s so much hate in what this person did to the four sisters. They were murders so elaborate that they were elevated to an art form. A sick, twisted art form. I’d lay money on the killer being proud of their handiwork.
“I feel like there was a sense of irony about the way the killer murdered each of your sisters. That he was trying to send a message to each of you.”
His brows draw together. “What do you mean?”
“Ophelia, for instance. The Fiores have always been immaculate and untouchable, so the killer mutilated and defiled Salvatore’s beautiful sister, giving her the most grotesque death possible.”
I remember what Lorenzo said that he told Sienna when she was tied up on his bedroom floor.She hemorrhaged from her face. You wouldn’t think it would be possible, would you? Those cuts in her cheeks severed the external maxillary arteries. My guess is he slashed her face first and then got on with torturing her and she screamed herself to death.
“Cassius is from a proud, old Italian family,” I continue, “so the killer wanted to mock him and his sister’s history. Cassius said it himself. Impaling her on a spike was medieval.”
The spike missed all the vital organs, traveled up through the body and out her shoulder. She could have been like that for hours, maybe days, before thebastardofinally killed her.
“Amalia was addicted to drugs and working in a brothel, so the killer cut her into pieces and threw her away. And Sienna…”
Pain flashes over Lorenzo’s face. When she was found, Sienna looked perfect, like a waxwork doll, but on the inside, she was filled with feces and dead insects.
“I think the killer was trying to say that she was pretty on the outside, but on the inside she was…”
“Trash,” Lorenzo mutters, his tone bitter. “She was trash, her whole family is trash. I’m trash, and I have no business controlling any part of this city.”
He pushes away from me and scrubs two hands over his face. I watch him in sad silence, hoping I’m not putting him through this pain for nothing.
“I never thought about their deaths that way before, princess. I think you’re right. It’s not just twisted. That monster was laughing at us.”
“And he knew what he was doing. I think the killer must have some sort of medical training. He’s intelligent and he thinks he’s artistic, too. Exceptional. Someone important in Coldlake, or someone that has friends in high places.”
“Yeah. Like your father. So who does your father know who fits that description? Medical background. Artistic. A flair for the sadistic.”
I take a deep breath and scour my mind for possibilities. Maybe a doctor who loves to read the classics or an art gallery director who enjoys sculpture and tried his hand at sculpting with dead flesh. I wish I’d paid more attention to Dad’s friends. Mom would know. I wish I could ask her. “Dad’s connected with just about everyone important in Coldlake. Mom’s funeral was a who’s who of prominent people.”
