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She didn’t tell me why, but I have to assume it has something to do with her parents’ death. That and the fact that her brother was an addict.
It doesn’t take me long to get downstairs; the landing for the basement stairs is only a few feet from my office.
Once inside our control room, I find Julian pacing.
Off the bat, I know something is wrong. His posture is rigid, and his jaw is tight. “What’s going on?” I ask.
He halts his steps and turns to look at me. “During our search, we found something.”
“Go on.” I rock from one foot to the other. Ready for him to get to the point. The faster I deal with this shit, the faster I can get back to what I was previously doing.
Fuck, Gideon. You need a fucking life.
“More like someone,” he says, and my jaw tics with impatience.
“Spit it out.”
Julian looks down and then back up. “He had her picture.”
I fold my hands in front of my chest. “And I’m just hearing this now?”
“It just happened.”
Dropping my arms, my hands clench into fists. “Where is he?”
“East wing cellars.”
“Let’s go.” Before he can say anything else, I’m striding out of the room.
Together, we walk down the long path underneath the manor. Few know of its existence, and those that do need a special clearance to enter.
Stepping inside the cell,I’m met with a draft. The concrete walls keep the room cold and dank. A rotten smell of mildew lingers in the air.
It smells like a mixture of fear and sweat.
Currently, our guest is locked behind the metal bars of one of the cells.
“Put him in the chair. Strap him down.” I point to the center of the room where I want him set up.
Once he’s naked and tied up, I walk over to the little metal cart we keep down here.
My tray of tricks.
I’m a sick fuck when I need to be. But it works in my profession. People fear me, and that’s good when you need answers.
I narrow my eyes at the tools in front of me, deciding how I want this to go down.
“There’s this thing my predecessor and I liked to do…” I tell him as I grab the knife. “Tobias Kosta, I’m sure his reputation precedes him; he liked to make margaritas with hisguests.”
The man in the chair starts to pull at the ropes. A scream bubbles from his mouth but is caught in the tape.
“The thing is, I’m more of a scotch man myself, and I wouldn’t waste a drop on you.” I step closer to him. The long silver blade glimmers under the overhead light bulb that hangs from the ceiling.
He screams again, but it doesn’t stop me from doing what I need to do.
Leaning forward, I slice at the skin on his left pectoral, then trail the blade down his stomach. Crimson rivulets drip down his chest, collecting on his groin.
He hollers, begs, and pleads. But to me, it only sounds like grunts. “What’s that? You want to talk.” I slice his thigh. Crisscrossing the pattern until a bloody x forms on his skin.
