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Women do.
Women exactly like me.
Naked and tattooed in flowers. Some more than others. Not one woman looks at me. Their knees are drawn up and their heads rest on them. They’re unmoving like statues.
“Come, my little flower. Up you go.” He opens the door to an empty cage, and I refuse to enter. I know if I do, I’m trapped forever. “In easy or we approach it the hard way. Your choice of course.” He waits, and I peer into his dark eyes with long lashes blinking patiently. His skin is baby-smooth and his face symmetrically perfect. There isn’t a single flaw. “You need to make a decision.”
I don’t want to go inside, but if I refuse, I don’t know the level of pain he’ll inflict. I only know he will. Reluctantly, I step inside the prison.
His grin is wide and his teeth are straight and white. “You’re part of my private garden now. I’m going to teach you how to bloom.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I want no part of it. “Please,” I beg as I grip the bars and lean forward. “I have a family.”
His dimples reveal an innocent face, and he reaches inside and caresses my cheek with a feather’s touch. “I’m your family. Your maker. You’re being reborn.”
His voice is rich and infused with sweetness, but it’s saccharine. Lying behind the surface of his eyes is a spark of red-hot fury burning. If I kindle it through disobedience it’ll ignite. I’m not dealing with sanity. I’ve been misled. Duped. My memory is returning now—our previous conversations for starters. Underneath the fear, I’m angry at myself. “Just so you know, you’ve made a grave mistake. I’ll be searched for, and I assure you I will be found. He’ll come for me.”
His laugh is low and rich and full of malevolence. “Oh, my lovely garden girl.” He leans in farther until we’re nose to nose and his breath smells like cool mint. “I’m counting on it.”
Chapter One
Memphis, Tennessee
FBI Field Office, Strange Crimes Unit
Friday, August 31
8:25 a.m.
“Who drank the last of the coffee?” Agent Tiberius Granger barked, holding up the empty coffeepot and waving it around the Strange Crimes Unit office. “I thought we had a rule. Whoever drinks the last cup makes the next pot. It’s a sound rule. I’m an FBI agent, people. I’ll find the culprit.”
His colleague and the SCU division psychologist, Violet Rainwater, glanced up from her desk. Maybe irritated. Maybe not. Violet always appeared annoyed. “Ty, you drank the last cup. An hour ago. Idiot,” she mumbled, and his ride-or-die, Owen Barkley, chuckled.
Well, maybe he had. “In my defense, I’m out of my mind in paperwork. I hate this job.”
That earned him another eye roll from Violet until her phone rang and her face softened. “Hey, John.” She stood and left the office for privacy. Ty made kissy sounds on her way out the door to get under her skin. She and the Memphis Missing Persons detective had been all about each other since last October when they’d worked a case together in an east Kentucky holler. So much so she now wore a big fat engagement ring, and Ty wondered if she’d shot and killed someone to get it. That was one big rock. And Violet was one good shot.
Owen met him at the coffee bar that their admin assistant, Cami, had put together, calling it Pinterest-worthy. All Ty cared about was that he had hot caffeine to keep him awake when he was out of Monster energy drinks. Owen dumped the filter in the trash. “Your coffee tastes terrible and your tie is ridiculous.” He poured distilled water in the coffee tank and scooped grounds into a new filter.
Ty smoothed his new tie. “I’ll have you know this tie says I’m a fall guy.”
“It’s a chalk outline mixed in between fall leaves.”
“I know.” Ty grinned. “Fall. Guy. Get it?”
“I wish I didn’t.” He pressed Start and the machine gurgled. “You think serial killers are taking autumn off? Less psychotic since summer is over? It was a scorcher. Even I wanted to kill someone.”
Ty leaned on the counter. Early in June, a sick-wad called The Priest had crucified men, leaving a trail across the Louisiana bayou. But nothing since then, except paperwork and phone calls. Well, they had helped Violent Crimes on two cases that weren’t considered strange—no religious undertones. Those crazies belonged to the SCU. Nope, it’d been entirely too silent since then. Ty never liked the quiet before the storm. Didn’t like storms in general since he’d been caught in a cat 1 hurricane in Barbados. And yet he’d still remembered to bring back gifts to the team, though he’d noted not one of them had ever worn the tropical shirts.
“I’m not sure serial killers take too much time off. Just enough to plot their next murder.” He glanced toward the big kahuna’s door. “Hey, you bringing a plus-one to Asa and Fiona’s wedding?”
Owen frowned. “That’s over a month away, bruh. I barely know who I’m taking out this weekend.” His sight traveled to the small cubicle at the back of the room where their computer analyst, Selah Jones, sat with thick black frames on the tip of her nose. Ty had a sneaking suspicion they weren’t even prescription lenses. Selah and Owen flirted and hung out on occasion, but O didn’t date colleagues, and like Ty, he wasn’t interested in serious relationships.
Bexley Hemmingway had ruined Ty for other women, or maybe she’d ruined other women for him. Either way, she was the last person he wanted on his mind and the only one on a constant loop since last year when he discovered she hadn’t actually been dead for the past seventeen years. He had a million questions, but not enough nerve to call and ask them. Besides, if she’d wanted, she could have found him. He’d been on the national news on more than one occasion, and where serial killers were concerned, everyone had a fetish tuning in to interviews, podcasts and press conferences to mine any perverted nugget they could, so she’d more than likely seen him at least once.
“Who are your weekend options?” Ty asked, redirecting his thoughts away from Bexley and anywhere else, even Owen’s dates.
“No one,” came the grisly voice from behind. Asa Kodiak, their Papa Bear and SAC, wore a grim expression. Fiona followed with the same narrowed eyes and scrunched brow. They’d been married and divorced, but they’d reconciled after catching the Nursery Rhyme Killer last summer. Since then he’d proposed again, and the next wedding was set for this October. Both Owen and Ty were Asa’s best men. Violet was going to be Fiona’s maid of honor. Violet in a fancy dress. This would be fun to watch, record and all-around enjoy. He hoped for John’s sake she at least smiled for the photos or their own wedding photos would look like something straight out of the 1800s.
