Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

Violet

It seems like I've lived a dozen lives this week, and I'm weary. So tired, my bones feel like they creak, and my eyelids feel paper thin. I want to crawl in my bed, face first, right on top of the blankets and not get up again for a good, long while.

I left here this morning wanting to get hired by Cain Master.

I got a lot more than I bargained for.

His huge, ambling truck pulls out in front of my place. My landlord Troy's smoking a butt on the top stoop, and he doesn't even bother to try to hide the fact that he's scoping out Cain and his truck. I watch him take a drag, then let the smoke out slowly. He tosses it to the next step down and grinds it under his heel before he starts to come our way.

Seriously?

"Who's this?" Cain murmurs, his voice deceptively casual.

"Landlord. Usually just keeps to himself. This is weird."

"He got a thing for you?"

I can't help but snort at that. "Uh, no." No one's got a "thing" for me, but I don't think Cain believes me. Troy anchors his hands on his hips and glares at us.

"Come at me, bro," Cain says quietly.

"Okay, relax," I say with an eye roll. "He is not worth your time. Trust me. I can handle him."

"That was never in question," he mutters, releasing the wheel and cracking his neck, like he's limbering up for a fight. Maybe he wants someone to pick a fight with him, to help burn off the intensity of the aggression that rolls off him. Maybe he wants to kick some ass.

Shiver.

"Alright, fine. I'll have a car brought here within the hour, and I want you at my place at eight a.m. sharp tomorrow morning."

Well then. Someone likes to gain back control. Well played, Mr. Master.

I'll play along right back.

"Of course. And thank you."

"Don't forget to pack your clothes."

I bite down some snarky remarks and turn away from him so he doesn't see my eye roll.

"Yessiree," I mutter, as I swing my legs around toward my side of the truck. The clouds shift, and a stream of moonlight hits the ground beside it. I look up at the full, brilliant white moon, and a pang hits my heart. Skylar. Where is she? What's happening to her? Is she okay?

And she isn't even my sister. I can't begin to imagine what he's going through. He's learned how to school his features, how to hide his feelings. Years of service and what he's been through would do that to a person.

We'll find her.

I push open the truck door. Cain opens his mouth to say something, but I don't give him a chance.

"Thank you for everything," I say loudly, infusing a lilt of flirtation in my voice, as if he just brought me home after homecoming, for Troy's benefit. Cringe. "I'll see you in the morning."

He gives me a little finger wave but doesn't reply. He's focused instead on watching Troy.

"If this fucker gives you any trouble…" he begins in a low rumble.

"Kick him where the sun don't shine. On it." To be more accurate, I'd curse him out and call Candi, since I typically try not to get into any altercations with my landlord. I did that once, and things got a bit… messy. It's hard to find a new apartment mid-month.

I step down from the truck, and Cain yells from behind me, "Call me before you go to bed, baby!"

God. He's doing that fake boyfriend thing again. I shoot him a glare over my shoulder, but that only makes him do this deep, manly, sexy chuckle I feel straight between my legs. Grrr!

Troy stares. What the hell is his problem? "Tell your boyfriend he can't park there," he says, but once he catches sight of Cain, he starts to take a step backward. Smart move, asshole.

It's on the tip of my tongue to tell him he's not my boyfriend, but I think better of it. It might be good for word to get around I've got a boyfriend the size of Paul Bunyan, who drives a truck the size of Paul's big blue ox. I amuse myself with the memory of the fabled Paul Bunyan rolling over in his sleep and causing an earthquake, and digging out the Great Lakes by hand.

I fantasized about being friends with Paul Bunyan when I was a little girl, bullied by my foster parents and bullied at school. No one would bully a girl with a friend who was bigger than life.

I guess I never outgrew that.

As Cain's truck drives away, I square my shoulders and head inside.

I walk up the steps and grab my mail, and for once in my life my landlord doesn't give me shit or follow me. Thank you, Mr. Master. I did tell him I don't need help, and I don't, but I might as well take advantage when opportunity knocks.

Now that the sun has set, it's cooler, and even the humidity's lessened. My phone beeps. I look down to see a text from Candi.

Just checking to see if you're still alive.

I will be more alive after I get some food in my belly.

I'm so starving, my vision's blurred. I walk up the flight of stairs, open my apartment door, then shut it and deadbolt it behind me. I breathe a sigh of relief that I've somehow made it this far. We do breathing exercises when we train, and it comes naturally to me when I feel the tension along my neck and back.

Deep breath in. Release.

After everything that's happened the past few days, I feel like I need to scope my place out before I relax.

The kitchen looks untouched. Nothing out of place. I left everything locked up tighter than a drum, the windows shut and locked, the air conditioner on low. The kitchen's clear.

The bathroom's got a small, standing shower with a clear glass door, and it's easy to see it's vacant as well. Not a towel or tissue out of place.

I turn to leave the bathroom when a loud crash sounds behind me in my bedroom. I scream, swivel on my heel, and my knife's in my hand before I've stopped screaming. I stand in place, my hand trembling.

"Who's there? Come out! I swear to God, if you don't, I'll kill you!"

I walk into my bedroom. A light breeze flutters through an open window, a curtain dancing in the wind. No one's there.

That's odd. I never leave my window open. Why the hell would I forget this one?

I swing around and look at my closet, but it's wide open and so tiny, no one could fit in there if they tried. There's nowhere else to hide in my rinky-dink apartment.

Why the hell did I think this was a good idea again? Why?

Independence is so overrated.

There's a fucking serial rapist on the loose, and the guy I'm working for not only has an enormous kitchen stocked with food I saw with my very own eyes, he has things like security guards and guns. Big ones.

Not the only big thing he's got, I think to myself like a horny teen, but someone's got to break the tension, and I'm the only one here.

"Good one, Vi. Keep ‘em rolling," I mutter to myself just to break the silence.

I walk around my room, suddenly angry that anyone's done anything at all to make me afraid, to think they can come into my goddamn house and hurt me. Blood pulses through my veins, boiling.

Come at me. Fight me. If even Cain Master himself took me on now, it would be a battle to the death.

"Who's there? Come out! Come show yourself to me!"

Nothing. Not a sound. I look on the floor as something catches my eye. A picture frame's fallen from my desk. The wind knocked it over, and here I am thinking I have a damn intruder.

I roll my eyes and pick it up. My doorbell buzzes.

Interesting. I go to the living room and push the intercom button, curious. "Yes?"

"Delivery for a Miss Price."

Delivery?

"What is it?"

"Sake and Sushi."

Sake and Sushi's the name of one of my favorite places to eat. "I didn't order Sake and Sushi," I say, even as my stomach growls and my mouth waters. I swallow hard. I wish that was my order.

"Delivery ordered from a Master Enterprises, ma'am."

No. He didn't!

"Come up."

I hit the buzzer, and a moment later, look through the peephole to find a delivery guy standing with an enormous takeout bag of food.

I open the door, and he hands me the bag. "Let me tip you?—"

"Already been taken care of. Good night."

And off he goes.

The smell wafts through the air, and my knees wobble. I'm weak with hunger.

My phone buzzes with a text.

Cain.

I tap it, and a picture fills my screen. It's a stunning, hefty black SUV with chrome rims that gleam under the streetlights. Oh my God.

This is your company vehicle. It's been dropped off by your front door and I'm sending you an attachment with a digital key. Once you open it, you'll find the physical key in the glovebox, entry code your birthday. You'll have a gas card as well and unlimited mileage.

Okay, Mr. Master, what's the catch?

No response at first.

Most people say thank you, Miss Price.

I'm not most people. What goes up must come down and all that.

The catch is, I still want your ass at my place in the morning for target practice.

And?

And nothing. I'm assuming you'll do the work I asked you to do tonight, and that's all. Enjoy your dinner.

Thank you.

My hand hovers over the little smiley face emoji, but on second thought I don't send it. I have to stay strong. I can't let him wine and dine me.

Mouth watering, I open the takeout bag to find a small pile of white cardboard boxes. I swallow. Oh my God, there's enough food here for an army. Vegetable tempura, lightly breaded and fried until golden brown, skewers of savory beef and chicken teriyaki, steamed rice with their signature veggies fresh from their rooftop garden, shrimp and rice, delicate rows of spring rolls, and a variety of fresh, decadent sushi, neatly nestled in pretty silver trays.

Candi's got a night shift, and I don't know anyone else close enough to share this with. Ah, well. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the next week, and I am not complaining.

I eat standing up right at the counter, savoring every decadent morsel.

"My God, food this good should not even be legal," I mutter to myself around a mouthful of shrimp tempura as I open up the laptop and fire it up.

I've got work to do.

I start with the notes on my phone.

When I'm good and stuffed, I package up the leftover food and slide it into my fridge, my mind teeming with the knowledge I've gleaned.

Precisely thirteen victims since June.

God. It's worse than I thought.

Several eyewitnesses insist they saw the same man with a string of victims before they went missing, but things aren't adding up.

"I know it was him," one father said about his daughter's kidnapper. "He fits this exact profile."

Who? The profile fits a man by the name of Derrick Dossier, a former police officer, retired from the force at the age of forty-nine. Some sources even found his DNA at the crime scene and on victims, which normally is strong evidence to convict. But every single time, there was undeniable evidence that Dossier had an ironclad alibi, most with video and photographic evidence. And since humans are unable to bi-locate, he was let off despite overwhelming evidence against him.

I look at my notes, wishing I hadn't eaten that last piece of shrimp. My stomach's in knots.

Anita Charles

Age: 18

Taken August 1, found dead August 4 th .

Clear victim of repeated rape. Bruises found along inner thighs and anus, lesions throughout the body.

Note: Sources say she received bouquets left at her door several days before she was taken.

Margaret Sellier

Age: 19

Taken August 5 th , found dead August 7 th

Raped multiple times. Bruised and subjected to beatings. Broken bones and teeth.

Note: Sources say there were fresh flowers at her residence when she was taken.

Clair Boyd

Age: 18

Taken August 8 th . Survivor.

Has no memory of abuse but shows signs of repeated rape and abuse. Trauma amnesia.

Note: No flowers on record

I spend the next two hours scrolling through every bit of social media involving the girls that I can, as well as every report I can get my hands on.

Anita left home at the age of sixteen and was estranged from her parents as well as her siblings. She came from a religious home and had nine brothers and sisters. "She left us for the occult," her mother's on record as saying. "I knew things would end like this. I knew she'd be taken by the Devil for her sins."

A lump rises in my throat, reminding me of the minister's wife who rejected me. I don't know how some people live with themselves in the name of something that should be good.

Anita has a mere twelve followers online, and the news said no one came to her funeral.

Strange.

I flip through her pictures, not surprised to see she classifies herself as Wiccan, but has very few friends. There are patterns like the pieces to a puzzle scattered on a table, beginning to take form but still just a jumble of cardboard. I need to fit more pieces into place before I can see the whole picture.

Margaret Sellier has a similar story. Left home at eighteen, got a double associates degree from a local community college. But reports say she was "strange" and "odd." Further investigation shows she was known for resisting mainstream culture, publicly and vocally.

I pace my apartment. Thinking.

If I were someone looking to take advantage of women… I would want to take someone no one would miss. It would cover my tracks if I took someone who might be involved with things their family didn't approve of, so said family might blame their social groups or behavior on their disappearance…

It's after midnight when I close my laptop and go to shower. I strip my clothes off halfway down the hall and toss them into the hamper just before I get to the bathroom. I wish I could cleanse what I've read from my mind, but I'm determined now. I will find the person responsible for these crimes.

A pang of guilt hits me.

I haven't thought about finding my parents' murderers in hours. I haven't gone that long without thinking about them in… God, years.

I tell myself this is only a means to an end. Help him, and he'll help me. I'm only working with him for this one reason, so I can leverage his power and connections.

I put the water on to scalding and glance down at myself. God, I'm a mess. Between the stupid accident and bruising my shins all to hell today on Cain's car, I'm covered in bruises and lacerations and smudges of dirt. How could that guy hit on me?

Did he hit on me?

I stare at myself in the mirror, just before the steam fogs it up entirely. My body may be damaged, but my eyes are the same vivid shade of violet as ever.

I should maybe get those color-changing contacts. If I'm on the hunt for someone, they'll remember a girl with eyes like mine.

I text Cain. I bet he'll be able to get them quicker than I will.

Hey, I know it's late, hopefully you do the ‘do not disturb' after a certain hour thing

The response is immediate.

Everything okay?

Guess he doesn't.

My heart thumps. I probably woke the guy up, and his first question is, am I okay? This is after he bought me dinner and a car .

And after he tried to boss you around and showed absolutely no respect for your self-respect or autonomy. NO THANK YOU.

I'm fine, but I wondered if you

I pause mid-text, trying to figure out how to word my question just right. My finger is hovering over the phone when my eyes graze the windowsill in my bedroom. I'm on the second floor near the fire escape. The breeze still flutters the curtains at the window, only now the windowsill isn't empty.

A sprig of purple irises sits on the ledge.