Chapter Ten

The body was not Ahnah.

Bexley's relief tasted like fresh water from a bubbling brook. For now, Ahnah was alive—or so she hoped. She had to be. Bexley trusted that Ty and the SCU team would be able to solve this case and bring Ahnah home safely. Somewhere out there, though, another family was going through their worst nightmare, and she prayed they'd find comfort in God within the midst of their fiery trial. He was the only hope keeping her afloat.

"Fight, baby sis, fight," she half muttered, half prayed, and checked her watch. Her client was late. Sometimes after a few sessions, patients refused to show up due to the stress of dealing with the open wound. She hoped that wasn't the case here, but her client had been wrestling with some past abuse in relationships that went all the way back to an uncle during childhood. If she didn't show in the next fifteen minutes, she'd call her.

A knock pulled her from her thoughts, and Drew Monroe's head popped inside. He worked one street over and was a top-notch counselor. He was also her therapist.

"I got your voice mail about a male patient exhibiting parental transference onto you. You want me to assess him and take over his counseling?" he asked, and entered as she motioned him. Having his presence in the room comforted her. After Renee had passed, Drew had helped her work through her trauma.

"I do. I have his file though I haven't spoken with him about it. He's not going to like it, and I'm not sure if it's better or worse passing him on." She leaned her head back on her office chair and released a pent-up breath.

"How are you doing?" He eased his well-built frame into the chair. His dark eyes matched his dark, thick hair that was pulled back in a man bun. Not many men could pull off the man bun in their mid forties, but Drew wasn't like most therapists.

"I'm not paying for a session, Drew."

"I'm not here as a therapist, Bexley." He cocked his head and crossed one leg over his knee. "I heard they found a new victim this morning. News says her name is Dahlia Anderson."

She nodded. "Tiberius texted me earlier that it wasn't Ahnah, but he didn't go into any other details."

"And how are you processing him being in your life, on your couch, and knowing that Josiah is his son?" His arms rested lightly on the arms of the chair as he studied her facial expressions and body language.

"It's surreal. I don't know how Josiah is going to respond. He's been so angry lately. Dropping this on him now would wreck his mental state, but putting it off will too. I'm not sure any timing is good. As far as Tiberius, he's the same and also different. More mature, though he masks it with sarcasm and joking—that's not anything new. I think he's more worried than he lets on."

"You don't think he believes he can find Ahnah?" A dark eyebrow rose.

"He appears confident, but it's taking a toll. Seeing his vulnerability makes me want to run to him and help, but he's not been open about his fears. Probably not to worry me. He never wanted to see me afraid or fretting. He's a fixer at heart. I dumped what Ahnah was going through on him, and his solution was to fix it, but..."

"It only made things worse, and you think he harbors guilt over that."

"We both do."

Drew checked his watch. "I have somewhere I need to be, but why don't you schedule an hour with me for real? No charge."

Bexley shook her head. "If it's a session, I'm paying. End of story." She handed him Milo's file. "Let me know if you'd be willing to take him on and we'll get the ball rolling."

"Will do. Be careful, Bexley. You've made such good progress. I don't want to see you have a setback because Agent Granger is here unraveling your emotions. Take care of yourself."

"I will. Thanks for coming by." She walked him to the door, catching a scent of his aftershave. She peeked into the waiting area, but her ten thirty was still a no-show. Once she closed the door, she pulled Catherine's file and called the primary number.

Voice mail.

She called the secondary number.

It rang twice before she heard a woman on the other end. "Hello? Catherine, is that you?"

"No, this is Bexley Hemmingway. I'm calling about Catherine. Is this Mrs. Overly?"

"Yes. How do you know my daughter?"

"I'm her therapist. She hasn't shown up for her appointment or answered her phone. I wanted to check in with her, and this number was an emergency contact."

Catherine's mother sniffed. "Catherine hasn't been home in two days. Hasn't shown up to work or answered any of my calls or texts. It's not like her. I called the police twenty minutes ago and filed a missing persons report. I've been watching the news. I know what's happening, and Catherine is a flower name." Her last words came out garbled.

"It is?"

"Catherine wheels. Are you sure her appointment was today?" Mrs. Overly asked.

"I am. I'm so sorry. Maybe she went off for a few days for a breather. Some of what we're working on in therapy is tough, but you know this. She's mentioned you know all about her problems and were the one to suggest a therapist." Deep in her bones, she didn't believe Catherine took a breather. Not with a flower for a name.

"I don't think so," she said through a shaky whisper. "The police say they'll look for her, but..." She left the words hanging. The words of finality. "If she does show up or call, will you let me know?"

"Of course. And will you do the same?"

"Absolutely. Is there anything the police should know? From her appointments with you?"

Nothing Bexley could confide in them. "I'm happy to talk to them. And I have connections with the FBI who are in town. My—my younger sister went missing a week ago. I understand."

The woman remained silent, then broke down into tears. "I want her back."

"I know. Me too." Every day she had to get up, get dressed and go through the day-to-day activities and routines. See clients. Deal with Ruth's Refuge homes and finances. Be a mom. Buy groceries. And all with Ahnah and what might be happening to her on a constant loop in her mind. She ended the call, scrolled to Tiberius's name and tapped.

He answered on the second ring. "Bexley, everything okay? Is it Josiah?"

"No. Josiah's fine. It's about a client. She's been missing for two days and her name is a flower."

Sunlight dances in the solarium, casting shadows on the tile, and the heat warms my naked body. I'm in the cage. I'm done tallying the broken fingers and burns. I have new ones since my stand against blooming.

I've been under twice. The little yellow school buses baptize me into sweet darkness, and I hope with each time he'll have given me too much and I'll stay immersed in that unaware bliss. My sister tells me when we breathe our last breath, angels come to usher us into the arms of Jesus.

Any arms are better than those of the man who sits on his chaise with a folder open. I can't tell what he's looking at, but he's invested in it as he no longer pays attention to his garden girls. The newest one sleeps in the room next to mine. I hear her crying in there right now. At some point it'll stop or simply become dry tears and sobs no one but God can hear.

Classical music plays. I know this one. Für Elise by Beethoven. I played it at a recital when I was ten and butchered it, but the audience clapped anyway. He doesn't command us to bloom. No one speaks.

The strong smell of his espresso reminds me how much I miss good coffee. He doesn't bring us coffee. We are allowed water and orange juice and for dinner sweet tea. A breeze sweeps through the room from the open door and I all but salivate. Open doors are freedom.

He closes the file and frowns, then catches my eye. I am not in a seated position like the others, though I wear the bun he put in place before escorting me to my thirty minutes of sunshine. Just. Like. Prison.

"Why flowers?" I ask, my throat hoarse from not using my voice today. There's no one to talk to. But I'm curious, and if he was once logical and reasonable and seemingly sane, I might be able to appeal to that person. Get on that level. Connect. Sitting on his green chaise, reading while sipping espresso and listening to music make him seem absolutely normal. No one would suspect he's locked women in cages. Three are empty. One has been empty all along. One is for the newest victim who I know is in her room. I heard the buzzing of the tattoo gun late into the night and early morning.

Where is the other one who was inked the most? Where could he possibly find another inch of skin to create a flower?

He sips his espresso and puts the tiny cup on a saucer with a quiet clink. "You do not speak unless spoken to first. You know that." He swings his legs over the chaise, and my blood pumps so hard it hurts. I flinch and cower in my cage, hating myself for becoming this, but the pain he inflicts is becoming impossible to stand up against.

I've done my best.

But he doesn't rip me from the cage. Instead he grips the bars and smirks. He knows he's wearing me down, getting me right where he wants me. And I know that in only a short time, I'll be twirling and dancing.

"My mom was a master gardener. I helped her often. It was a labor of love. Much like what I'm cultivating here." He leans in farther. "You will bloom," he murmurs. "We both know it, and the open blooms I'm going to create, remaking you, will sing."

I say nothing. He's not wrong.

"Storm's coming," he says louder so the others can hear. "Hurricane Jodie. She decimated the Bahamas."

One of the flowers—one I actually recognize, Ivy—raises her head, eyes wide. He snaps his fingers, and she immediately resumes her resting position.

"Where is the other garden girl?" I ask.

His eyes darken, and dread fills my belly with churning acid.

I know she's dead. I don't know why or what purpose that served and I dare not ask.

"No worries," he says to us all. "The hurricane can't stop me. I always get what I want. Now it's time to make my next move."

"What move?"

"The one that gets me what I want and sets in motion the next act." As he says this, the song crescendos and comes to an end.

And I know that I am coming to an end too.