Chapter Fourteen

Tiberius bolted out the front door onto the porch, his eyes straining to see in the dark. Was that movement thirty feet north of him? With his Glock drawn, he eased off the steps and carefully headed toward the shifting shadow, using houses and cars for cover.

Whoever had been lurking was gone. Vanished like vapor in the wind.

Tiberius backtracked and stumbled at the sight of a small white box on the porch beside the front door. He hadn't seen it in his chase after the lurker. "Bexley," he called from the front door. "Can you bring me my bag I brought in, please?"

A moment later, she came to the door, a bat in one hand and a bag in the other.

"Nice. You need a gun."

"I'm perfectly fine with my trusty bat." She handed him the bag, and he opened it and found a pair of latex gloves in his kit. Once he had gloves on, he brought the box inside and laid it on the kitchen table. It was light, as if it might be empty.

Nerves taut, he carefully opened it. The killer knew exactly where to find Tiberius. He started to peel back the white tissue paper, fearing a finger or toe would be inside, then hesitated. "Bexley," he said, his voice clogged. "I need you to go into the living room, and I'll call you in after I open it. Where's Josiah?"

"I sent him to his room and told him to stay there until we said it was safe."

"Good. You go too. Okay?"

Wide eyes met his, but she nodded and retreated. Ty retrieved his cell phone and used the camera to snap photos and then record a video. "This box was put on the front porch of 2122 Linden Lane, Blue Harbor, North Carolina, at 9:20 p.m." He propped up the phone and removed the white tissue paper from the box. Blood hadn't seeped through, but a postmortem body part didn't bleed.

Not a body part.

He lifted out two wooden sticks that resembled rulers attached to black fishing line. What on earth? "Bex, you can come in."

Bexley returned. "Marionette strings? What does that mean?"

He turned off the recording and studied the strings and wooden handles as the meaning settled like an arctic tundra in his bones. "He's calling me a puppet. He's pulling the strings. My strings." A taunting gift reminding Ty he was nothing more than a play toy.

Puppets' actions were controlled by the attached strings. How was he being controlled? Okay, the bodies brought his team here, but after arriving, they followed leads in the investigation. Could the killer be controlling even their investigation? Seemed likely with the information he fed them with the flash drive and video.

This went far deeper than a killer wanting revenge. This was a killer who wanted complete dominion over Ty.

Bexley wrung her hands. "What's that mean, Tiberius? How?"

Tiberius massaged his chin. "Honestly, I'm not sure."

But it must connect with the girls Patrick Swain hired for his fantasy land beach home business. Ahnah had been one—which he still wasn't telling Bexley about. Not yet. Amy-Rose, Lily Hayes and maybe other girls who were on the missing list.

The killer had wanted them to know about Jenny Davis and Patrick Swain.

Why?

Was it someone who wanted Swain under scrutiny? He needed to see Skipper again.

Ethan Lantrip's Good Samaritan act never did sit well with Ty. But what was at play here? How was Ty being this killer's puppet?

Had Ahnah's alleged nefarious activity landed her on this killer's radar? Was the killer the person paying for the fantasy? Had he specifically asked for women with flowers in their names?

Patrick was in commercial property, which meant he had access to warehouses and abandoned buildings.

Commercial property. Just like Ty's own father.

Could Patrick Swain have ties to Rand Granger? Had he been in the Family but not lived in the gated community, which was strictly for leadership families? Other members were spread all over Asheville and Charlotte. As far as Raleigh.

Maybe even the Outer Banks.

"Ty, I can see your wheels turning. What's going on? Whatever it is, I can handle it. I need to know. I might even be able to help you." Bexley stepped into his personal space. "I know you. Seventeen years have passed, but I still know you, and you're keeping something from me. What is it?"

He hesitated. This would not be easy for her, and they had no proof. But she might be able to help somehow. "It's going to be a blow."

"I can take it."

He sighed heavily. "Ahnah might have been prostituting."

"Lie!"

The force behind the word startled Ty and Bex. Josiah stood in the hallway, his nostrils flaring.

"She would never do that!" Josiah ran back to his room.

"Let me," Ty said, and chased after him, entering his room without knocking.

"Go away," Josiah said, sprawled on his bed, his pillow covering his face.

"I said it was possible, Josiah. You weren't meant to hear that. We don't know for sure. But we do know that Skipper—the guy you told me about—he took girls out to a beach house where they did things that I can't talk about."

Josiah uncovered his face as he scooched up on his rumpled bed. Such a boy's room. Musk and old sock smells permeated the small space. Clothes littered the floor, and empty food containers and soda cans cluttered the desk and dresser. "Ahnah could be kind of wild at times. But it's Mom's fault."

"How so?"

"She's always helping other women and never giving Ahnah attention. Or me... She's a terrible mother."

"I think you might be too hard on her."

Josiah snarled. "Of course you'd stick up for her. You just want in the sack with her."

Recognized as his father or not, that was enough. "Now, hold up," he said, reining in some of his temper. "I get teenage boy rebellion, but your mom has done nothing but provide for you, putting a roof over your head and food in your stomach all by herself—"

"Because my father is a class-A piece of garbage who couldn't care less about me or my mom."

Ty gritted his teeth. "Did she tell you that?"

"No. But he is. If he wanted me, he'd come find me."

Balling a fist, he mentally counted to ten. "What if he didn't know about you? What if he's none of those things, and he's as in the dark about you as you've been about him?"

Josiah jerked his head, the motion sweeping his bangs from his eyes. "It doesn't even matter. I'm over it. I'm over him. I don't need or want him in my life. He could walk in today and I'd shut him down, kick him out and not even care."

Untrue. His emotions were fueled by affliction and suffering, but they sawed through Ty like a rusty serrated knife. Ty sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for the demand to leave the room, but Josiah covered his face with his pillow again and turned to the wall. This kid had big, valid feelings, and Bexley had bound Ty's hands.

He noticed Josiah's laptop, Discord open on the screen, and caught Bexley's name with a derogatory word for women—one Ty absolutely hated and always had—next to it. It was a message from a friend named Abe. The kid he'd gone to meet at the arcade the other night. Josiah had been griping about Bexley in typical teenage fashion. She never lets me do this or that. She thinks I'm a child. But Abe's words held vitriol.

"Josiah, I know you think your mom doesn't love you or give you enough freedom and that your father doesn't care about you or want you. And your aunt is missing. You have a lot to juggle on your plate, but hold tight and some of these problems will be solved. And, as far as me and your mom, you need to have greater respect for her and know that I am not staying here for illicit reasons. And if you bring that idea up again, we'll have to have more of a man-to-man talk than a man-to-boy. You feel me?"

Josiah grunted from underneath the pillow.

"I also have to wonder if this Abe guy is a good influence."

Tossing the pillow, Josiah sat up and slammed his laptop shut. "Why are you looking at my chat?"

"It was open, and profanity linked to your mom caught my eye."

"Well, it's none of your business, and maybe you don't want to sleep with my mom, but just know that dating her will never work. She'll break your heart. She has no follow-through. Dated a few decent guys but in the end dumped them." He strode toward his bathroom. "I don't see you being any different."

Ty stood, sensing his time was up. "You're short-changing her." With that, he slipped out the door and down the hall into the main living space of the home. Bexley stood at the stove, a teakettle steaming.

"He wants a dad, Bexley. He's angry and hates me and doesn't even know me. Thanks for that. Not to mention his friends are trash." He left the kitchen and went out on the porch. He had a pair of puppet strings to discuss with the team. But right now, he felt more like Bexley's Pinocchio than the killer's.

The girl in the room next to mine has danced every single time he's asked them to. She now wears several open blooms on her upper back and arm. I have no idea what they are. Who she is. Who anyone is or how long they've been here other than the number of flowers tattooed on their flesh. More flowers, been here longer. Less tattoos, less time.

My entire back and right arm are now covered in little pink buds. They're exquisite and well-done and I hate them.

When we're alone in our rooms, I've been whispering to the new girl. I tell her we can fight him. We have the numbers. Escape isn't possible. We're on camera and the house is powered by his phone, so sneaking around will never happen. It's a crushing blow, but if we were to gang up on him, we could overpower him and kill him. It doesn't appear the new girl is on board. She never responds.

I hear doors opening and closing. He's leading us like sheep to his sick pasture. One by one escorting us to iron bars where he expects us to perform for his perverted pleasure. I rub my right wrist that's surely fractured, and the fresh throbbing pain in my groin reminds me if I do not succumb to his wishes, he'll continue to break me, to burn me.

The moment I dance it'll signal my defeat and his victory, and I've lost everything else. I've lost my clothing, my rights, my dignity. My freedom. My family. I'm losing hope now too. How much longer can I hold out, hang on?

His footsteps grow closer and I know it's my turn. The door unlocks, and he steps inside in a tailored suit, loosened tie and shiny shoes. He could be a cover model. My stomach pitches. I hold out my arm for him to unlock me.

"Will you plan to bloom today? Is this display a show of surrender, submission?" he asks, with delight in his voice and cheery surprise in his eyes. His phone is poking from his suit coat and it's now or never.

I make my move and shove him. Then, using the iron cuff, I wallop him against the side of his face, cutting his cheek. I swing again, but he blocks the blow. His fist slams into my gut so hard I lose my breath, and the grilled chicken from last night threatens to come up.

Grabbing me by my hair, he wrenches my head back. I knee him in the A frame and snag his phone. He can't lock doors without his phone. Racing from the room, I rush into the living area, down one section of stairs and then the next to the first floor.

The door is in sight.

I make it and twist the knob. It's unlocked!

Flying down the dock that stretches out and turns into a maze across the marsh, I race for the canoe. We came by boat and docked, then took a canoe through to the private beach. From there, we followed a dock to the house. It had been dark that night, and my mind had not been memorizing how to get away.

I never realized I was going to be held captive.

Waves pound the beach; the wind is fierce and the clouds are heavy with rain.

The hurricane's work—rain and storms preceding her arrival soon.

The dock breaks into a patch of what appears to be woods, and I remember walking through here, his arm holding me up when I tripped. Our laughter and stolen kisses.

I trip over the tree roots jutting from the ground and they bloody my bare feet, ripping away skin, but it's the least of my worries.

That's when I hear it. Feet pounding the dock. He's behind me. He knows my destination. My escape plan. My breath hitches and my knees buckle, but I don't fall. I keep running.

I have his phone.

I press the side button. One. Two. Three. Four... The phone falls from my hand as he shoves me forward and I crash onto the wooden dock, splinters sliding into my palm. My head smacks into the rail and warm thick blood oozes from the wound.

"I have had enough out of you," he hisses and yanks me up by my hair, the blinding pain sending me into a fit of retching. Before I can raise a hand or cry in protest, his fist connects with my face, and the world spins into darkness.

When I open my eyes, I'm in my cage. The garden girls in their assumed positions. He's changed clothes and is now wearing another pair of black silk lounging pants with a matching shirt, unbuttoned and open. Classical musical is playing, but he's not given instruction to bloom or they'd be dancing.

My palms burn and the splinters are wedged inside my skin. My entire body aches, and I'm pretty sure my fractured wrist is now completely broken. My head feels like someone has run a steel rod through it and attached it to an electrical outlet.

"I see you're awake. I didn't want to start without you." He presses the remote and the music grows louder.

My hair is down and loose and I feel the streaks left from tears, a little sticky. I touch the tender spot from where I fell, and wince. "I'm never going to dance for you. No matter what you do." I know I'm lying. My armor's cracked. I'm stripped bare to the soul.

He grips the bars. "I hoped for better and expected as much. That's fine." He leaves my cage and stalks the other prisons. "From now on, I'm not going to hurt you. I'm going to hurt one of them. But which one?" he asks, excitement lacing his tone as he strolls between the women, his arms locked behind his back.

"Eeny..." He circles a cage and a woman gasps, but he keeps moving. "Meeny..." He pauses and inspects his flower, who doesn't move, speak or breathe. He nods and makes his circles again, in and out of the cages like infinity loops, and I know that's how long I'll be here if he doesn't kill me first. "Miney..."

One of them whimpers. He strokes her hair, places an index finger to his lips. "Shh..." He loops through again and stops. "Moe." He stands at the new girl's cage and opens its door, then sticks his hand inside.

If I dance he wins. If I don't he hurts another woman. She's been obedient and doesn't deserve this. I can't be this person. I don't want to be either person. I choke down a sob and sit in position, my knees drawn up.

He yanks her out anyway, dragging her toward me. "Look at me," he quietly demands.

I raise my head from my knees, acquiescing because I do not want my punishment inflicted on anyone else. I will bear it myself. "I'm in position. I'm going to dance. She's bloomed."

The monster twists her arm behind her back and she cries out, her knees buckling and her bladder releasing.

"I'm going to bloom! I'm in position."

A pop fills the air and nausea floods my gut. She shrieks, and he releases her as she falls in a heap on the floor, her arm hanging at an angle that sickens me. Releasing a satisfied sigh, he pats her head. "You'll be fine." He holds my gaze, his eyes cold and calculating. "Or maybe you won't be," he mutters, and drags her by the good arm across the tile as she wails and pleads.

I white-knuckle the bars and beg him to stop. To fight me. Take me. Pick me.

I'm ready to die. I want to die.

But he ignores my cries.