Chapter Four

Acharcuterie board had been set out on the kitchen counter. Fiona snagged a black olive and laid out paper plates.

They'd visited Amy-Rose Rydell's family's home and then Lily Hayes's. Amy-Rose's family didn't think anything was missing, but they weren't as close as they used to be and had no idea about anyone named Skipper. They did say she was a bit wild and they thought she partied too much. Lily Hayes's family said nothing was missing as Lily still lived at home. She'd finally been coming into some money from a side job that she said was delivering groceries, but they didn't believe her. When asked what they thought she might be doing on the side, they answered with silence and shrugs.

If both women were into partying and maybe even stripping or escort service work, that might be how the killer found them. Ty ignored the food. The interviews had been hard to conduct because he kept losing his train of thought, and eventually Violet took the baton. His focus was on Josiah, and the fact he had a son. A son the killer knew about.

Would Josiah even want to know Ty was his father? Would he want a relationship with him? Questions fired in his brain like a semiautomatic. Tonight, he hoped for some answers—the kind that required more than head nods and one-word responses.

"Who put this together?" Ty asked. "Looks like the froufrou stuff Cami feeds us when we work through lunches." Looked pretty. A grown-up Lunchable minus the chocolate sandwich cookie. She'd never found his comments amusing.

"Yeah, and they're delicious without putting forth a lot of effort." Fiona pointed to a large to-go sack that read Blue Fin Grill. The adult lunch-meat board had been catered.

"What'd that cost?"

"Me less time," Fiona shot back, popped another whole black olive in her mouth and snagged a cube of cheese.

"That's all processed," Violet added, and dropped her purse on the kitchen counter by the fridge.

Fiona made a display of shoving a piece of pepperoni in her mouth and going gaga over it. "So did you catch the killer?" she asked to annoy Violet.

Ty chuckled.

"You know we didn't." Violet didn't always understand jokes. Or maybe she didn't find them all that funny. At least not Fiona's.

Asa raised his head from the dining room table turned into conference table. They'd set up an official command post at the sheriff's office ten minutes away in Manteo, but were using the beach house too. The view was amazing and breathed some hope into a vicious case.

They'd borrowed a whiteboard from the Manteo FBI resident agency and had already taped the photos of Amy-Rose Rydell and Lily Hayes on the board along with pertinent information and the photos of the missing women with flowers in their names.

"What did the Rydell and Hayes families have to say?" Owen asked. He had his laptop out in front of him with the high-tech geopattern software open, but he'd also tacked a map onto the living room wall and placed pins marking the locations where the women lived, worked and often visited.

"Let the man eat. He gets hangry," Fiona said.

Under normal circumstances, Fi would be right, but not today. Today he'd pretty much lost his appetite even though his stomach was so empty he'd felt his last swig of water slide down, leaving a cold wake from his gullet to his gut. "I'm not hungry."

Asa and Fiona both snapped to attention.

"How bad was it at Bexley Hemmingway's?" Fiona asked.

Violet sat poker-faced and silent, leaving the conversation to Ty's discretion.

"This killer might have targeted a woman I cared about when she was a child and he might target Bexley." He explained about the guy named Skipper—a possible lead. Their only possible lead right now. "I feel responsible, but I'll go by the house later to pick up the sketch her son said he'd draw." He nearly choked on the words her son.

"I can have him in five minutes," Selah said through the computer screen, pushing her chunky black glasses back up on her nose.

Ty didn't protest or it'd stir up questions he had no intention of answering and instead walked to the whiteboard and added information about the women's partying, a mysterious side hustle, and the possibility things had gone missing. "What did you find out at the ME's office this morning?"

"No signs or evidence of sexual assault on either victim. They'd been fed—and not shabbily either. Medical examiner found remains of steak in Amy-Rose's stomach," Asa said. "She died not long after eating. Cause of death is overdose. High levels of Xanax in her system. We won't know if Lily Hayes is the same until the tox screen comes back."

Four to six weeks. Unlike cool criminal TV shows.

"But," Asa continued, "we can make an educated guess it's the same. These women who've gone missing are overlapping in time, so I believe he's keeping them all at once. Working on them individually. We're talking at least eight, maybe more. He'd need a place to keep them."

"Any evidence of physical abuse?" Violet asked. "He feeds them well and he keeps them alive for a period of time. I have to wonder if Amy-Rose and Lily Hayes were casualties in a much bigger plan. To do that much work on them—Amy-Rose more than Lily—and then to kill them? No. He wants every inch of their bodies and then to collect them like a garden of flowers. One murder does nothing. Two, with a religious calling card, brings us out here." Her gaze connected with Ty's. "This guy was willing to give up two of his victims in order to snag our attention—Ty's attention. He knew there had to be some kind of overt religious undertone. Thus the note card."

Fiona strode to the whiteboard to add updated information. "The medical examiner did find evidence of torture. Amy-Rose had several broken fingers that hadn't healed properly, a broken wrist, and a few burn scars on her armpits, the bottoms of her feet, and her groin."

"He's hurting them in places that won't affect the tattoo work, which tells me he wants perfection on the visible skin," Violet said.

Fiona pushed her plate away. This was the kind of conversation that chased away appetites or any hope in humanity. "We think he's using physical torture to keep them under control or to submit to his wishes—not the inking. He overdosed Amy-Rose—and probably Lily Hayes—with Xanax, so he's likely using it to put them under for periods of time to do the ink work."

"The nice meals," Asa continued, "could be rewards if they obey or submit. You act right, you are taken care of. You do not, you incur pain. After a lengthy period of time, he'd get them to submit and obey his every whim, which is exactly what he wants. Control. Power. Ownership of them. But what does he do with them when he's not tattooing them? Where do they stay, and what do they do if it's not of a sexual nature? He's perfected his tattooing method too much for these to be his first victims. Has anything similar popped in ViCAP?"

"Three sex workers in Raleigh went missing and were found dead and tattooed with flowers about three years ago, but it's noted they can't be sure if the tats had been inked in captivity or not. Two more were discovered in Charlotte eighteen months ago. One definitely did not have the tattoos before, according to an undercover cop who knew her."

"He's been practicing," Violet added. "Did the prostitutes have flower names or go by flower names?"

"No," Selah said.

"We can't be sure if it's the same guy, but it could be, which means he may have been practicing for the real flowers. The women didn't matter to him. He'd consider them to be throwaways."

Ty pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. The kidnapping and killing of all these girls wasn't Ty's fault. This guy wanted them and had already been abducting and murdering women prior to this new insane plan. Taking Ahnah and planting the two most recent victims—that was on Ty. "The Fire Ice Killer also tortured his victims. He knows how I insulted his intelligence. Violet is right. He could have evolved, and while doing so, created this scheme to get revenge. It took a while, but it's no different than a long con. We need to dig back into those old cases and search for something new, something we didn't notice before but would now due to the newest case."

"I'm already on that," Selah said.

Violet nibbled on her thumbnail. "We know the Fire Ice Killer abducted the women and kept them for a week before killing them. He strangled them, though. Wasn't a sexual deviant either—which makes me lean toward him evolving. Sexual predators are always sexual predators even if targets or locations change, and if this UNSUB is holding them even longer than a week—months—there would be evidence indicating rape. Torture seems consistent in both cases."

Asa blew out a heavy breath, then sipped his sweet tea. "Lily Hayes had no broken bones or burn marks, which indicates not all the women were tortured. They found sand and bits of American beach grass on her, but that doesn't really give us anything detailed. You can find that all over the Outer Banks."

Ty picked up the photos they'd returned with from the ME's office. The roses were perfect and expertly placed on Amy-Rose Rydell.

Bloom where you are planted.

Not all the roses inked along her body had been blooming roses, though. Several on her upper neck and back were rosebuds. "How many broken fingers did Amy-Rose have?"

"Uh..." Asa studied the autopsy report. "Seven."

Ty carefully counted the number of rosebuds.

Seven. Interesting. When she bloomed where she was planted—obeyed or acquiesced to whatever he requested—she received blooming roses. When she did not submit, she didn't bloom and was punished. "Which wrist had been broken?" he asked Asa.

"Left."

Ty found a photo of her left arm and studied it. A nice long sleeve of roses in multiple colors. Each one blooming, except for the circle of red rosebuds around her wrist. He quickly began laying out the photos in a horizontal line and watched in horror as his theory materialized into reality.

"What do you see?" Violet sidled up beside him.

"Look at her left wrist."

Violet hummed low, seeing the looming picture. She pointed to the victim's neck. "Closed buds...they start opening around the middle of her back."

Exactly. "Give me Lily's photos."

Asa passed them over, and he laid them out. "Closed buds beginning at her neck and opening further down on her back." She wasn't as tattooed as Amy-Rose Rydell. She'd gone missing one month later. "He starts at the neck with closed-up flowers because they're fighting him—being disobedient—but as he brings the pain, they begin to cooperate with him—whatever that entails." What was this man making them do?

"Y'all, I can't see." Selah popped up on-screen, and Asa shifted the laptop to face the photos.

"Lily Hayes's blooms open and stay open. But Amy-Rose is littered with rosebuds," Ty said. "I think she fought harder and longer than Lily."

Way to go, Amy-Rose.

"That means he's not picking a type—a passive personality—but is choosing women solely based on flower names," Asa said.

Except Ty didn't believe Ahnah was chosen just for her flower middle name.

Violet leaned her hip on the table. "Amy-Rose's family said she was outgoing, star of the show wherever she went, which was a lot of places. Her mom even mentioned she'd been headstrong. She knew she'd have fought to the bitter end, and that gave her some comfort. Lily's family said she was home early most nights, was always a good girl and—"

"A rule-follower," Ty said. "She'd have far fewer closed blooms." He tapped his index finger on the open blooms located on her back. "Bloom where you are planted. When it's not in a place you'd choose to be or want to be, you bloom despite the hardship and turmoil. The phrase is derived from a verse in the Bible. Well, several verses about being planted by streams of water and yielding fruit in season. There's also a verse in the New Testament—I can't remember where, but I'll google it—about flowers withering and fading."

"Got it," Selah said. "According to the King James Version, the New Testament verse is James 1:11 and Peter 1:24. Three more in the Old Testament. Two from the book of Isaiah, though it appears they go together in context, and one from the book of Job. You want me to read them?"

"Yes," Ty said as he concentrated on the photos. They were close to a profile, and once they had it, they could compare it with the one on the Fire Ice Killer. Rule him in or out.

Selah read them. "Isaiah forty, verses six through eight, says, ‘The voice said, Cry. And he said, What shall I cry? All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field: The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: because the spirit of the Lord bloweth upon it: surely the people is grass. The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: but the word of our God shall stand for ever.'"

Hmm... "Read the one in Job."

"Job fourteen, verse two, reads, ‘He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down: he fleeth also as a shadow, and continueth not.'"

"Interesting. Job is a book about intense suffering. Maybe he's plucking them to test their ability to stand up to suffering—submit despite the pain." This wasn't his area of expertise, but Violet's.

He'd rather not know or be able to sink into a devious mind. Except for now.

Now he needed to know. Because it was personal.

"We need to give a press conference," Asa said.

"Ty needs to give it," Violet said. "The Fire Ice Killer will hate it. I'll coach you on what to say. You give it and he'll make a mistake. He won't expect it to be you. Asa hasn't let you give a press conference since the viral video. Now it's time to take away some of his limelight by making you the face of this investigation."

Ty wasn't sure about the idea. What if it made the killer angry enough to kill another woman—to kill Ahnah or take his son?

I've been fed pills twice since he brought me back the other night from my escape attempt. He says they're Xanax, and I've seen them before, so he's not lying. I welcomed them after the first night when he broke my pinky finger for running. It throbs with a sharp ache, and it's black and blue and swollen.

He told me if I obey, he wouldn't have to do these things. I've heard the same garbage before. I know it's gaslighting. All abusers use it to make their victims believe they're crazy and that it's their fault they were abused.

I will not be one of his garden girls.

He outweighs me by over a hundred pounds, and when I flee again—and I intend to—I'll need brains over brawn.

I sit on the cold concrete floor in the room he calls mine. I will never take ownership of this prison no matter how well he feeds me or whether he gives me a luxury bed. A bed he has yet to enter himself. I'm relieved, but my heart stays in a constant stutter that in the middle of the night when the door creaks open, he won't enter to tattoo my body, but he'll violate me in other ways. No, he's not been in my bed.

But I have been in his.

I remember it all now that the initial drugs—not Xanax—have worn off. I came of my own volition.

I trusted him.

I had no reason not to.

I can't think about the events that led me here to this mansion on an island I can't escape without a boat. We'd taken one from the marina. Then, from a private dock, we switched to a canoe to manage the narrow channels of water that lead to the house. I know it's out there, bobbing in the water, and I will find a way to get to it. He never leaves me alone with the other women—his garden girls. When he can't be with all of us, I'm confined here. I'm okay with that. I do not want to be in that cage. I don't know what happens in there, but I know it's something sinister and sick. Maybe my nice comfy bed is a teaser. The violation doesn't happen in here where I expect it to, but in that room, in a cage...in front of those other women.

My belly hiccups at the thought. I have a small bathroom with a toilet and a sink. No shower. I've thought a thousand times about drowning myself. Cupping water and inhaling it. It's my last resort. I'm going to find a way out of this place unless help comes first, and I know people are looking and contacting resources who can find me. Aren't they? The days and nights have blurred and I'm not exactly sure how long I've been here.

But he's hoping for my rescue, and I'm not sure why. It sends little caterpillars inching along under my skin. Was I some kind of decoy? I don't know. There are other women. Women who have been here longer than me.

They didn't speak or even look up when we were together, which has only been that one night. He forced me in the cage and sat in a chaise only to stare at us in silence. At least I now know these women sleep in those rooms behind the other six black doors, but there are not seven women in the cages. Two are empty, so two rooms might also be empty. I'm not sure if he's killed them or if he's hunting new prey.

He's not the man I knew before. But knowing him doesn't bring me any comfort. Having slept with him brings me no comfort either. He's an evil monster hiding behind an attractive face, money and culture. The man I knew is gone. He's flipped a switch or snapped. Either way. This man... This man I fear.

I hear the secret door creak open as I'm sitting on the bare floor. His footfalls come toward my door, and my hands tremble. I jump up, the chain clinking on the concrete, and pounce on my bed, drawing up the covers to hide my body.

We have no clothing. Not even a robe.

The door opens, and his frame looms in the doorway. He's dressed in black silky pants and a matching button-up shirt. It's open, revealing his muscular chest. But it's not his perfect body that draws my attention. It's the fact it's heaving and his jaw is hard. His eyes are cold pools of fury.

I haven't tried escaping today. Has someone else? He's fuming, but it's quiet, except for his eyes, and I stare at the floor because the eyes—dark and devouring—are too much to bear. I shrink farther into the covers, but the truth is I know there's no hiding from him.

"I need my girls. All my girls," he says, with that sultry tone that had once sent delicious shivers coursing through me. It's so strange how one voice—the same voice—can make me feel safe and loved and then hours later fill me with dread and terror.

His approach to my bed is calm and measured. Even angry, he's not bursting into flames. It's a quiet cold that permeates the room as if someone has poured dry ice over his bones and created an unseen fog. He unlocks my chain. "Did you enjoy your dinner last night?"

I remain silent. I will not give him the satisfaction of knowing he's my master and I'm a slave. As if a nice meal is something I should be grateful for. Maybe it is. But I'm not.

"Cat got your tongue, lovely?"

He waits a beat and sighs through his nose, then removes the heavy iron cuff. My wrist feels like a feather, but it's tender and bruised. My finger throbs and is crooked. I know it'll never be straight again.

"How long are you going to keep me?" I ask, my voice raw and hoarse from endless yelling.

He gently turns down my covers, and the cool air raises chill bumps across my body. He grins at the sight. "That's a good question, and one I honestly can't answer. I do apologize."

Does that mean he plans to kill me? Surely he's not going to let me go. I'm some kind of pawn in a sick game he's playing, but I'm not sure why.

He uses my good hand to draw me up, gripping me like a vise, but I don't howl. He guides me down the hall I ran through before, only to reach the dead end, but there's another secret door. I know it's going to lead into the solarium garden thingy he's built into the house.

Inside, the room is bright with sunlight, and warm but not uncomfortable. The other girls are in their hanging baskets with heads on their knees and arms wrapped around their shins. Their hair is pulled into tight ballerina buns. Mine is not.

"I've had some irritating news. I need to relax. Release."

I swallow hard and take a stab. "What kind of news?" If I can befriend him—again—he might let his guard down. Because I really don't care what disturbs him.

"The kind only arrogant fools dish out. You'd think he'd have learned his lesson not to open his mouth in public. But he did. For all the viewing area, giving a false sense of security to locals. As if he can control me. Me!" He raises his voice on the last word, but not in a burst of uncontrollable rage. An emphasis. As if that word meant something more powerful than one person. "One or one hundred press conferences won't save you."

He commands me to lower myself on the chaise. His chaise. Is that where it's going to happen? The violation. My intestines protest, and I need to go to the bathroom.

"Why?" I ask because I need an answer. I need five seconds to prepare. Five seconds to go to another place and block it out.

He cocks his head and lifts my chin. "When I tell you to do something, you don't ask why. You simply abide by my request. It's called obedience, my dear." He makes a quick sweep of my pinky finger. My broken pinky finger. A silent warning of what's to come if I utter another word.

Defeated, I sit on the chaise, awaiting him to push me back. To have his way with me. I already know it won't be like the first time. Nothing special or romantic about it. He straddles the chaise from behind me and I go into that same kind of shaking when you come out of anesthesia. It's induced by anxiety. Unwanted tears leak down my cheeks. Inside, I beg and plead and pray he won't touch me.

His fingers gently comb through my hair. "You have lovely hair. It needs washing. Maybe later." He smells like money and power and temptation, and I wish I'd never succumbed. I wouldn't be here if I hadn't, and I cry harder now. I'm furious at myself. People I know and love would tell me it's not my fault. I did nothing wrong. But that's not true. It is my fault. I made my choices. I should have... I don't even know. He's gathering my hair and lifting it off my neck. His breath is warm and minty, and I cringe as a memory invades of how sweet he'd tasted. Now I want to vomit.

I feel a brush go through my hair. One stroke. Two. Over and over he brushes my hair like I used to with my dolls when I was a little girl. When my innocence hadn't been stolen.

He's pulling up my hair and twisting it into a bun. Then an elastic band twines around the knot, holding it in place. I now look like all the other garden girls in cages, only with a different flower.

One leg swings over the chaise, then the other, until he's kneeling in front of me. I wrap my arms around my chest as a shield and covering.

"Oh yes, yes, yes, yes," he coos. His finger trails down my cheek and neck, then traces my collarbone, and I flinch. "Shy girl now, are you? You were quite lively before." His chuckle is breathy and full of flirtation. Everything that had roped me in. "Now, up you go," he says like a father putting his child on a bike for the first time.

My pinky finger is throbbing and I don't want another one broken, so I stand on wobbly legs and follow him to the wrought iron barred cage. He opens the massive door, and I step inside. The other girls have yet to glance up or express any interest. It's like they're mannequins of flesh. His bare feet pad across the room back to the chaise, and he picks up a remote control and presses a button.

I don't know what to expect and lurch as loud classical music filters through unseen speakers. Stringed instruments bring hairs to attention on my neck. The deep thrum of the cello bumps in my chest, a sense of foreboding, and the violins screech like wailing victims. I cringe and crouch. What is he going to do? The others never move position. They're used to this. But what is this?

He lowers the remote to the table and claps his hands twice as he glides across the tile, his dark hair falling into his eyes. He's in the center of the cages, which are positioned in a circle around the fountain. "Bloom for me, girls."

What does he mean? What are they going to do? What does he expect me to do?

I watch in horror, my heart slamming against my ribs, as these women rise to their bare feet and perfectly plié in unison like ballerinas in a private performance.

He throws his head back and his arms stretch to his sides as if the dancing has empowered him. I do not rise to my feet. I do not dance. I can't. I'm frozen in place at the chilling display.

The music grows faster, more intense, like someone threw blood in the ocean and has created a frenzy. "Yes!" he cries out again in that velvety tone as he waltzes in and around the human birdcages. He's keeping time to the beat, bowing an air violin. One arm crossing over the other as new waves of chills are birthed along my arms and my scalp tingles.

Is this my fate?

As the crescendo begins, he bows with more vigor, weaving in and out and around the dancing garden girls. A sheen of moisture forms on his brow, and his eyes are drunk with lust. But the women are silent. Faces expressionless. Eyes hollow like open graves.

"Bloom! Twirl! Yes! Yes! Yeeeesss!" His words are loud but in breathy pants.

His blooming flowers obey him and twirl counter clockwise, arms over their heads in a perfect arc, their naked inked bodies swaying at his command. To bloom. To dance. To bring him pleasure.

My brain refuses to register this nightmare. I want to go home. I want my family even though we've been having some turmoil lately. Like Dorothy in Oz if Oz were hell. I want to get back to Kansas to someone who loves me even if we fight.

He's gliding around the bubbling fountain. This man is mad. How did I not see it before? I should be able to recognize the signs. I've seen madness, stared it down and even cowered to it. I did not see this.

I am trapped.

I am broken.

He's furiously bowing in the air to the climactic moment, savoring every sick second. Suddenly, he drops to his knees, completely spent as the music softens, and then he rests on his back, his chest heaving and his eyes closed.

His cheeks are flushed, and he blows a satisfied, satiated breath from his lungs.

I think it's over. This perversion. This sickness. But my heart continues to pound, and my throat feels parched and achy. A sharp stab throbs behind my right eye.

The naked dancers stay in standing position, their arms arcing over their heads.

What have I witnessed?

His smile sends a wintry shiver into my bones. It's over for now. Or is an encore performance awaiting me? When did he teach them this synchronized dance? My pinky aches and reminds me if I do not comply to this twisted ballet, the next thing he breaks might be something bigger like a leg, an arm or elbow.

Maybe my neck.

Heat surges through my body, leaving me dizzy and jittery.

A humming begins in his lower register, and then he breaks into song. A rich, melodious voice that could rival Josh Groban's. His arms rise up as if he's trying to grab the sky as he sings.

Oh, so lovely garden girls

unfolding flowers

bloom for me in these dark hours

then you shall dance, and twirl and twirl

Look how lovely my garden girls.

Peace flushes his face.

Deafening silence permeates the room as the dancing girls resume their former pose: knees drawn into the chest, arms wrapped around their legs and heads bowed on the tops of their knees.

I realize then the greater, more frightening picture. These women, these flowers, are closing for dusk. Limbs are petals. Their faces the center bud.

A balloon deflates in my chest, leaving me breathless. I gasp and pant, but a deep breath eludes me. I hang my head between my knees and force myself to breathe. If he hears, he'll come near, and the last thing I want is the master of the garden to frown upon me.

Even those bring pain and destruction.

But beyond these walls and this island, I'm being searched for. I continue to tell myself this, and my chest loosens. My breaths even out.

I will be found.

I just don't know if it will be alive.

Or dead.