Chapter Seven

Anoise startled Bexley awake and her eyes flew open. Her pulse pounded in the darkness. Something or someone was outside. Once her eyes acclimated to the pitch black, she swung her gaze toward the window. A shadow moved, and her body went rigid. Ahnah's abductor? Tiberius had admitted that whoever was doing this was personal to him—a killer who wanted revenge for that viral video. Was he coming for the rest of those Ty once loved?

Would he know about Josiah and come for him too?

She quaked and sweated simultaneously. Whoever was out there was watching, and she didn't want to tip him off that she was awake and alert. Crawling her fingers up the side of her nightstand like a spindly-legged spider, she found her cell phone and inched it to her, tucking it under the covers and wishing she'd closed the blinds. But after the fright night at the restaurant and that terrifying letter, she came home, took a hot shower before crawling under the covers for sanctuary, and fell sound asleep.

Gently, she rolled over and nestled into the blankets, sneaking another peek outside the window. The figure was still there. Now that she was under the covers, she entered her passcode and scrolled to Tiberius's name. After he'd left his business card, she'd programmed him into the phone. Agent Granger. If he had news on Ahnah, she wanted to answer and not let it go to voice mail like many unknown numbers she received.

God, don't let him sleep like the dead anymore.

On the second ring, his groggy, rough voice punched through the line. "Agent Granger."

"It's me," she whispered. "Someone's outside my window and has been for a while I think. Watching me."

"Bex?" His voice was more alert. Concern replaced annoyance.

"Yes. I'm in bed. Under the covers. I don't think he knows I'm awake or if he does, it's not scaring him off. But I'm scared."

The sound of a zipper and keys being scraped across a table filtered through the line.

"Stay where you are and on the line with me. I'm on my way. Josiah okay?"

"As far I know," she whispered. "Should I go check on him?"

"No. Whoever's out there probably assumes you're asleep, which means he might stick around long enough for me to arrive and grab him. If he thinks you're awake, he'll bolt."

A door closed and the beeping of a car unlocking let her know he was entering his vehicle.

"What if he tries to break in?" What would she do? She had no gun, only a lone baseball bat by the side of the bed.

"If he tries to enter, you jump up and let him know you've called the police. He doesn't want to be caught, and he'll likely run. But if he doesn't move, you don't either. I'd like to catch him myself."

"Are you using me as bait, Tiberius Lee Granger?" she hissed. "I have a son inside. We have a son inside!"

"Now he's my son." His tone was tight.

"Really? You're going there. Now?"

"Sorry. I'm worked up. What's he doing?"

She dared a small glance toward the window and gasped. "He's got his hands on the window, peering in." Panic rippled down her back, and she prayed for help holding still. If she could hold still, Tiberius could catch him.

"Can you see his face?" he asked after a stretch of silence.

"No. It's too dark." She white-knuckled her comforter.

"I'm on your street. I'm going to park and come to the house on foot. Surprise him. If you see a second shadow, it's me. Okay?"

"Okay. But don't kill him. If he knows where Ahnah is, we need him alive."

"One of us does this for a living," he said, with amusement. "I'm putting you in my shirt pocket on Speaker. I can hear you, but maybe don't say anything in case he can hear you too."

"Okay." She paused. "Tiberius?"

"Yep," he whispered.

"Please be careful and don't die."

"Do my best," he murmured and went silent.

She squinted, keeping an eye on the peeper, when his head suddenly swiveled to the right. Then he vanished.

"He ran away. You spooked him."

"I'm not even to the house. Can't be me. Wait. I see headlights in your drive!"

Had he parked in front of her house, or was someone else here? If so, who would it be? Could it be about Ahnah?

Bexley sprang from bed, snagging her ratty blue robe and sliding into it as she ran down the hall. Pausing at Josiah's room, she cracked open his door and startled as the front door swung wide open. Shrieking, she clutched her robe lapels.

Josiah blew in like a storm cloud with Tiberius on his heels.

"Josiah? What are you doing outside?" Had he heard the noise too?

"He's the headlights, Bex." Tiberius scowled, his hair disheveled from sleep and his scruff looking more like a beard. His T-shirt and jeans were rumpled, and he held his gun in his right hand.

"What is going on? He almost tackled me!" Josiah said, ripping away from Tiberius and putting distance between them.

Tiberius sniffed and his eyes narrowed. "Have you been drinking?"

Josiah raised his chin and bowed his chest. "No. And even if I had, what's it to you? You're not my dad!" He stomped down the hall, almost bumping Bexley. Had it been Josiah outside? What was happening? Drinking?

Tiberius's jaw ticked and his nostrils flared. He thrust out his hand. "I'd call him back, but why should he listen?" He pointed a finger to his chest. "I'm not his dad."

The room swirled around her, and she gripped the side table by the wall to hold herself upright. Nothing was holding her up inside. Any minute someone would show up and cart her off to the asylum, and she'd welcome it.

She slunk to the floor and rested her head on her knees, willing herself not to have a panic attack. Instead, she cried.

Being a single mom was her choice, but she was messing up at every turn. Being gone was being a bad mom. Sticking close smothered him. Bexley had tried to give him independence, but she was unsure how much leash to give. Mistakes had been made. Grave ones. Now Ahnah was gone, and she might not have the chance to make things right between them. And a vicious killer was prowling around her house, all while Josiah was out...drinking?

Tiberius's shoulders slumped, and he sighed as he slid down the wall beside her, draping an arm around her shaking body. His hold was warm and his body solid. He smelled of lingering cologne and cinnamon mints.

This was the grace she needed but didn't deserve.

"Yell at me or something." Screaming and accusation would be so much easier to handle. She deserved every hateful and hurtful word he might release from his lips. And yet, she leaned into him for his strength because she flat-out had none of her own.

"I will," he said. "Later. Once you're done crying. I'll lay into you good, and you can start the waterworks all over again. Sound like a plan?"

Sounded like Tiberius. She laughed through a sniff. "I thought I was doing the right thing."

"I know—that you were scared." He rested his head on top of hers. "I know you were."

"Can you forgive me?"

Tiberius inhaled. "I don't know. I want to hate you, Bexley. And to be honest, on some level, I do hate you. I hate you for leaving me. I hate you for lying to me." He paused, then murmured, "I hate you for loving me once."

Bexley felt the dam breach. New tears flowed. "I thought you were gonna make me cry later."

"No time like the present I guess." He laid his head against the wall. "The peeper got away. Josiah's friend's headlights scared him off before I got here."

"The killer is coming for me—us—isn't he?" What else could it be?

"Maybe. But at the moment, I'm more worried about our son. Who is this Abe person he went to meet at the arcade earlier? What if he'd been drinking too?"

Bexley wiped her nose on her robe sleeve. "He's a local friend. I honestly don't know much about him other than they game online often and meet up at the arcade on weekends." She hugged herself. "Josiah's a good kid, Tiberius. He's going through a hard time. He needs—"

"A father?"

The hurt in his voice was a piercing sword cutting into her and ripping at her decades-old wounds. "Independence and guidance. I'm doing a terrible job balancing. And yes, yes, he needs a father, and yes, it's my fault he hasn't had one."

"He needs to better understand the danger, Bex. This killer targets women, but this is personal, and anyone I care about is in the crosshairs. I don't know that it's only women who aren't safe."

Who would want to wreak this kind of torture on Tiberius? "Who is doing this?"

"I don't know."

"The blanket and photo taken from my house...they were taken after Ahnah vanished. I'm not sure what that means."

"What about the box of mementos?"

"I can't say for sure. They weren't something I often looked at or used. Could be before. Maybe after." She shrugged.

"I'll run it by Violet. In the meantime, you should know that there might be a more personal connection to me in this case. One that leads...to the Family."

Acid sprang in her throat, and she clutched her chest. "No," she whispered.

"Possibly. I need Rand to give me a list of members who left or were disfellowshipped."

This was a terrible idea.

Tiberius enveloped her clammy hands. "I won't reveal the truth about you, but someone already knows you and Ahnah are both alive. I don't want them to know about Josiah either. But I need to know who's left the Family in the past five to ten years. It's a thin link at best, I know."

"Rand will never give you what you want."

"All I need is information on Garrick and if he was disfellowshipped or remains in the Family." He held her gaze as she processed what he was saying. She shuddered at the implications.

"You think it's Garrick."

Tiberius shrugged. "No, not really."

"I'm afraid."

"I know." He rubbed the scruff on his chin. "How would you feel about me staying here at night until we find the killer?"

She didn't want Tiberius here every night. It was hard enough seeing him only a little, but she wasn't stupid. She needed him. Needed protection for herself and Josiah.

"You would be willing to do that?"

Tiberius stood. "Bexley, that's my son in there. And I don't want to see you hurt. So yeah, I'll do it. And we need to tell Josiah enough to get it through his thick head that he needs to be more careful and stick to curfew."

"Not to mention the possible hurricane coming. It's growing. Have you seen the news?"

"It's eating through the waters and targeting land. Targeting us and we can't stop it. We have to find Ahnah, the other women, and who's behind this before it makes landfall. Or... I don't know what will happen."

"My neighbors don't think it's going to hit us, and if it does, it won't be that bad. We've braved hurricanes before. I know how to prepare. But yes. Yes, you can stay with us. Let me talk to Josiah about the danger and curfew, and the drinking. Are you sure you smelled alcohol on his breath?"

"I know that smell well. I'm sure."

She rubbed her aching temples. "Okay. I'll talk to him."

He nodded. "I'll bunk on the couch the rest of the night and call my SAC. Let him know."

"I'll get you pillows and a blanket." She headed for Josiah's room. "And thank you," she said, pausing. "You don't have to make things soft or easy."

"No, I don't." He combed his hand through his hair. "And after this is all said and done and he's caught, it won't be soft. I won't make it easy then. Truce while a killer is out there. Then things are gonna be real different."

She feared that more than a hurricane threat and almost as much as a twisted killer.

Ty stumbled into the beach house, massaging the crick in his neck from sleeping on the couch. Freshly brewed coffee wafted in the air and drew him straight to the pot.

"Bruh, you look rough," Owen said, sipping a cup at the kitchen island.

"Yeah, well. I'm pushing forty. I can't do late nights and couches anymore." He poured a cup of coffee—black as a killer's soul—and sipped. "Where is everyone? I know Fiona's up and moving. No one else makes coffee this strong."

Owen clicked and clacked on his laptop. "She's up and in full form. Violet was outside on the deck talking to John and Stella." He took another drink. "I wonder how long after she marries John she'll resign. The travel is a lot. Stella's almost five."

Violet as a mom. "That kid doesn't have a fighting chance. Ain't gettin' away with diddly-squat." He closed his eyes, mimicking Violet's procedure of slipping into a sicko's head. "I would wait for Dad to go to bed and then slowly open the window, but earlier that day I'd have greased it so no one will hear it open or close. I can't leave it open. Mosquitos and stuff."

Owen snorted at Ty's representation of Violet at work.

"Then," Ty said, in whispery voice like Violet's, "I leave the yard and push the car down the road. No lights. Can't be seen. I want to meet him. I've been planning it. Covering my tracks and using a burner phone I learned all about from my detective dad."

He opened his eyes, and his grin died a sudden death. Violet stood three feet in front of him, hands on her skinny hips and drilling a hole in him with her icy blue-green eyes. He gave her his best apologetic shrug while Owen covered his mouth, his shoulders shaking with his silent laughs.

"No, no. Go on," Violet said.

"You wrecked my mojo." He sipped his coffee instead.

"You have no mojo." Her right eyebrow tweaked upward and she folded her arms over her chest. "You think the guy stalking Bexley's place is your killer?"

"Asa filled us in this morning," Owen said. "Otherwise, I'd be grilling you about why you didn't come home last night."

Ty rolled his eyes. "I don't know. Josiah said a picture of them and a blanket she made were missing. The picture and blanket after Ahnah was taken, and she can't be certain when the memento box disappeared. Amy-Rose's and Lily's families weren't sure if anything had been lifted. Amy-Rose hadn't lived with her parents in a few years. It's possible our guy toys with them before striking. Or he's known to them and was taking things when he was there visiting. What do you think, Violet?"

"Let me close my eyes a minute and get a feel," she said, dryly. Bumping him out of the way, she maneuvered to the coffeepot and poured a cup, her long dark hair hanging over one shoulder.

"Mimicking is a form of flattery," he jested.

"Flatter someone else, then."

Voices on the third floor and footsteps on the stairs redirected their attention.

"I'm capable of going alone, Asa. Get a grip," Fiona said.

"I'm only saying he can go with you."

"No. We talked about this," she countered as they entered the room. She was toting a small carry-on bag.

"What's happening?" Ty asked.

"Four female bodies were found in Natchez Trace Park. Mass grave. One's fresh, and two girls hiking last week are missing. I'm meeting with the Investigative Branch Services of National Parks this afternoon. Asa's taking me to the airport."

"Why SCU?" Violet asked. The same question she asked every time they were handed a case or consult.

"The bodies are wearing identical rosaries around their wrists. And...they're dressed in habits."

"Bad ones? Bad ones get you killed every time." Ty grinned over his coffee mug. "I'm kidding. Nuns being targeted?"

"No." Fiona poured a travel mug of coffee while Asa scrolled through his phone and glanced at his watch. Seemed he always had, always was and always would be waiting on Fiona. "They were costumes. So...there ya have it."

"You mean, there you habit," Ty said. Owen nearly spit out his coffee, then raised his fist. Ty bumped it with his own.

Fiona shot him a glare, screwed on the lid and pointed at Asa. "We're not gonna be late. Stop looking at me like that." She breezed past him toward the door. "I should be back by the end of the week."

"Ty, walk with us." Asa motioned him to follow.

Great. "Now am I in trouble?"

"No." Asa paused at the bottom stair. "Hurricane Jodie became a category 5 and made landfall at Elbow Cay, Bahamas. If their new projections are right, the Outer Banks is going to take more than a hit. It could be decimated." At the moment the sky was blue like Texas bluebonnets. Not a cloud to be seen. "I could send you with Fiona. This UNSUB isn't expecting you to leave the island. If he finds out you've gone, he'll make a mistake."

"He'll kill Ahnah."

"You don't know for certain he has her."

Except his gut screamed otherwise, and he would not leave his son.

"If I leave, he'll make a mistake, but it'll be at a life's expense. He has a process, which means they're probably all alive for now. We have time."

"Short window if what they say about the hurricane proves true."

"Now who's making us late?" Fiona called. "You in or out, Tiberius?"

"Out. Besides, I don't have time to pack."

"You never unpack. We all know this." Fiona stepped inside the rental and closed the door. She had a point. Ty never unpacked his suitcase no matter where they went. Never knew when he'd have to roll out quickly, but the truth was he didn't like unpacking because it felt like putting down roots. Even after all these years living in Memphis, his apartment was simply a place where he crawled into bed at night.

Wouldn't call it home.

His last home had gates. Guess he never wanted to be chained. Wanted to be able to escape at any moment. That's how he felt inside. Like he was always scaling walls but never reaching the top, never reaching freedom. At some point he might need to simply give up and quit climbing. Because once he scaled it, where was he supposed to go? What was beyond the wall? What was freedom?

"I'll behave," Ty said to Asa.

"That's bunk and we know it." Asa clapped him on the back. "I'll see you in a couple of hours."

Ty watched them drive away and went inside. "Who's in charge while they're gone?"

"Obviously me," Violet said. "I'm the boss."

Ty struck a Bruce Springsteen pose, his arm up overhead, one foot kicked behind him. "Fine," he conceded.

"Come on. They have Skipper at the sheriff's office in Manteo. After we question him, we can chat with the boutique manager, Leslie McDonald." She pointed at Owen's laptop. "Anything at all to help us pinpoint where our UNSUB might work or live?"

"Not so far. But I'd say he's on Blue Harbor Island. Maybe Nags Head area. Or he's here on the island often for business. Knows the locals. He's not taking tourists." He handed Ty the list of missing women from the past year.

"Thanks."

"Everything cool?" Owen asked in a low voice.

"Yeah. He thought if I went with Fiona, I'd tick off the killer and he'd make a mistake. And he might, but I said no."

"Bexley Hemmingway holding you here?"

No. His son was. And a killer.

I can hardly walk to my small bathroom for the searing pain. Hot angry tears blur my vision as I relive last night. No more broken fingers. The cracked bones clearly don't work on me. Last night after my great brave—or stupid—stand, he did come for me. He came in deliberate steps and a velvety voice, but the frigid fury behind his eyes revealed I was in more trouble than anticipated.

One never acclimates to pain. I can't say I'm used to it. I'm not. I never was. I expected it, though, in the past—and last night—but expecting it and enduring inflicted torture are two different things.

He'd used the flicker of fire to my groin. The tender area between my thighs and pelvis is now riddled with angry red puckers. This is how he's going to break me. Not with fractures but fire.

I don't cry over the suffering but over the fact it's only a matter of time before I succumb and rise when he demands I bloom. Before I arc my arms over my head and dance like all the other garden girls.

I'm better than this. They are better than this.

But I'll end in submission. I can't endure the fire. Can't walk through it. Can't pace in the midst of it. No one is in the flames with me. Only the enemy holding me in, and through the affliction, his true nature manifests. He is not the angel masquerading as light, teasing me with lust and a delusional fantasy of living happily ever after. Lies drip from his forked tongue and flattery from his fangs. Feeding me false hope to ensnare me in his trap I can't escape.

An hour ago, he brought me a breakfast tray as if he hadn't strapped me down spread-eagle and tortured me through quiet lulls to accept the punishment, bloom where I'm planted, resign myself to the fact that this is my fault and I gave myself to him. I'm being reborn and remade, which takes time. I must be patient. And all I could think about was poking his eyes out with the plastic fork. One gorgeous eye, then the other. Marring his mask of beauty. Slicing through the facade to reveal the serpent he truly was inside. His organs black as night and rotted with maggots. He is walking death, decay and destruction.

His footsteps clack down the hall and he reaches my door, unlocking it and then entering. His masculine cologne might as well be decomp smeared on his smooth skin. Nothing about him is appealing, and the thought of being with him sours my stomach. How did I ever willingly walk into this psychotic freak show?

He eyes my full tray of eggs, bacon and toast and my untouched orange juice and water. I roll onto my side, facing the wall, and wince at the soreness. Any movement is searing. I'm exhausted and can barely lift my head. My mouth is like cotton saturated in molasses, but I will not drink.

"You must eat, but it's your choice."

I almost laugh at his words. I have no choice in any matter. He's a liar. The father of lies.

"I brought you an ice pack. You can take it with you to your basket. It's time to bloom." His presence grows closer to me. I know this because the atmosphere that swirls around him is bitter cold, and the hairs on my arms and neck rise to attention. His weight jostles the bed as he sits, and his hand runs through my hair. "I need my garden girls this morning. I need you to dance for me. Open up and bloom. I need the company and companionship. I need the release. Come now. Please don't make me ask again." His slight Southern accent is rich, buttery, and calm as usual, and it sends a wave of chills through me. "I'll have to find new places of pain so the beauty of your sweet pink flowers won't be overshadowed. So many buds. Aren't you ready for gorgeous blooms? You'd be so pretty with them."

He's talking to me as if he's coaxing a lover to dinner. His tender touch is like porcupine needles across my exposed flesh. I don't welcome or want it. But I lie silent and unmoving. I'm not sure how much fight is left.

"What do you decide?"

I remember the red-and-black gas lighter clicker. The same kind I use to light my vanilla cookie crunch candle. I rise, and he brushes my hair, then pins it in a bun on top of my head.

I walk like one of his minions to his secret garden of horrors and step inside the cage without so much as a pause. I glance over and notice a new garden girl today. She is as naked as the rest of us. Her hair isn't pulled into a bun. Not yet.

But there is a breaking point for everyone. That moment when your soul rips until there's nothing but numbness and the light slowly dims and your eyes become hollow wastes of space because you see nothing. No future. No happiness. Nothing but gray, bitter cold.

She has a few tattoos but not many. If I had to guess, I'd say she's only days into her living hell. I wonder which room he's confined her to. This could work to my advantage. She might be beaten down, but she's not broken. If she has some fight, I might have an ally.

"I'm in the mood for Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, first movement. Oh yes, that will do." He walks to the table and grabs the remote. The new girl gapes but says nothing. She mirrors my first glimpse at this terror—questions, fear, dread. He morphed from a tender and passionate lover to a psychotic monster getting his jollies on girls dancing to classical compositions. Yeah. It's a shock to the system.

Anger cracks like a whip up my sagging spine, snapping me to attention. Maybe I have some fight left yet. "You know he's conditioning us, right? We're nothing short of Pavlov's dogs. Dancing at the music. You...new girl. You don't want to be here, do you? Good beds, obedience and good food. It's Stockholm's you're feeling, ladies. Believe me, I know this. I know battered woman syndrome when I see it. We're stronger than him together. We can get out, and I can get you help. I know a place you can go. My—"

"Silence!" he commands. His tongue lashes like a cat-'o-nine-tails. The new flower fades, turning inward on herself and assuming the same position as the other women.

"This is why I don't leave you alone together. You present as such a delicate flower, but you've been nothing but a thorn in my side." His body begins to shake, and I realize I've struck a nerve. I've put a crack in his armor. It doesn't scare me; it invigorates me.

"Shut. Your. Mouth," he says through gritted teeth and a hardened jaw. "Or the pain you felt last night will be nothing in comparison to what I'll do next."

Haunting piano music begins. One little note and then the next like raindrops pitter-pattering, building steps to his castle of torture. It evokes heavy black clouds and bloodthirsty bats circling his den of iniquity. I know what comes next.

The choice I have to make.

"Garden Girls...bloom for me." His words are breathy and full of anticipation.

Pliés and pirouettes begin in a room that reeks of defeat and hopelessness.

The new girl rises to her bare feet, taking in the other garden girls' positions and mimicking them, but it's messy and clumsy.

He praises her with clapping, a wide mouth full of perfectly straight white teeth grinning with pleasure.

Then he casts his wicked gaze on me, awaiting my choice.

I swallow hard. I feel the burn in my groin. My pulse quickens and my chest constricts. Sweat breaks forth all over my body.

But I do not bloom.

I cannot bloom.

I fear I've sealed my fate.