Chapter 3
Edmund
If Troy weren’t here, I would be tearing the city apart, doing more damage than good.
I haven’t slept. By the time dawn breaks, my eyes are dry and itchy, my muscles tense. Danica is out there, somewhere. Alive, I hope. And if she’s alive, she’s probably very, very scared.
She’s been through so much. She can handle a lot—she’s the strongest woman I know.
But she shouldn’t have to handle it. She should be safe and happy, always. And if she’s unhappy, Troy and I should be nearby to comfort her.
This is…this is unbearable.
My phone rings. Seeing Caleb’s name has me rushing to answer.
“Hey.” Caleb’s breathing is loud on the other end of the line. “I found the rat. Cormack Pope. He’s working with the Vorsongs.”
Pope—the guy Troy and I spoke with yesterday. I don’t like his shifty eyes, never have.
Jaw clenched, I ask, “Where is he?”
“I’m with him at Rendsell. He’s in the garage.”
Caleb doesn’t mean the regular car garage—he means the underground garage where less savory aspects of the business occur. It’s a sickening place, a place of blood and screams. Torture, retribution, revenge.
Troy comes into the living room and tilts his head in question.
“It’s Pope,” I tell him. To Caleb, I say, “We’ll be there in fifteen. Don’t talk to him without us.”
We arrive at Rendsell. It isn’t Pope at the gate this time, it’s a guy named Flescher. He waves at me to stop before I go through the gate.
Troy brakes and rolls down his window.
I lean forward so I can see past Troy. “What is it?”
“I just—sir, I don’t think Pope did anything wrong. He seems real confused by the whole thing.”
“Is that all?” I ask.
He nods, looking serious. “But sir, you have to understand—”
“Drive,” I say to Troy.
Troy drives. Once we’re well past Flescher, he says, “It wouldn’t have hurt to listen to him.”
“He’s covering for his friend. I don’t blame him. But his opinion doesn’t count for much right now, does it? Not when we need to find Danica.”
Troy nods, his face hard. “True.”
We drive around to the back of the house. I look for Arky as Troy parks the truck, but Arky doesn’t come back here—he doesn’t like the garage. I don’t blame him.
At the base of a sloped driveway, the wide garage door is lifted, revealing a cavernous room.
A man sits strapped to a chair, illuminated by a single bulb.
It’s Pope. His mouth opens and closes like he wants to say something, but he can’t come up with words.
His black pants and buttoned shirt are wrinkled by the thick canvas belts holding him to the chair.
I stride toward him. Troy walks next to me, his face grim.
“Edmund, Troy.” Caleb enters through a side door. “I held off on interrogating him, like you asked.”
“Please.” Pope finally finds his voice and it’s plaintive, wheedling. “I didn’t do anything, I promise.”
Ignoring him, I grab a rolling tool bench and slide it forward. I yank open the top drawer and pull out various implements—a hammer, a wrench, pruning shears, pliers, a handsaw.
“Cormack Pope.” I sigh.
He stares at me, fear filling his eyes.
“I hear you’re working with the Vorsongs. I hear you know more about Danica’s kidnapping than you let on. I hear you lied to me, motherfucker.”
“I didn’t! Please,” he blubbers. “I didn’t lie! I don’t know anything!”
I flick my gaze to Troy, then to the pruning shears. “Start with his pinky. No, his thumb.”
“No, please.” Pope’s eyes widen in fear. “Please, I don’t know anything—I wouldn’t hurt you or your girl, Edmund. I promise, please!”
Troy picks up the shears and lifts them up and down, as if weighing their usefulness.
“Please, please,” Pope continues to beg.
Troy sets the shears down on the tool bench closest to Pope. The move is a threat, showing Pope just how close he is to losing a finger. Troy catches my gaze and cocks his head toward an adjoining room in invitation.
He isn’t on board with torture, never has been. Truth is, I was hoping to get a confession before it came to this.
“He didn’t do it,” Troy says in a low voice.
Caleb follows us in. “He absolutely did. I talked to a guy who saw him wave another car past the church.”
“What guy?” Troy asks.
Caleb shrugs. “I canvassed the area, spoke with anyone who could be a witness.”
“Did he say what the car looked like?” I ask. “Why do we think it belonged to the Vorsongs?”
“He didn’t say.” Caleb frowns. “I guess the witness could’ve been wrong, but I don’t know why a stranger would point to Pope if Pope wasn’t guilty.”
I lean back, shoot a glance over at Troy. He shakes his head, because he doesn’t know, either.
We don’t know anything. Not one fucking thing.
And Danica’s out there, alone.
“Keep Pope here,” I say to Caleb. “We might want to talk to him later. Troy, let’s go.”
“Where?” Troy starts forward.
I wish I knew.
* * *
Danica
I wake up to voices outside my room. My neck aches like a bitch because of how my head was tilted while I slept.
I’m still in my wedding gown. Still with my hands tied. Still in this ugly-ass, uncomfortable chair.
Only now there’s a second chair. It sits empty. It looks fancier than mine—black-stained wood engraved with swirling designs, black velvet upholstery, and black jewels lining the armrests. It’s gaudy and horrific. I think it came straight off the Academy of Ghosts set.
The door is open a crack, and I see someone moving just beyond it. Dead Eyes is out there with someone else.
“She would make the perfect tableau.” Dead Eyes’s voice. I’d know that chilling, dull tone anywhere.
“That’s not what she’s here for.”
Dead Eyes scoffs. “You are always trying to rein in my artistic vigor, Allen. I should ask Tate.”
“Tate would say the same. Don’t turn her into art, Uriel.”
He said Tate…Tate Vorsong? The guy who grabbed me on the dance floor at Vice? Who threatened my friends? I fucking hate that guy. Figures one of his disgusting buddies would have me tied up like this.
Dead Eyes—Uriel, I guess—lets out a sigh. “Her light hair would make a striking image with the Saint Francis cross. But I will wait.”
“You better.” The other man, Allen, pauses. “She’s too valuable a bargaining chip. If you need to make art, find someone else. It would be best if you could wait a while before any new art projects, though.”
“Why?” Uriel’s question is flat, emotionless. His tone is impossible to read.
“The cops think some other guy did your art—”
“Nobody could possibly do what I do.” Now there’s emotion in Uriel’s voice. He’s angry.
Allen’s tone is soothing. “Of course not. You’re one of a kind. But they found the guy who offed that college girl all those years ago. And for some reason, they think he did the others.”
Art. They’re talking about killing people. They’re talking about killing me.
I strain against my bindings. The plastic rope cuts into my skin.
And if I got loose, then what? I’ll fight off two full-grown men with a utility knife? Yeah, that’s not happening.
I cut my gaze over to the knife. It glints dully beneath the desk, taunting me.
I can’t reach it, not even with my feet.
Earlier, I tried rocking my chair back and forth to see if I could move to it.
But the chair’s too heavy. It might not be as fancy as the new one next to me, but it’s solidly built out of heavy wood.
The door opens suddenly and the other guy peers in. His thin face looks even thinner because of his narrow mustache, and his brown eyes are flat and cruel. “She’s awake.”
I stare at him, letting my anger and hatred shoot through my eyeballs. I hope he feels it. I hope it fucking hurts.
“That’s fine,” Uriel says from behind him. “She isn’t going anywhere. She’ll sleep again soon enough.”
Fear spikes, but I force myself to hold perfectly still until the door closes on Allen’s ugly face.
I bow my head, determined not to cry.