Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
MALIK
Indigo has been off. More off than usual. She’s quiet, distracted—like her mind is somewhere else, and I don’t know how to reach her.
The other night, she drained me dry. I’m not complaining, but something about it felt… different. Desperate. Like she was trying to lose herself in me, bury something deep beneath pleasure until it suffocated. I fucked her, ate her, pulled orgasm after orgasm from her body, and still—she wanted more. No matter how much I gave, it wasn’t enough.
And now, she’s been quiet.
I finish my beer in one long drag and toss the bottle into the trash. It clatters against the others, too loud in the quiet of my house. I don’t like this. I don’t like not knowing where she is, what’s going on in her head.
I grab my phone and dial her number. It rings and rings and rings—then cuts to voicemail.
“You’ve reached Indigo. If you’re hearing this, I either don’t want to talk to you, or I’m busy. Try again later.”
I curse under my breath and shoot her a text.
Me: Where are you?
Me: Call me.
Me: I’m serious, Indigo.
Nothing.
That tight feeling in my chest gets worse. Maybe she’s at work?
I grab my keys and head to Crimson. The place is still alive when I walk in—music thumping, bodies moving, neon lights flickering off the bottles behind the counter. I scan the bar, my eyes catching on Emil, one of the bouncers.
He notices me and lifts his chin in greeting. “She’s not here.”
I don’t bother pretending I don’t know who he’s talking about. “When did she leave?”
“About an hour ago.”
An hour. Long enough to get home. Maybe. But I don’t think she went home.
“Everything good?” Emil asks, drying off a glass.
No. “Yeah,” I lie, turning back toward the door.
I drive by her place, but the house is dark. Her bike isn’t out front, but I don’t have the code for the garage to see if it’s inside.
Okay. Maybe she stopped somewhere. She loves those milkshakes from Beth’s. She could be there.
I make the drive, my fingers tapping against the steering wheel. The feeling in my gut won’t settle. This isn’t normal. She’d text me back. She’d answer my call.
I pull up to Beth’s, park, and head inside. The bell chimes as I step through the door. The place is mostly empty, save for a couple of late-night stragglers.
“Hey, Malik,” Beth greets me from behind the counter. “Usual?”
“Not tonight.” I glance around. “Indigo been in?”
Beth shakes her head. “Not since last week. Everything alright?”
No.
“Yeah.” Another lie.
I turn to leave when my phone rings. My heart kicks up—I think it’s her, finally—but when I check the screen, it’s Marie.
Why the hell is she calling this late?
I answer. “Hey, Marie. Everything alright?”
“I’m not sure.”Marie’s voice wavers slightly.
I stop walking. “What’s up?”
“I just… I don’t know. I know we’ve got bad coyotes back there, so maybe they got themselves a good dinner, but it didn’t sound like an animal.”
That feeling in my gut twists into something worse. “Stay inside, Marie. I’ll check it out.”
“Thank you, Malik.”
I hang up, stride to my truck, and climb in, gripping the wheel.
Right now, Marie needs me.
The night air is thick with humidity, clinging to my skin as I drive toward Marie’s. My gut twists, the unease settling deep in my bones. Indigo will have to wait, but damn, I don’t like not knowing where she is. She’s been acting strange, and I’m worried—worried about what’s eating at her, worried about how desperate she was to drown herself in me the other night, like she was trying to forget something. Or maybe trying to bury something.
I shake off the thought. One problem at a time.
Marie’s place sits at the edge of a dense stretch of woods, the kind of place where anything could be lurking just beyond the tree line. I pull up the long gravel drive, cutting my headlights before I reach the house. Benny, her little rat dog, barks from inside, his gruff warning vibrating through the night.
Marie stands on the porch, arms crossed, worry pinching her face. I step out of the truck, boots crunching against the gravel, and she immediately waves me over.
“Thanks for coming,” she says, glancing toward the woods. “I heard it again about five minutes ago. It’s—unnerving.”
I nod, scanning the tree line. The moon is high but shrouded behind thick clouds, casting long, jagged shadows through the trees. It’s dark as hell back there. Too dark to make anything out.
“Stay inside, lock the door,” I tell her.
She nods, backing up toward the house. I reach into my truck, grabbing the rifle from behind the seat. Whatever’s out there, whether it’s a coyote, a wounded deer, or something else, I’ll find it.
I step into the woods, the thick scent of damp earth and pine filling my lungs. The sounds of the night are familiar—the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the occasional hoot of an owl—but there’s something else. A faint, wet noise. A gurgling, almost.
Marie wasn’t wrong. Something is out here.
I move carefully, my boots silent against the forest floor, my grip tightening on the rifle. My breathing is slow and even as I scan between the trees. The sound grows clearer the deeper I go, and then...
A shape.
Hanging from a low branch.
My pulse spikes, and I tighten my grip on the gun, stepping closer. The metallic scent of blood thickens in the air, coating the back of my throat.
Then I see her about twenty yards away.
A woman—barely recognizable—dangles from the tree, arms stretched above her head, the rope biting into her skin. Her face is swollen, bruised, streaked with blood and tears. Her body is a mess of lacerations, but it’s her chest that makes bile rise in my throat.
Her breast is sliced open, raw and exposed, something grotesque and missing from inside it.
Jesus Christ.
Her lips move. A choked, gurgling sound escapes her. She’s still alive. Barely.
I swallow hard, forcing down the revulsion threatening to choke me.
Recognition slams into me like a freight train.
Elle.
It’s Elle.
For a second, my mind refuses to process it. Refuses to accept that the mangled, gasping woman strung up like a slaughtered deer is someone I know. Someone I’ve talked to. Someone I’ve?—
Indigo.
A cold sweat breaks out along my spine. The tightness in my gut turns to steel.
I take a step toward Elle, ready to cut her down, to do something—anything—but then movement catches my eye.
Indigo steps into my line of sight.
I freeze.
She’s calm. Too calm. The way she moves—slow, deliberate, pleased—sends ice through my veins. The knife glints in her hand, wet with blood.
I duck behind a tree, my breath shallow, my pulse hammering against my ribs.
I watch in horror as she steps toward Elle, tilting her head like she’s admiring a piece of artwork.
She smiles.
Then, without hesitation, she lifts the knife and drags the blade across Elle’s cheek. Slicing.
Elle screams—a wet, gurgling sound—but Indigo doesn’t even flinch. She just watches, tilting her head the other way, as if considering her work.
"You're just not a very nice girl, Elle," Indigo purrs.
Elle chokes on a sob. "Please," she gurgles.
Indigo clicks her tongue. "Please? Please, what?" She taps the knife against her chin, fake thoughtful. "Please stop? Please let you go? Please don’t punish you for what you did?"
Her smile fades.
"You hurt Malik."
Elle trembles violently, barely holding on to consciousness.
"You made him doubt himself. Doubt his appeal, his self-worth."
Indigo's voice is soft, sweet. But her hand is merciless. She presses the blade to the other side of Elle’s face and slices again, widening her mouth into a grotesque, gaping grin.
My stomach lurches. What the fuck?
This isn’t Indigo. This isn’t my girl.
This is something else. Someone else.
Elle sobs, her body convulsing against the ropes. Indigo just steps back, admiring her work.
"Tit done. Smile fixed. Hmmm." She taps the knife against her chin again. "What’s next?"
Then she rears back and slams the knife into Elle’s stomach.
"Tummy tucked."
Elle gasps, a wet, shuddering sound. Blood pours from the wound as Indigo twists the knife, her eyes gleaming.
She pulls back, stepping away like a painter assessing her masterpiece.
Then she claps her hands together. "You're stunning."
I swallow back the bile burning my throat. My fingers tremble around the gun.
Then—without warning—Indigo lunges.
She stabs Elle again.
And again.
And again.
Over and over and over, brutal, merciless, her voice rising with each thrust of the knife.
"You think you can fucking hurt him?"
Stab.
"Make him feel small?"
Stab.
"Make him question himself?"
Stab.
Blood sprays. Elle jerks, spasms, then finally goes still.
She’s dead.
Elle is dead.
And Indigo killed her.
My chest tightens. My vision tunnels.
But Indigo isn’t done.
With eerie, deliberate slowness, she cuts Elle open.
Reaches inside.
And pulls out her intestines.
My stomach twists violently as she lifts them, admiring them like a prized necklace. Then she loops them around Elle’s neck and ties them into a fucking bow.
"Jewelry," she sighs, clapping her bloodied hands together like a delighted child. "A girl’s best friend. Done."
I gasp, unable to stop myself.
Indigo whirls around.
Our eyes meet. And she smiles. A wide, bright, unhinged smile.
"Well," she giggles, her voice light, airy, happy. "Now you know everything."