Chapter 8
Ryder
The lock on Violet’s flat clicked into place, and I quietly slipped inside before anyone in the corridor noticed. The door whispered shut behind me, my presence no more than a ghost as I grinned at the dark-haired woman who was currently taping something to the window.
Wait, was that… newspaper?
Jesus Christ.
Geraldine Hoffman had been here the entire fucking time. What kind of shitty luck let me miss her on my first sweep?
I really needed to invest in some signal boosters or something for the cameras, because she either entered and then didn’t leave the flat since I was last here, or every time she did, it was precisely when I wasn’t watching the feed.
This was why I specialised in objects and not people. It was far less complicated.
I took one step forward, stilling when the floorboard squeaked beneath my weight.
“Violet?” Geraldine’s head snapped around so fast it was almost a jump scare.
It took her a second to register that I was indeed not her daughter, her lips parting on a loud cry. I was on her before the sound could become a banshee’s screech, pressing my hand against her mouth as she fought with all her strength.
“Keep fucking still,” I grunted, taking an elbow to the stomach. “I’m trying…” Nails attempted to scratch down my arm, but I’d kept my leather jacket on. “Not…” I wrenched her to the side, carefully applying pressure to her throat. “To hurt you.”
Her legs buckled, the fight draining from her as she sagged into a deadweight.
I let go just as she slipped under, letting her crumble to the floor. Her eyelids fluttered, a groan rumbling from her throat as she was already regaining consciousness.
She looked exactly like the photo from twenty-odd years ago, save for a few fine lines. Which meant one of two things: she was a witch, or she’d been a hell of a lot younger in that picture than I’d been told.
Grabbing one of the dining chairs, I lifted her onto the seat. She immediately slumped, not yet quite awake. Reaching into my freshly packed backpack—because I was apparently a professional torturer now—I tied her wrists and gagged her with a charming piece of cloth.
Honestly, the shit I’d do for some money. You’d think I’d have a shred of conscience, but apparently not because all I could think of was the reward at the end.
Truth was, I couldn’t care less about Geraldine. If she didn’t want to end up restrained with a gag in her mouth, then maybe she shouldn’t have stolen in the first fucking place. Which yes, I know was ironic.
She should count herself lucky that I’ve got a bit of a thing for knots. If I didn’t, those ropes would be digging so deep she’d lose circulation.
After making sure she wasn’t going anywhere, I slipped into the bathroom and opened the mirrored cabinet, intending only to snoop while my target slept.
Instead, I found a packet of antipsychotics.
I might have been more annoyed at myself for missing them the first time if not for the fact that the date on the packaging was in the last week.
“Of course she’s crazy,” I muttered, turning them over to read the name, Greta Sonne.
Placing them back exactly where I found them, I closed the cabinet and returned to find her finally awake. Her nostrils were flared, her dark hair wild and curling around her face.
She looked nothing like Violet. Hell, they didn’t even look related. Their eyes were different, as were their facial features and even their general stature. Geraldine was almost a head taller, and was dark where Violet was light.
Geraldine cried beneath her cloth, veins protruding down her arms where she tried to release her wrists from where I’d tied them to the chair.
“So, this can be super quick and painless, or slow and excruciating. Your choice.” Standing over her, I reached down to grip her jaw, pressing hard into the hollow of her cheeks until I could feel the cloth I’d stuffed into her mouth. “Now, give me the USB.”
Her eyes widened, and a weird muffled shriek got caught in her throat. She tried to shake her head, but my grip held her steady.
“Now, I’m going to remove the gag, and if you make a single scream, I’m going to hurt you. Do you understand?”
She didn’t move, just continued to whimper.
“Do you understand?” I repeated, my tone cold. I wasn’t against torture, but I really didn’t fancy pulling nails off for the sake of it. Not when I could get what I needed in another, far less sticky way.
Tears glistened, soaking my fingertips when they reached her cheeks. She tried to give me a nod.
“Ah, good.” I slowly eased back, taking the cloth with me.
My muscles tensed, ready to strike her if she so much as raised her voice. Again, this was not normally my style; I preferred a tidy workspace. Meaning no other people involved. Ever. I didn’t mind the occasional scuffle, but I wasn’t in the habit of roughing up women.
Unfortunately for Miss Hoffman, she had the misfortune of being the one whom the object I’ve been hired to retrieve is attached, and I had this inconvenient, overpowering instinct to keep breathing.
Note to self: don’t take the high-paying job that shows up gift-wrapped in red flags.
“You have the wrong person,” she whimpered, surprised by her slight accent. Did I just stumble into some bizarre German scheme? I already had enough with Roman and the Russians. I didn’t need the Germans adding to my headaches.
“Uh-huh. So, you’re not Geraldine Hoffman?” I asked, raising a single brow.
She shook her head violently. “No, I’ve never heard of her. Please, you’ve made a mistake!”
I let out a short whistle while reaching for my phone and flicking through my photos until I found the one of her with a young Violet. Geraldine’s breathing quickened to the verge of hyperventilation.
“Now, I’ve already met the pretty blonde, but I don’t think she has what I’m looking for, does she, Geraldine?”
“You can’t have her!” she screeched, rocking to the side until she began to tip. I caught her before she fell, putting the chair back on all four legs. “She’s mine! She’s mine!”
“Okay, calm down, you crazy bitch.” I leaned over her, my height and her seated position forcing her head back obscenely. “I’m not here for Violet. I’m here for the USB drive you stole. My employer is pretty insistent on getting it back.”
She tried to hold my gaze, but her eyes flickered past my shoulder toward the half-closed bedroom door. A tiny, involuntary glance. The corner of my mouth twitched, but I held back a grin.
People always gave away more with a glance than they ever did with words.
“Was it the mirrors? Did you find me through the mirrors?” she cried out when she looked back at me, her eyes bulging and her face so red she resembled a tomato.
I squinted at her. “Mirrors?”
“She’s mine. They can’t have her!” she continued. “She’s mine!”
I gripped her throat, pressing against the sides. “Pay attention,” I hissed, losing my notorious patience. “Where’s the—”
My phone vibrated, set off by the motion detection sensor I’d planted outside the front door.
“Shit,” I muttered quietly, looking down at Geraldine who was sobbing, her eyes empty as she became lost inside her own head. Making a split-second decision, I removed the ropes keeping her immobilised and shoved her and the chair towards the dining room table.
The front door clicked open, and I grabbed my bag before slipping into the bedroom on silent feet. For a split second I stared at the wardrobe, then dropped to the floor, squeezing myself under the bed.
Well, this was delightfully awkward.
Violet
The door took the brunt of my bad day as I slammed it shut, rattling the frame with all the frustration I’d bottled up since this morning.
The gallery had been a disaster from the moment I’d arrived.
I was late thanks to mum and a missed train, only to find out I had to be present on the floor when all I wanted was to hide in the back.
The Devereaux piece never arrived, which just made Noah, my boss, more agitated than normal.
“Sorry I’m late—”
“Violet?” Mum rushed at me, crushing me to her chest before I could even flick the lock. “We have to get out of here. We have to—”
“Mum? What happened?” I pulled myself back, horrified by the strange marks encircling her wrists. “Did you hurt yourself again?”
“You don’t understand,” she hissed, grabbing my hand and holding it in a vice. “We’ve been found! He’s here!”
“No one’s here, mum,” I murmured, my attention darting to the window where newspaper had been stuck over the glass again. “Look, it’s just us.”
But she was barely consolable, her eyes wild as she looked around as if searching for ghosts.
“He’s here,” she said, adding bite to her words. “I felt him! He’s real!”
“Mum, there’s no one here!” I widened my arms, and she flinched when the movement pulled my hand from hers. “Look!” I stormed towards the bathroom, yanking back the shower curtain to emphasise its emptiness.
“He’s here,” she simply repeated, seemingly terrified.
This time I moved towards my bedroom, throwing open the wardrobe doors and shoving at both our clothes. “See, there’s no one, mum. It’s just me and you.”
“Check under the bed!” she screeched.
“There’s no one here!” I shot back.
A sharp sting across my cheek, and I gasped, taking a moment to realise mum had slapped me. “This is your fault!” she cried, trembling against her imaginary demons. “They found us because of you! The mirrors… the mirrors…”
“Mum,” I said gently, my voice crackling as I tried to keep it together. “I need help with my hair.”
“Your hair?” she snapped. “Violet, we need to leave!”
“I just want you to brush it.” I tried to keep my voice from wobbling any further. “Please.”
Mum took a deep breath, going over to the vanity to grab my brush. “Honestly, Violet, you’re not a child.” She gestured to the seat, and I took it quickly. “Look at you, so fragile.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, unable to stop a single tear from falling.
Mum’s hands shook as she began to brush my hair, eventually moving to simply stroking the strands with her fingers. She still looked scared; every now and then her eyes darting around the room in search of those ghosts.
So I began to hum, choosing a familiar nursery rhyme she used to sing to me as a child whenever I had a nightmare.
After a moment, she visibly began to calm, even smiling at me in the fractured reflection of the mirror.
It was hours later, with mum fast asleep on the sofa bed, that I finally allowed myself to break down.
I cried silently, my cheeks burning from the intensity of my tears.
Mum had hurt herself. Again. The first time had been just days before I’d begged her to move in with me, hoping being close would help her feel safer.
But her hallucinations were so vivid, so real to her. And I was suffocating in the helplessness of not being able to do anything.
Looking over, I found her fast asleep. Our dinner plates were still on the table, so going over I picked them up and placed them quietly in the sink to be tomorrow’s problem. Returning to the dining room table, I began to tuck in the chair, frowning at the strange marks on the arms of the wood.
A faint creak sounded behind me, as if the floorboards were shifting.
Spinning around, I stifled the panicked squeak rising in my throat. “Mum?” I whispered, finding her still fast asleep.
I froze, barely breathing, straining to catch any other sound.
Nothing.
Exhaling slowly, I shook my head and retraced my steps to the bathroom, convincing myself I wasn’t unravelling. After double-checking the locks twice, I crept back toward my room. Pressing my palms hard against my eyes, I sank onto my bed.
Only then to remember that was where I’d hidden the knives.
With a groan, I rolled off and crouched, peering beneath. It was empty, of course, not that I expected mum’s demon to be hiding under there. But through the gaps in the wooden slats, I could see the knives.
A moan echoed from the living room, followed by a whimper. Grabbing my pillow, I made my way back to mum, finding her still asleep, just trapped in a nightmare. Slipping beneath the duvet beside her, I reached up and brushed her dark hair away from her face.
“It’s going to be okay,” I whispered, a promise to myself just as much as her.