Chapter 2 - Methods
Methods
"Good morning, sunshine!" I chirped, clicking on the basement's fluorescent lights. They flickered to life with that lovely buzzing sound, like mechanical bees waking up to greet the day. "Did you sleep well? I hope the accommodations weren't too uncomfortable!"
The man in the chair—David? Daniel? Something with a D—stirred against his restraints, blinking away the chemical drowsiness. His fancy suit was all wrinkled now, and there was drool on his expensive tie. So unprofessional! Daddy would have been appalled.
"Where..." He focused on me, and I watched recognition bloom across his face like a bruise. "You. From the bar."
"That's me!" I did a little twirl, my yellow sundress with the sunflower print flaring out.
Today's outfit was extra cheerful—pigtails tied with matching ribbons, white ankle socks with lace trim, and my favorite pink platform sneakers that made me bounce when I walked.
"I'm so glad you decided to accept my invitation!
Even if you were a teensy bit reluctant at first."
The basement looked so much better since Matt had let me organize it.
Everything in its proper place: tools on the pegboard arranged by size, cleaning supplies in color-coded bins, drain in the floor that connected to the old bootlegging tunnels.
He was such a thoughtful boss, especially after I'd explained how messy my hobby could get.
"Listen," David-or-Daniel started, pulling against the zip ties. "Whatever you want—"
"Oh, I want lots of things!" I pulled up my rolling stool, careful not to catch my dress on the wheels.
"World peace, a puppy someday, maybe some houseplants that I won't forget to water.
But right now, I mostly want to talk about Amy King.
Remember her? Nineteen years old, psychology major at State, responded to your ad about 'modeling opportunities'? "
His face did something complicated—guilt and fear and calculation all mixed together like paint colors making mud.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"That's okay! Sometimes people need help remembering things.
" I opened my toolbox, humming a little tune from the music box Daddy used to play during conditioning.
Each tool had its own foam cutout, everything neat and tidy.
"Amy was Institute Batch 43, you know. Three batches before me!
Like sisters, kind of, if sisters were made instead of born. "
I selected the prettiest pair of pliers—the ones with the rubber grip handles in cherry blossom pink. They matched my nails!
"According to the paperwork in your briefcase—which, by the way, terrible password choices, really—you paid $2.3 million for her through something called Acquisition Services. That's a lot of money! You must have really wanted a friend."
"She was willing," he said quickly. "She signed the contracts. Everything was legal."
"Legal!" I giggled, scooting closer. "Isn't that word funny?
Like we all agreed on rules and suddenly things become okay or not okay based on paper and signatures.
Daddy taught me that consent could be manufactured just like anything else.
Create the right conditions, and people will agree to anything! "
I took his left hand in mine, gentle as a nurse. His manicure was fresh—clear coat, buffed nails, the kind of maintenance that spoke of a man who cared about details.
"See, Amy's still out there somewhere. Your paperwork says you had her for seven months before she 'malfunctioned.' That's the word you used in your complaint to customer service. Malfunctioned. Like she was a broken toy instead of a girl who remembered she was human."
The pliers closed around his index fingernail with a soft click.
"So I need you to remember where she went after she left your house. Because Institute girls don't just disappear. We're too valuable for that."
"I don't—" He started to lie, but I was already pulling. The nail separated from the bed with a wet sound like scotch tape peeling off gift wrap. He screamed, which was totally understandable. Manicures were expensive!
"Shh, indoor voices please!" I dropped the nail into a little ceramic dish shaped like a bunny. It clinked like a penny in a wishing well. "Now, let's try again. Where did Amy go?"
The morning continued so productively! David-or-Daniel had such interesting things to share once we got past his initial reluctance.
Each nail revealed another detail: the company that handled "returns," the warehouse where "malfunctioning products" were processed, names of others in his exclusive little club of collectors.
"You're doing so well!" I encouraged, working on his thumb now. "See how much easier honesty is? Daddy always said the truth was like a splinter—better to get it out quick than let it fester."
"Please," he gasped. "Please, I'll tell you everything."
"You already are, silly!" I reached for the bone saw—a darling little hand-held model with ergonomic grip. "But let's talk about something super important. Do you know Gabriel Mire?"
The way he went still told me everything. That perfect freeze response, like a rabbit spotting a hawk.
"You do!" I clapped my hands, genuinely delighted. "Oh, this is wonderful! Tell me tell me tell me!"
"I only met him once." The words tumbled out fast, desperate. "At a product demonstration. He was... he was showing off his newest batch. The conditioning techniques. How to maintain them after purchase."
My whole body went warm and tingly, like sinking into a bubble bath. Daddy had done demonstrations. Had shown off his work. Had stood in front of men like this and explained his art.
"What did he say?" My voice came out dreamier than intended. "What did he look like? Did he mention me? Batch 47?"
"He said—" David-or-Daniel swallowed hard. "He said the later batches were more stable. More thoroughly conditioned. That by 47, he'd perfected the process."
"He talked about me?" The bone saw trembled in my hands. "He said I was perfect?"
"Not you specifically. Just the batch number. Please, that's all I know—"
But I was already moving, already needing more. The saw met his wrist with the efficiency of all those anatomy lessons, all those careful dissections Daddy had supervised. The radius and ulna were such elegant bones, running parallel like train tracks toward a destination.
"Tell me everything about that meeting," I said, working through the tissue with practiced motions. "What was he wearing? How did his voice sound? Did he seem happy with his work?"
David-or-Daniel screamed answers between sobbing, painting a picture of my Daddy commanding a room, explaining psychological principles to men who bought broken girls. My Daddy, proud of what he'd made. My Daddy, calling Batch 47 his masterpiece.
The hand came free with a final push, and I placed it carefully on the drain grate. Everything had a place, even the pieces we didn't need anymore.
"You're being so helpful!" I told him, though he seemed to have fainted. Silly boy. We were just getting to the good part.
The door at the top of the stairs creaked open. Matt's heavy footsteps descended with the patience of someone who'd done this before.
"Morning, Bunny." He took in the scene without flinching—the tools, the blood patterns on the concrete, David-or-Daniel's new asymmetry. "Productive night?"
"Super productive!" I showed him my notes, written in glittery gel pen. "He knew about Amy from Batch 43, and he's seen Daddy! I mean, Gabriel. He's seen Gabriel doing demonstrations!"
Matt pulled on industrial gloves from the supply shelf. He'd been in the military once, he'd told me. Had seen worse things than anything I could do in his basement. That's why he understood the necessity of certain hobbies.
"This one going to wake up?"
I tilted my head, considering David-or-Daniel's pallor and the growing puddle beneath the chair. "Probably not? But if he does, I still need to ask about the warehouse address. He was being a little vague about the exact location."
"I'll prep the tunnel access." Matt was already gathering supplies—tarp, bleach, the industrial-grade cleaners that didn't ask questions. "You've got the morning shift today."
"I know! I better hurry and clean up." I started organizing my tools, humming that same music box melody. Each instrument went back in its designated spot, ready for next time. "Matt?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you for understanding. About... this." I gestured vaguely at the artistic splatter patterns. "Most people wouldn't be so accommodating."
He paused in his work, looking at me with those tired eyes that had seen too much. "Kid like you doesn't end up like this without reason. Figure the least I can do is make sure you're hunting the right people."
"They're all connected to the Institute," I assured him. "Every single one either bought a girl, sold a girl, or knows where to find the people who did. I'm very selective!"
"I know you are." He checked David-or-Daniel's pulse with professional detachment. "He's done. Help me with the wrap."
We worked together in comfortable silence, teacher and student in the art of disappearance. Matt showed me how to fold the joints for easier transport, how to use the tarp to contain seepage. All practical skills that would serve me well in my search.
"The Amy girl," Matt said as we secured the package. "You really think you can find her?"
"Maybe! But even if I can't, her trail might lead to others. Or to people who know about Daddy. Gabriel." I corrected myself again, though it felt like chewing aluminum foil. "Every connection is a step closer to understanding the network."
"And then?"
I considered this as we maneuvered toward the tunnel entrance. What happened when I found all the missing girls? When I understood the full scope of what the Institute had built?
"Then I find him," I said simply. "And I show him how well I've maintained my conditioning. How perfectly I've applied everything he taught me. He'll be so proud!"
Matt gave me a look I couldn't quite interpret. "Right. Proud."
The tunnels were cool and damp, leading to an old storm drain system that eventually connected to the river. We'd done this dance five times now, and each time I'd gotten better at the logistics. Daddy would have appreciated the skill development.
"I need to shower and change," I said once we'd completed the delivery. "Can't work a bar shift with evidence in my hair!"
"Take your time." Matt was already heading back with the empty tarp. "And Bunny? Maybe ease up on the hand removal. Gets harder to transport when they're in pieces."
"I'll try!" I promised, though we both knew how difficult it was to stop once someone started talking about Gabriel. "See you at shift change!"
Back in the basement, I surveyed my workspace with satisfaction.
Just some blood to mop up, tools to sanitize, and new intelligence to add to my collection.
Amy Chen was out there somewhere, either fixed and resold or disposed of like faulty merchandise.
But her trail existed, and trails could be followed by good girls who paid attention to details.
I cleaned everything with the focus Daddy had taught me, making sure no trace remained of David-or-Daniel's educational visit. The floor practically sparkled when I finished, ready for whoever would next have information about the Institute or its products.
My phone—the regular one, not the special trafficking phone—buzzed with a reminder about my shift. Time to transform back into Bunny the bartender, bright and bubbly and harmless as cotton candy.
But first, I added the morning's discoveries to my mental map. A warehouse for returns. Demonstration meetings where Gabriel showed off his successes. Other collectors who might have seen him more recently. The web grew larger with each basement conversation, each bloody revelation.
"Thank you, David-or-Daniel," I said to the empty chair. "You were tremendously helpful!"
Then up the stairs, into the light, ready to serve drinks with steady hands and a sunshine smile. Ready to watch for the next breadcrumb that would lead me home to Daddy.
After all, good girls always found their way back.
Good girls always came home.