by Karen Rose
Daisy sat up slowly, rubbing her neck. Nina Barnes was staring at Agent Hunter’s gun with wide eyes. “Can I roll down the window and talk to her myself?”
“No,” both Gideon and her father barked at the same time.
Well, okay then. “I can’t open the window. Sorry. You’ll have to talk loudly.”
“What happened yesterday in Macdoel?” Nina asked through Hunter’s window.
Daisy sighed. “Look, Miss Barnes, we are exhausted and we need to rest. If you give us your card, I’ll call you and give you a phone interview. How’s that?”
The woman tilted her head cagily. “Exclusive?”
“For now, yes.”
She nodded and gave Hunter her card. He handed it back and Daisy snatched it before her father or Gideon could. “Thank you. I’ll be calling you within a few hours.”
“Thanks. Look, interview aside, I’m sorry for the loss of your friend. Miss Hart was a really nice person, from all I’ve been able to glean.”
Daisy swallowed. “Yeah, she was nice. Thank you.”
“How is Mr. Senegal?” Nina asked.
Daisy frowned at her. “Who?”
Nina frowned back. “Miss Hart’s boyfriend. He showed up at the crime scene looking for the police. I told him to contact Sokolov or Rhee.”
Daisy’s breath caught. “Trish didn’t have a boyfriend, Gideon.”
Gideon leaned between the two front seats, angling his body so that he wasn’t knocking his sling. “Tell us about the boyfriend, please. What did he look like?”
“About six feet tall, red hair, gray eyes. Mustache. He was very upset. Said he needed to find out what was happening. Like I said, I told him to call Sokolov and Rhee, because they were lead detectives.”
“Did you see what kind of car he drove?” Gideon asked quietly.
“Yeah. Beige Chevy.” Her eyes narrowed speculatively. “This is important.”
“Could be,” Gideon deflected.
“Tell her to avoid him,” Daisy whispered. “Tell her that he’s dangerous. Or I will.”
Gideon nodded. “Did you give him your card, Miss Barnes?”
“I did. Why?”
“Has he reached out to you?”
“Not yet.”
“If he does, call Sokolov or Rhee right away. Don’t try to approach him yourself.”
Her eyes grew round as saucers. “That was him?”
“We don’t know. But he could be dangerous. Please, don’t go after him yourself.”
Nina nodded slowly. “Got it. You’ll give me the interview? For real?”
“For real,” Daisy said. “Exclusive.”
“We’ll both call you,” Gideon promised. “Thank you.”
Nina stepped back. “Thank you. Be careful.”
“You too,” Daisy called as Agent Hunter drove them away, Karl and Irina following close behind them all the way to the Sokolov house in Granite Bay.
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 5:15 P.M.
His hot, fetid breath was in Zandra’s face, and she didn’t even care. Not anymore. At least her eyes could close again. The tape had fallen off long before. As soon as it got bloody, it had stopped sticking.
Bellamy, Anna. Pennsylvania. Fiddler, Janice. Washington. Orlov, Nadia. Illinois. Stevenson, Rayanna. Texas.
“Say you’re sorry,” he snarled, beyond fury.
She’d begged him to stop, begged him not to hurt her. But I’m sorry were two words she would not say. As soon as she did, she was dead. She knew it. She didn’t know how she knew it, and she didn’t care about the why of it anymore, either.
DeVeen, Rosamond. Minnesota. Borge, Delfina. California. Oliver, Makayla. New York. Danton, Eileen. Oregon.
“Say. It.” His voice was guttural. Like an animal. “Say you’re sorry.”
Martell, Kaley. California. Hart, Trisha. California.
He put his hands around her throat and tightened. She couldn’t breathe.
But she couldn’t fight. Not anymore.
“Say it. Say it, damn you.” He clamped his hand over her windpipe and shook her hard. “Say it, Sydney,” he screamed. “Say you’re sorry. Say it!”
Spittle flew from his mouth as he screamed at her, spraying her face. And she didn’t care anymore. She was floating. He was killing her. I’m dying. Right now.
And then something clicked, far back in her mind. Say it, Sydney.
He’d called her “Sydney.” He’d carved most of those letters in her body. He had all of them but the final “Y.” She opened her mouth, tried to speak.
Releasing her throat, he backed away, crowing triumphantly. “Say you’re sorry. Say it. Say it and I can end it. You’ll be done. No more pain.”
“I’m . . .” She hacked, her throat dry as a desert and nearly swollen shut. She opened her eyes. “I’m . . .”
He leaned in, smiling. “You’re?”
“I’m not Sydney.”
His face contorted in vicious rage. He grabbed the largest of the knives and brought it up over her body in a smooth arc.
But then he stopped midswing and dropped the knife back with the others on the table. “No,” he said firmly, his voice rough from screaming at her. “You will say you are sorry to me.”
“For what?” she asked for the hundredth time, her voice pitifully weak.
“It doesn’t matter!” he yelled in her face. “Just say it!”
“No.” Bellamy, Anna. Pennsylvania. Fiddler, Janice. Washington. Orlov, Nadia. Illinois. Stevenson, Rayanna. Texas. DeVeen, Rosamond. Minnesota. Borge, Delfina. California. Oliver, Makayla. New York. Danton, Eileen. Oregon. Martell, Kaley. California. Hart, Trisha. California.
Shaking from head to toe, he took another step back, then another until he was through the door to the small room.
She heard him lock it behind himself.
Please, God, she prayed. Please help me. I can’t last much longer.
She began reciting the names again because it was all she could do. She’d lost count of how many times she’d done so when the door opened again.
He was back.
“Hello, Zandra,” he said calmly, almost sweetly, and that frightened her more than seeing him unhinged. He’d showered and changed his clothes and now held a bowl of water in his hands. He set the bowl on the table next to her bed and, taking a washcloth from the bowl, washed her body.
The water was warm, his strokes gentle. A moan escaped her throat. It felt so good. So good. He washed her all over, leaving several times to dump the bloody water, returning with fresh. Always warm. Always gentle.
He studied her stomach and chest after she was clean, shaking his head sadly. “I can’t suture you up because of my hand,” he said, “but I’ll disinfect them and bind them up.”
The disinfectant was cold and burned like fire. She moaned again, this time in agony, all while he shushed her. “You brought this on yourself, Zandra,” he said kindly. “If you’d just said you were sorry, all of this could have been avoided.”
He’s trying to mess with my head. She blocked out his voice, instead listening to the voice in her mind.
Bellamy, Anna. Pennsylvania. Fiddler, Janice. Washington. Orlov, Nadia. Illinois.
He cut the ropes binding her to the bed and rubbed her raw wrists. Warm water, soothing strokes. Then burning disinfectant. And more sad-sounding admonitions.
Stevenson, Rayanna. Texas, she thought desperately. DeVeen, Rosamond. Minnesota. Borge, Delfina. California.
He cut the ropes on her ankles, repeating the motions. Rubbing her legs briskly.
Oliver, Makayla. New York. Danton, Eileen. Oregon.
He lifted her from the bed gently, carefully laying her on the floor as he changed the sheets. Then he lifted her back.
Please don’t tie m
e. Please.
“I have to tie you,” he said, and she wondered if she’d said the words aloud. “But I’ll use softer cloth,” he promised. “This is silk.” He slid it over her skin. “It feels so nice, doesn’t it? I’ve got lots of silk.”
He tugged her until she was sitting upright, and then he was pulling something silk over her head. It was a sleep shirt. He laid her on the bed and pulled down the gown until it hit her midthigh. Then he tied her wrists and ankles again.
Martell, Kaley. California. Hart, Trisha. California.
He’s trying to trick me. She’d read about these tactics. He was reminding her what luxury felt like, only to take it away later. Whatever he planned to do later would feel a thousand times worse because now she remembered what comfort felt like. What hope felt like. I’m not going to let him mess with my head. I’m going to get away. I’m not going to die. Not like the others.
“Now, I have to go for a little while. But I’ll be back and then we’ll chat some more.” He pulled a velour blanket from a cabinet and covered her with it. “Until then, stay warm and try to get some rest.”
Then he cleaned up his knives and locked them up. He also closed and locked his trinket cabinet so that she could no longer see the driver’s licenses and souvenirs. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and left. Locking the door behind him.
Bellamy, Anna. Pennsylvania. Fiddler, Janice. Washington. Orlov, Nadia. Illinois. Stevenson, Rayanna. Texas. DeVeen, Rosamond. Minnesota. Borge, Delfina. California. Oliver, Makayla. New York. Danton, Eileen. Oregon. Martell, Kaley. California. Hart, Trisha. California.
GRANITE BAY, CALIFORNIA
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 5:35 P.M.
Gideon felt a surge of pride as Daisy ended her call with the reporter, turned off the speaker, and carefully placed the Sokolovs’ cordless phone on the table. She’d been as articulate and wholesomely believable as she’d been in the on-camera interviews she’d allowed Friday night. She’d also skillfully kept the conversation to facts that were easily verifiable from public sources of information.
She’d also petted poor Brutus within an inch of her life.
She hadn’t mentioned Eden or the locket, somehow managing to deftly sidestep the reporter’s line of questioning every time it focused on Eileen and why they’d gone to Redding to search for her. She’d never once mentioned Gideon’s connection to the case. Never uttered the word “cult.”
She’d been honest about how she’d met Trish, how they’d both attended AA. Her grief over the loss of her friend had been genuine and evident and there hadn’t been a dry eye around the Sokolovs’ kitchen table, where everyone seemed to gather as Daisy answered the reporter’s many questions.
Karl and Irina sat in their usual places at either end of the table. Gideon was closest to Irina, who’d folded her hands on the table in front of her, but her knuckles were white.
Frederick sat directly across from Daisy, who sat between Gideon and Sasha, who’d been waiting for them when they’d arrived. Daisy had held Gideon’s hand throughout but let him go when she’d talked about finding Trish’s body so that she could put her arms around Sasha.
Because Sasha was weeping soundlessly, her face turned into Daisy’s chest while Daisy stroked her hair.
It wasn’t until the reporter had asked why she and Gideon were in Macdoel that she truly deflected, saying that she’d lived in the area for years and wanted to see it again.
Given how Daisy had felt about the ranch, saying that she’d wanted to see it again had probably been a lie. She’d ended the call after that, saying that she was tired from the ordeal and needed to rest. That was not a lie. No matter that she’d napped on and off all day, she was pale and drained.
“Well,” she murmured. “That’s done.” She pulled a few tissues from the box and gave them to Sasha, who wiped her face with a dramatic sigh.
“I’m so glad it is,” Sasha whispered. “I don’t know how you didn’t fall apart.”
Daisy’s gaze flicked to Gideon before returning to Sasha. “I did that already. I’ll probably do it again.” She kissed Sasha’s temple. “Go wash your face.”
“Not yet, Sasha,” Irina said sharply. She wiped her own eyes and it was then that Gideon saw that they’d narrowed.
At me. His gaze traveled around the table, noting that Karl was looking at Irina, troubled, and Frederick was watching his daughter with an outright frown.
Daisy picked up Brutus, rubbing her cheek over the dog’s bizarre bat ears.
“You lied,” Frederick said quietly.
Daisy met her father’s gaze, lifting her chin defiantly. “No, I simply used generalizations of the truth and let Nina Barnes believe what she wanted to believe.” She lifted one shoulder. “Kind of like you did when you told your ranch hands that you’d grown weary of the city rat race when they asked why you’d come to a ranch in the middle of nowhere. Not exactly a lie.”
“I was protecting my family,” Frederick said tightly. “Or thought I was, anyway.”
Daisy continued to hold Frederick’s gaze, unblinking, her fingers deep in Brutus’s fur, until her father sat back in his chair and looked at Gideon. “Oh,” Frederick breathed.
“Oh, what?” Karl looked between father and daughter. “How did Daisy lie?”
“Generalized the truth,” Daisy corrected, and Gideon’s lips quirked up despite the fact that Irina was glaring daggers at him.
“Whatever,” Karl said, frustrated. “What is going on here?”
“Our ranch was west of Weaverville,” Frederick said, “which is three hours southwest of Macdoel. You two were nowhere close to our old ranch, which Daisy routinely called the armpit of California.”
Daisy winced. “When I was a teenager.”
“Sorry,” Frederick said sarcastically. “When you were twenty-one you called it a ‘pustulent boil on the ass of California.’” He looked at Karl. “All to say there was no way she’d ever go back to walk down memory lane. Why did you go to Redding to begin with? And why Macdoel? Why were you on that road to start with?” He pointed to Gideon. “You tell us. She’s way too good at ‘generalizing the truth.’”
Karl’s brow bunched. “Gideon? What’s going on here, son?”
“She’s protecting Gideon,” Irina said flatly.
Sasha let out a breath. “I didn’t say a word, DD. I swear it.”
Daisy patted her hand. “I know. Your mama’s smart. Dammit,” she added lightly.
Irina didn’t smile. “This has to do with that tattoo that you had when you first came to us, Gideon. No, I hadn’t forgotten about you searching for tattoos on Saturday, Daisy. It was only two days ago. Talk to me. Now.”
Gideon rubbed his hand over his face. “I don’t want to,” he murmured, sounding like a child even to his own ears.
“I can see that,” Irina said, her voice trembling.
He chanced a glance and his heart broke a little. Her eyes had filled with tears. She was hurt. Unmistakably. “Don’t cry. Please. I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want you to worry.” He sighed. “And because there are things I never wanted you to know.”
He’d told Rafe some things. He’d told Rafe, his partner, and that forensic investigator more things. He’d told Daisy everything. He’d only told Daisy everything.
But he owed Irina and Karl the truth. They were his family. They’d loved him from the moment he’d first entered their home. He could live with not sharing all of this with the FBI. He couldn’t live with keeping this from his family. “Where is Zoya?” he asked.
“At her friend’s house doing a school project,” Irina said. “Why?”
“Because I don’t want to fill her mind with things she doesn’t need to know.” Gideon hesitated. “And because I don’t want to burden her with a secret that she’s too young to be asked to keep.”
Daisy cuddled Brutus under he
r chin with one hand and held on to Gideon’s hand with the other. She gave his fingers a hard squeeze. You got this, she mouthed.
God, he hoped so. He drew a breath, let it out. “My mother was a prostitute in San Francisco. Until she met a man who told her about a place called Eden.”
He told them everything, ignoring the gasps when he told them that he’d been tattooed at thirteen, that the girls were given lockets and married at twelve. But the power of speech deserted him when he came to his encounter with Edward McPhearson on the evening of his thirteenth birthday, because Irina began to sob, noisy, hiccupping sobs that she couldn’t suppress.
“Mama.” Sasha got up and walked around the table, wrapping her arms around her mother from behind, rocking them. Sasha was crying, too, silently but steadily.
Karl sat with his eyes closed, his face grown pale.
And Frederick’s eyes had clouded with compassion.
Daisy gave him a gentle nudge with her shoulder. “You need to finish the story, Gideon,” she murmured. “She thinks McPhearson . . . was successful. That he assaulted you. Hey. Look at me.”
He opened his eyes, not realizing he’d closed them. Her blue eyes were clear and full of gentle understanding. “They love you. They will understand. You need to trust them.” She brushed a quick kiss across his lips. “Don’t leave Irina hanging like this. It’s cruel.”
Gideon grabbed her hand as she started to pull away, pressing it to his mouth for just a moment. Just long enough to gather his courage.
Then he turned to Irina, who’d covered her face with both hands, sobbing like her heart would break. Because it was. He gently gripped her wrists and pulled her hands from her face, holding them tightly. “Irina. Listen to me. Please.”
She dragged in a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m supposed to be strong for you and here I weep like a child.”
“No,” he said softly. “Like a mama bear whose cub is hurt. But he didn’t hurt me, Irina. Not him.”
She held on to his hands, her breath coming fast and hard. “No?”
“No. I fought him. Fought him hard.” He swallowed, but his throat had closed and he felt like he was going to be sick. He’d told Daisy somehow. But this . . . Telling Irina was killing him. “I pushed him and he fell.” He closed his eyes. “He hit his head. And died.”
