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“You ready to give them a home again?”

She pauses, and then a small smile forms. “Yes,” she whispers.

Tears flood her eyes, but I don’t let her know that I noticed. I can tell she wouldn’t appreciate it.

“Let’s go then, kid.”

This little girl will go back home, and though she has a long journey ahead of her, she’ll heal.

We keep tabs on all the girls we extract to ensure they don’t go missing again. If it can happen once, it can happen twice.

She huddles in close to me as we walk out of the building. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a girl step in blood. I pause, pointing at her but glaring at Ruby.

“Ruby! What’d I say? Not a drop of blood on the girls.”

Ruby startles, roles reversing as she rushes towards the girl with shame.

“I’m sorry, honey bunny, let me clean you up,” she coos to the little girl with way more than just a fucking drop on her foot. “Watch your step, okay?”

I turn, satisfied that she won’t let it happen again.

I help Sicily navigate through the carnage, keeping one eye firmly on her feet and where she walks. When she’s in the clear, I lead her to the van where they’ll transport her safely to the hospital. There, her family will be notified.

I whistle an unnamed tune as I let my crew take care of the rest and head to my Mustang, hidden in another parking lot across the street. I’m eager to get the fuck out of here.

My hunt isn’t over yet. I have to play with my little mouse now.

Chapter 7

The Manipulator

“Y ou need to get out of the house," Daya concludes, staring at me with fear and distress swirling in her sage eyes. I just told her about my mom’s visit yesterday.

By the look on her face, I can tell that she’s well and truly scared for me.

"I need to finish this manuscript," I argue, my thoughts straying to the massive plot hole I’ve fallen into. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times I press the proverbial Life Alert—I can’t get up. I’m going to have to roll out my whiteboard and sticky notes to map out the plot tonight, so I can figure out how to solve the issue once and for all.

Sometimes I wish I could just simplify my books and call it a day, but then I wouldn't have the readership I have.

"Uh uh," Daya snipes, shaking her head at me. "Get ready. We're having a girls night."

I slump, the whiteboard and sticky notes going poof. But I don't argue. I'm an indie author, so I publish when I'm ready to. I hardly set deadlines for myself because the pressure suppresses my creativity. I can’t write when I’m too ridden with anxiety to get the book done by a specific time. And as great as my readers are, there’s always that pressure to get the next book out.

Of course, Daya knows this and now wields this knowledge as a weapon.

Dick.

Groaning, I let her hurdle me up the stairs and into my bedroom, my eyes immediately finding the mirror and chest—they always seem to do that now after finding out what really happened in here.

Those two pieces feel like beacons in the room now, glaring at me as if to say I know who killed her.

It doesn’t matter that I slapped some black paint on them. The bones are still the same.

The walls and floor are smooth black rock now, with white ceilings and large white rugs to lighten up the room. I also installed a heating system in the floors. Otherwise, getting up in the middle of the night to pee and stepping on ice-cold floors would just be cruel and unusual punishment.

I decided I love the sconces in the hallway so much that I wanted a few in my room, too. Placed artfully on the wall my bed is against, surrounding a massive, beautiful art piece of a woman.

Straight ahead of the bedroom door is my favorite part—the balcony. Black double doors open up to a terrace that overlooks the cliffside. It has a way of making you feel small and insignificant when you’re standing before a sight as beautiful as that.