“Delivery ordered from a Master Enterprises, ma’am.”
No. He didn’t!
“Come up.”
I hit the buzzer, and a moment later, look through the peephole to find a delivery guy standing with an enormous takeout bag of food.
I open the door, and he hands me the bag. “Let me tip you—”
“Already been taken care of. Good night.”
And off he goes.
The smell wafts through the air, and my knees wobble. I’m weak with hunger.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Cain.
I tap it, and a picture fills my screen. It’s a stunning, hefty black SUV with chrome rims that gleam under the streetlights. Oh my God.
Cain: This is your company vehicle. It’s been dropped off by your front door and I’m sending you an attachment with a digital key. Once you open it, you’ll find the physical key in the glovebox, entry code your birthday. You’ll have a gas card as well and unlimited mileage.
Me: Okay, Mr. Master, what’s the catch?
No response at first.
Cain: Most people say thank you, Miss Price.
Me: I’m not most people. What goes up must come down and all that.
Cain: The catch is, I still want your ass at my place in the morning for target practice.
Me: And?
Cain: And nothing. I’m assuming you’ll do the work I asked you to do tonight, and that’s all. Enjoy your dinner.
Me: Thank you.
My hand hovers over the little smiley face emoji, but on second thought I don’t send it. I have to stay strong. I can’t let him wine and dine me.
Mouth watering, I open the takeout bag to find a small pile of white cardboard boxes. I swallow. Oh my God, there’s enough food here for an army. Vegetable tempura, lightly breaded and fried until golden brown, skewers of savory beef and chicken teriyaki, steamed rice with their signature veggies fresh from their rooftop garden, shrimp and rice, delicate rows of spring rolls, and a variety of fresh, decadent sushi, neatly nestled in pretty silver trays.
Candi’s got a night shift, and I don’t know anyone else close enough to share this with. Ah, well. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the next week, and I am not complaining.
I eat standing up right at the counter, savoring every decadent morsel.
“My God, food this good should not even be legal,” I mutter to myself around a mouthful of shrimp tempura as I open up the laptop and fire it up.
I’ve got work to do.
I start with the notes on my phone.
When I’m good and stuffed, I package up the leftover food and slide it into my fridge, my mind teeming with the knowledge I’ve gleaned.
Precisely thirteen victims since June.
God. It’s worse than I thought.
Several eyewitnesses insist they saw the same man with a string of victims before they went missing, but things aren’t adding up.
“I know it was him,” one father said about his daughter’s kidnapper. “He fits this exact profile.”
Who? The profile fits a man by the name of Derrick Dossier, a former police officer, retired from the force at the age of forty-nine. Some sources even found his DNA at the crime scene and on victims, which normally is strong evidence to convict. But every single time, there was undeniable evidence that Dossier had an ironclad alibi, most with video and photographic evidence. And since humans are unable to bi-locate, he was let off despite overwhelming evidence against him.
I look at my notes, wishing I hadn’t eaten that last piece of shrimp. My stomach’s in knots.
* * *
Anita Charles
Age: 18
Taken August 1, found dead August 4th.
Clear victim of repeated rape. Bruises found along inner thighs and anus, lesions throughout the body.
Note: Sources say she received bouquets left at her door several days before she was taken.
* * *
Margaret Sellier
Age: 19
Taken August 5th, found dead August 7th
Raped multiple times. Bruised and subjected to beatings. Broken bones and teeth.
Note: Sources say there were fresh flowers at her residence when she was taken.
* * *
Clair Boyd
Age: 18
Taken August 8th. Survivor.
Has no memory of abuse but shows signs of repeated rape and abuse. Trauma amnesia.
Note: No flowers on record
* * *
I spend the next two hours scrolling through every bit of social media involving the girls that I can, as well as every report I can get my hands on.
Anita left home at the age of sixteen and was estranged from her parents as well as her siblings. She came from a religious home and had nine brothers and sisters. “She left us for the occult,” her mother’s on record as saying. “I knew things would end like this. I knew she’d be taken by the Devil for her sins.”
A lump rises in my throat, reminding me of the minister’s wife who rejected me. I don’t know how some people live with themselves in the name of something that should be good.
Anita has a mere twelve followers online, and the news said no one came to her funeral.