I know exactly where they live. What they eat, where they sleep, shit, and work. But what they haven’t led me to is where these rituals take place.
And every day that goes by without that information, these rituals will be performed more.
“Did we get a hit on an IP address from who leaked the video?” I ask Jay, though I already know the answer.
“No, they covered their tracks. Whoever leaked it knew what they were doing,” Jay answers. I roll my neck again, gritting my teeth against the flaring pain radiating from the tightened muscles.
More than anything, I’d love to feel my little mouse’s hands working out the near permanent knots in my neck and shoulders. But it’ll be a little while before she agrees to that.
“Alright, I’ll see what I can find out with this new video,” I say, before ending the call.
Fuck. I need a drink.
And my little mouse happens to have a bottle of my favorite whiskey in her house.
A bone-chilling cold settles on the back of my neck. I hiss through my teeth and turn my head, convinced I’ll find someone standing behind me. But no one is there, despite the persistent cold surrounding me like dense fog.
I've already experienced a few unexplainable things while perusing Parsons Manor.
But whatever ghost that's floating up my ass has bad fucking timing.
“Back off,” I mutter through gritted teeth, turning back around. Surprisingly, it does. Whatever it is.
And I go back to staring mindlessly into my whiskey glass.
Whoever’s whiskey this is, it’s divine. A citrus flavor lingers on my tongue as I sip from the crystal cup. Addie’s upstairs sleeping, none the wiser to me being down here, drinking her whiskey, and stewing in the hornet’s nest buzzing throughout my skull.
Two of my employees installed security systems throughout her house, unknowingly to keep their boss out. I basically invented these systems, so I’m more than capable of disarming them with a click of my phone.
In the beginning, I just picked her locks to get in, then reverse-picked them after I left. The only predator I’ll allow in her house is myself. Despite her shit locks, I’d never leave her vulnerable.
I was relieved when she installed the security system, even if it was meant to keep me out. Breaking past those barriers is just another lesson to teach. Eventually, she'll
learn that she can’t shut me out any more than she can fuck another man.
She tried to convince me of that the other day, but with one look at her cameras, I knew she was bluffing. Trying to get me riled up. It almost worked until I remembered that I’m taking it slow with her.
In the beginning, I tried so hard to forget her. I tried to run. But I couldn’t get her out of my mind. I went home from that bookstore and attempted to talk myself down. But it seemed the more I struggled to convince the beast inside of me to leave her alone, the more it raged.
And the second I started looking into her life, digging up anything I could find, the obsession only grew. She became an inoperable brain tumor that plagues every waking moment of my life.
Sometimes it feels like if I tried to cut her out of me anyways, I wouldn’t survive it.
Taking another swallow of whiskey, I twirl a red rose between my thumb and forefinger, a drop of blood pooling from where the thorn pricked me. Ignoring them, I keep rolling the dangerous stem between my fingers, a vortex of anger and anxiety swirling in my stomach.
Children are being tortured at this very moment. This second—this millisecond—while I sit here and drink liquor from a crystal glass.
There are children being sacrificed right now. Hurt. Maimed. Raped. Killed. While sadistic fucks circle around them and drink the blood from their bodies.
My phone rests on the island, the screen lit up with the grotesque video playing on a loop.
I haven’t been able to stop watching it—or rather, stop torturing myself. It’s a small price to pay for the absolute horror this poor kid suffered from. My need to find where these rituals take place digs deeper, and it’s driving me fucking insane.
There’s nothing I can do at this moment. I’ve attempted to trace the source of the video, but whoever is leaking them has done their homework. No hits came through, leaving me feeling utterly fucking powerless.
I may be the best, but technology has limitations. I've learned how to bend and coerce information from almost nothing, but sometimes the tracks don't exist. The numbers just aren't there.
My thoughts spiral downward, like the amber liquid sliding down my throat.