by Ragan, T. R.
Not today, Riley thought as she walked toward the bed, plunked down on the hardwood floor, and wrapped the metal cuff around her ankle.
Once she finished, Bubbles checked to make sure the cuff was on securely and then helped her into bed. “After I clean the mess you made, I’m going to read you a story, just like old times.” She tapped her finger to the end of Riley’s nose.
It took everything she had not to bite the tip of Bubbles’s finger right off.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was Sunday afternoon when Bug decided to pay QB a visit. The original plan had been to spend the night in the unfinished house, but she had decided to let the man spend some time alone in his new cell. Let him wonder if anyone would ever return to check on him. Besides, he had everything he needed—food, water, and a pot to pee in.
Like all the members of The Crew, she wore a mask and wig at all times. The black mask was made of neoprene and covered her eyes and nose. It was breathable and easy to wear for long periods of time. The wigs they wore were good quality, made with thick black hair and styled in a blunt cut that ended two inches past the chin.
She walked down a set of wide stairs and then stopped in front of the cell where QB had been locked up. She set her duffel bag on the floor. At the moment, he appeared to be asleep, curled up in a ball in the far-right corner. “Good morning,” she said happily.
He jerked upright, then jumped to his feet. “Let me out of here!”
“Not so fast. This is a representation of the cell you should have been locked up in long ago,” Bug told him.
The “cell” was actually an unfinished wine cellar that the construction crew had used to lock up their equipment at night. It was rectangular in shape with three cement walls, the fourth wall made up of iron bars secured with a chain and a heavy-duty lock.
Hanging on the chain around her neck was the key.
Inside the cell was a case of water bottles, two metal buckets in which he could relieve himself, and plenty of toilet paper. There were also granola bars and a washrag.
Bug stared at QB, real name Myles Davenport. This was the first time since they had brought him here that she’d had a chance to get a good look at him. She’d spent the past ten years living in fear of this man. Always looking over her shoulder. Always ready for the worst. She carried Mace and a handheld alarm that could be engaged just by tossing it to the ground. Not a minute had gone by in all those years that she hadn’t thought of him and wondered when he and his friends might return.
Myles Davenport looked less scary behind bars than in her nightmares, where she relived being crushed by the heaviness of his body, his sour breath warm against her face, his grunts and moans loud in her ear.
He wasn’t even thirty, and yet his skin tone was uneven. Broken blood vessels and a receding hairline were already an issue. His lifestyle habits, including the extra hundred-plus pounds on his five-foot-ten frame, had not been kind to his face or body. And for this she was glad. It was the little things.
“Who are you?” he asked. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“This,” Bug said, arms spread wide as if she were on a game show, revealing what he’d won, “is all your doing.” Taking a step closer, she said, “Sometimes bad things happen to bad people.” Bug knew she wasn’t the only woman he’d sexually assaulted. She often wondered how many women he’d harmed since he’d walked out of court a free man.
“Treating women like objects,” she told him, “and forcing yourself on them is fucked up. Why do you rape women? Did your daddy abuse you when you were growing up?”
“I’ve never had sex with a woman who didn’t want me.”
“That’s a lie. At least five women I know of fought and screamed and begged for you to stop. Some were paid off. Others were too afraid to come out of hiding. But you already know all this.”
Bug had a degree in computer programming and had graduated with honors, but because of this asshole, she knew as much about the tragedy of rape and the effects on its victims as she did about software applications and coding. It made her sick to know that rape was becoming white noise in a chaotic world. One out of four women would be a victim of assault in their lifetime, and yet rape rarely made headlines.
“You’ve got the wrong man. Let me go.” He rubbed his chest. “I need my heart medication.”
“Being overweight causes high blood pressure, which causes strokes. You should—”
“What? You’re a fucking doctor? Fuck you!”
His frustration made her smile. “You’re not getting out of here until you admit to wrongdoing and apologize to all the women you’ve ever harmed.” She pulled out her cell and readied the video app. Before tapping the button she said, “This can be over in a matter of minutes. All you have to do is say you’re sorry and promise never to touch another woman without her permission.” This was all part of her plan. Guys like QB didn’t like to admit they’d made mistakes, especially to the woman who held the key to his freedom.
He fidgeted, his nostrils flaring. The poor guy was getting upset. Perfect. She hit the video button and then pointed a finger at him, letting him know now would be a good time to apologize.
His face reddened and his hands clenched and unclenched around the bars.
“Apologize,” she said, keeping his image centered on the screen on her phone.
“Let me the hell out of here!”
“Rape is a disturbing crime,” she said, ignoring his pleas. “Some victims of rape end up pregnant. How many of the women you raped had your baby? Do you know?”
The answer was one, but she wasn’t sure he knew the answer to the question. And she didn’t care if he did.
He picked up a bucket and tossed it her way. The metal clanged against the bars. Urine splashed his face and shirt, then rolled across the cement floor. “Let me the fuck out of here!”
Bug refused to cower. “Some rape victims are horribly injured during an attack,” she went on. “Others contract whatever STDs their attacker has. Worse than all that is the emotional trauma that men like you cause their victims. They have nightmares and panic attacks. They no longer trust people and are often riddled with self-doubt. Their lives are forever changed, their innocence taken from them in the most physically devastating way possible.”
“You are the dumbest bitch I’ve ever met. My father will—”
“You’re almost thirty,” she said, cutting him off midsentence. “Are you still living with Daddy?”
“Fuck you.”
“No. Not me. Never.”
For the first time since they locked him up, he was silent as he stared at her.
His body tensed. “It’s you,” he said, his face twisting into a familiar expression. “You’re the scrawny little flat-chested cheerleader with the big ass.” He brushed his hands over his face in a feeble attempt to clean himself up and went to the back of the cell, where he sat down, elbows resting on the top of his bent knees.
“Jesus. This is your fucking idea of payback?” He laughed. “Black wig and black mask.” He shook his head. “You’re part of the same group that cut off that guy’s dick, aren’t you?” He quieted, perhaps momentarily concerned that they might do the same to him. With the crazy amount of press the dickless wonder, Brad Vicente, had received, it didn’t surprise her that Myles had heard of their group. And it made no difference to her since she wasn’t worried about being identified.
She’d had a lot of time to think about QB and how she would give him a taste of his own medicine.
She also knew he would never walk out of here alive.
But that was her little secret. Until the time came to finish him off, she planned to fuck with the asshole every chance she got. She’d done her homework, and she knew absolutely everything there was to know about Myles Davenport. “Once I decide to let you go,” she said almost gleefully, knowing it would never happen, “you’ll never talk about what went on here. Not to anyone.”
He wagged a finger at her. “That�
�s where you’re wrong, honeycakes. You obviously didn’t learn a thing about who’s in control. Even now I can see right through the false bravado. The fear in your eyes is downright palpable.”
She stepped closer to his cage. “I know things about you, Myles.” He was playing the game, trying to get the upper hand, but the sweat glistening across his forehead was a telltale sign that he was nervous. “I want you to think about all the things you’ve ever done wrong. Every. Little. Thing.”
He squirmed. “You’re out of your mind.”
“If I were, I’d let my friends have a go at you. It wouldn’t be pretty. You’re lucky you got the nice one.” She grinned. “I’m just teaching you a lesson so that when you’re released, you’ll think twice before you do shit you shouldn’t be doing.”
“You think cutting off my dick is going to stop me from telling the whole fucking world what I know about little Tracy Rutherford?”
She winced, mostly an act on her part, although she didn’t like hearing her name on his lips. “I’m not going to cut off your dick. But I am going to keep you locked up until you can prove to me that you understand the difference between right and wrong.”
He rubbed his hands together. “I can’t wait to have a chat with your parents to tell them what you’ve been up to.”
“My parents had me late in life. Mom passed away, and Dad is in a home. He doesn’t remember me, and he certainly wouldn’t remember you. But he loves visitors.” She grabbed a water bottle from the box nearby, twisted the top, and drank. “It’s your parents you’ll need to watch out for once I send them the letter I wrote.”
“They know who you are,” he said. “They won’t believe anything you tell them. They know how much you enjoyed our time together. They sat in that courtroom along with everyone else, remember?”
“I’ll never forget it,” she said, which was true. A part of her wanted to see his parents suffer as much as their son for what they and their lawyers had put her through, making her out to be a slut. “The difference is, Myles, that back then, your mother and father believed wholeheartedly in the goodness of their son.”
He smiled, but she could tell his heart wasn’t in it.
“What kind of person steals from his own family?”
His eyes narrowed.
“I’m surprised your coworkers haven’t complained to your father about your excessive absences at work and the change in your lifestyle.”
His jaw hardened, but he said nothing.
“I have multiple documents that show the lengths you’ve gone to, to try and cover up the money you continue to embezzle from your father’s company. I don’t know why no one else has called you out on it. There are so many signs: decreased collections, past-due invoices, difficulty paying expenses on time. Was it financial strain that caused you to steal from the family company? Or is it just a general sense of entitlement on your part?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The unexplained changes in financial metrics are quite revealing,” she said. “Unfortunately for you, I also have receipts showing every purchase you’ve made since you started working for your dad’s company.” She lifted a brow. “What do you think he’ll say about the oceanfront home you bought in Florida? How about the closet full of expensive suits and Saint Laurent ostrich boots?”
“You’re such a dumb bitch. Someone at the company has been feeding you crap. None of it’s true.”
Bug walked over to her bag and retrieved a couple of papers that she carried to the cell, slid through the bars, and left on the ground. Researching his finances had been something to do in her spare time. It wasn’t until she hacked into the family business accounts that she saw red flags pop up after Myles was promoted to an executive position at the age of twenty-five. All she had to do was follow the money. Fake refunds from customers who didn’t exist all led straight to Myles. He also paid fictitious employees and ghost suppliers.
Myles tried to play it cool, but curiosity must have gotten the best of him because he pushed himself up from the cement floor and made his way to the papers. He grew pale as he flipped through copies of receipts and signature pages, solid proof that he’d bought much more than clothes, cars, and a beach house.
“I know how much your parents pride themselves on their oldest son’s honesty and good morals. For days I listened to them on the stand, talking you up. ‘Myles this. Myles that.’ Money is everything to people like them . . . and you.”
“So you want a piece of the pie, is that right? How much?”
A smile played at the corners of her mouth. “I already told you what I want. Let me know when you’re ready to grovel on video.”
“I’m sorry,” he said flatly. “Can I go now?”
“Nice try. I want a real apology.” Bug grabbed the camping chair she’d lugged downstairs to this bleak, windowless room, opened it, and took a seat. “We have time,” she said as she pulled off her wig and mask and got comfortable.
She rubbed her scalp. Much better.
She didn’t have high expectations when it came to getting a genuine, heartfelt apology, but she hoped to see him beg for forgiveness, maybe even shed a tear or two. That could happen in three minutes or three days. She would then pump him full of opioids, wait until the sun went down, and drive him to Auburn near Quarry Trail, where the grave she’d dug awaited him. No one, including The Crew members, would ever know what she’d done.
Once Myles was taken care of, she would go home and put on a blonde wig and contacts that made her eyes a lovely shade of emerald. Everything she needed to travel abroad was ready to go. She might go to Brazil or Lyon, France, where it would be easy to get lost in the lively city. Once she was settled in, she would find a way to anonymously send proof of Myles’s wrongdoings to his parents and to all those at the company who had power and influence. She would also send a summarized version to their company shareholders. And then for the first time in years, she would sleep deeply and soundly as the waves slapped gently against the sandy shores.
“I said I was sorry,” he whined. “What more do you want?”
“I want it all, Myles.” Blood, sweat, and tears, she thought but didn’t say. “When you can tell me in your own words everything you’ve done wrong and convince me that you feel remorse and regret—that’s when we’ll be done here.”
Complete bullshit, which was the best part. Bug knew the only remorse Myles Davenport would ever feel would be regret that he’d been caught and she was holding him accountable.
She wasn’t a therapist. And even if she were, she had no interest in trying to find ways to tap into a conscience he didn’t possess. She knew it was silly on her part, but she did, in fact, want a video, genuine or not, of him apologizing.
And then she wanted to bury him and forget he ever existed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was late afternoon when Sawyer checked her cell to see if there were any missed calls or texts from Derek.
Nothing.
After using her iPhone to help research the missing girls, Aria had left to pick up sandwiches at a local deli and would be back in ten to fifteen minutes.
It upset Sawyer that Derek hadn’t answered any of the multiple texts she’d sent or returned her call, though she had no right to be angry with him. This was all her fault. But it would be nice if he would at least give her a chance to tell him how she felt. She had been caught completely off guard when he’d told her they were finished. She’d needed time to process.
To hell with it, she decided as she hit “Call.” She felt an empty numbness in the pit of her stomach as she listened to his voice mail. “Hey,” she said after the beep. “It’s me. Sawyer.” She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. “I understand why you don’t want to talk to me, but I want—need—to tell you that you’re wrong about me, especially the part about my feelings for you. I like you, Derek. I like you a lot.” She glanced heavenward before adding, “There were so many times I thought about
calling you but didn’t because I was worried I would come across as weak and needy, sort of like how I must sound right now. You’re the first normal guy I’ve ever dated. Well, I do realize ‘normal’ is subjective, but what I mean by that is you’re the first guy I’ve ever dated who dresses nicely and has an eight-to-five job. I didn’t think I deserved to be with someone like you.” She exhaled. “See? This is exactly why I’ve avoided calling. I sound pathetic. Unlike you, I don’t possess a healthy, well-fed ego. My parents were monsters, and now—”
Voice mail cut her off. Call ended.
Sawyer redialed his number and waited for the beep so she could start off where she finished. “Part two,” she said with a laugh that came out sounding like a bark. She cringed at the sound of her awkwardness. “Let’s see . . . Where was I? Oh, that’s right—my parents were monsters. Point being that I felt sort of bad about a guy like you getting mixed up with me. From what you’ve told me, you have a large family filled with even more normal people. I’m sure there must be a black sheep in there somewhere, but still.” She paused, wishing she could erase this entire message and start over. “I guess I just want you to know that you were wrong about me. I am into you. I just didn’t know how to show it. This isn’t the first time I was a day late and a dollar short, but I wanted you to know—”
The call was cut off again. Damn. She called back and waited for the beep. “Hi. It’s me again. Last message, I promise. I wanted you to know that I think you’re special and that I care about you. That’s all. If you ever want to talk, I’ll be around.”
Sawyer sat there for a moment, feeling a little better now that she’d gotten to have her say.
Her phone had vibrated while she was leaving Derek the message. Scrolling to the top of her messages, she saw that Paige Owens had sent her the list of names of missing girls she said she’d been collecting. One name stood out since it wasn’t on Sawyer’s list: Katy Steiner. Twelve years old when she disappeared three years ago.