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Violet had vetted Bexley and Ruth’s Refuge. Her website had no pictures, and when Bexley visited churches, recordings weren’t allowed. She protected her own identity from the cult. Although now there was nothing they could do since she and Ahnah were of age. No forcing them to return, and it wasn’t like they murdered former members.
At least not that he was aware of.
But she wouldn’t want them sniffing around. Wouldn’t want her parents to get wind they had a grandchild. And if his own father knew... Bexley was right. They might try to contact him if Josiah didn’t reach out first. “I don’t know what to think.”
“We need to bring this to the team and let Fiona and Violet do their wiggy-jiggy on it.”
Ty laughed. He and Owen had all kinds of names for the way Fi and Violet profiled. Wiggy-jiggy, hu-du, ju-ju. The jeeper-creeper—that was his favorite. “Yeah. I guess so.”
Could someone who had once been in the Family of Glory be the Lighthouse Killer and/or the Fire & Ice Killer?
Kipos Island
Saturday, September 1
Infernal classical music filters from unseen speakers in my cell. If I survive this I will never listen to instrumental music again. We’re let out of our cages sometime after dark. Time and days have disappeared. I can’t keep up. But I know we’re led one by one to our prisons with nice beds. Sometime after light, he repeats the leading, and we enter the cages again. He calls them hanging baskets, but they don’t actually hang. We can’t dance in swinging cages.
I’ve refused to dance altogether.
And I have paid the price. My left ring finger is now a throbbing, aching mess. He’ll have to break all of my fingers, because I’m not going to bend. I can’t. I’m surely being looked for, and I am holding on to hope.
Yesterday, he entered my room with Xanax and made me take it. I don’t want to, but he’s going to tattoo me anyway, and it’s a few hours that I don’t feel like I’m going to come out of my skin and lose my mind. And if he does anything else to me, I don’t want to be awake for it.
He wasn’t prepared for my quick outburst after swallowing it, though, which had been strategic. When he rolls in the tattooing cart with all his gadgets, I’ve been eyeing the needles with hopes it’ll pick my iron cuff and maybe the door. I knocked over the trays and, in our scuffle, he broke another finger, and I managed to slide a needle under my bed. It’s long and hooks like a noose at one end. I’m sure it has a name. I don’t know it but it fit the bill.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been working it into the cuff, but it’s not budging and I kick a bare foot at the wall and let out a cry. This has to work. God, let it work. I flex my aching good hand, which cramps from holding the thin, long needle, then inhale deeply. Frustration only robs me of focus. I must focus.
After a few deep meditative breaths, I insert the needle into the lock again and find a little groove. Sweat forms above my lip but I’m cold. Never can get warm. I feel the needle in the groove and begin to twist and turn until it moves, and the click sounds like freedom.
I can’t control the dam of tears that breaks, and the heaviness resting on my shoulders dissipates. I. Am. Free. I’m getting out of here.
Preparing to the pick the lock on the door, I’m in shock when I turn the knob to test it and find it unlocked.
Another wave of joy rides my tears, but it’s short-lived as I halt.
Why would he leave the door unlocked?
My breath trembles, and I jerk my hand from the knob. Is he expecting me to try again so he can punish me for lack of submission? Is he out there waiting to catch me? Is this a game? I glance upward, searching for a camera, a blinking light, anything to indicate I’m on-screen.
Nothing.
I play the what-if game, and with each scenario, my pulse increases until my chest aches and I can’t inhale a full breath. If I don’t attempt to break free, I know at some point I’m a dead woman. And if do break out and get got, I’m only deader faster.
I ball a fist and inwardly scream. What choice do I make? What is he up to? Will a sensor signal an alarm and my escape attempt?
The walls close in on me, and spots form in front of my eyes. With no more thought, I yank open the door and pause, waiting for the blaring of a bell or buzz of an alarm, but only silence fills the hallway.
One beat. Two.
No one comes.
Maybe he’s not here. Maybe he simply forgot to lock the door because I was dead out from the drugs. Maybe he’s overly confident and underestimates me. Two broken fingers will not keep me from trying.
I dart into the hallway and instinctively cover my chest with my arms.
Should I open the other doors and free the remaining garden girls? Would they come with me? No. Too many of them. I have a better shot escaping alone and sending help. I clutch the needle in my hand; it’s the only weapon I have for now.
If I can make it to a phone—a landline if he has one or a cell phone or laptop—I could call or message someone for help, but most cell phones and computers have passwords, and landlines are practically obsolete. No, that’s too risky. My best bet is to find that canoe at the private dock. I dread returning to the marsh, but I’m going to die if I stay. But I could die out there too. By an alligator. Do I want ripped to shreds by an ancient water monster or ripped to shreds by a wicked human monster?
