Looking for any clues or papers that might give us something else to go off. Every small nugget of information we uncovered about Owen Taylor was a dead end. The name of the agency Madame Pierce shared with us ended up being nonexistent.
“I don’t know what to make of it besides the obvious,” he said tentatively.
“Tell me.” I gripped my desk, a sinking sensation hammering my gut.
“We found a zip drive in a hidden drawer in Owen’s bedroom. There are two folders on it. One is password protected. It’ll take Jason some time to open. The other one is photos of Kinsley.”
“Send them to me.”
“I’d prefer not to—”
“Fucking send them, Nikolai. I’m not a goddam child.” I hung up and almost immediately received a text.
NIKOLAI:
I’m not sending all of them. There are literally hundreds.
Opening the attachment, I faltered as a torrent of revulsion churned inside me. It threatened to spill over. It was unsettling, like a surreal nightmare I didn’t want to believe. The first image showed Mischa in a dance leotard. She was in the back seat of a car. Her hands were in a praying position, resting under her head.
A black gloved hand looked to be pushing an errant strand of hair from her face. I flipped to the next one and almost dropped my phone. There she was, onan old, dirty mattress in the same outfit. She looked once more like she was asleep. Whoever had taken the photo had posed her once more, this time spread eagle.
A sudden onslaught of sensations seized me, assaulting my senses. A tremor of rage coursed through my body, rendering me momentarily unsteady. The truth was undeniable. After dialing Marcel, I barked at Samantha, then had to apologize.
“Nik sent them to me. I’m looking at them now. We knew this was a possibility all along. It changes nothing in the investigation’s direction except proving her identity.” I didn’t get a word out before Marcel was soothing me with his own.
Dragging my hand through my hair, I listened to his counsel, wishing I could unsee the images, especially the one on the mattress. My stomach churned, and violent waves of nausea coursed through me. Sweat beaded on my forehead, cold and clammy, as if mirroring the icy grip that clenched my gut.
Though Marcel was right—that I knew it was a possibility—it was still sickening. The images left me disorientated in their wake. I should have trusted Nik’s instincts. It took me an hour to regain my composure.
When I had, I went down to the war room, desperately needing to see her and ease my fears. Hanging from a hook in the middle of the room was a pig. She was totally engrossed, and her concentration on Ivan’s voice blocked everything out.
“Little voin.”Warrior.
I smiled at the new nickname. It was perfect.
“I want you to envision this pig walking up behind you and trying to touch you. What are you going to do about it? Show me, do not hesitate. Put a face on him. Make him real in here.” He tapped her head. She nodded, not taking her eyes off the hanging beast.
She went savage, her attack forcing Ivan to step back. It was controlled and precise. He was impressed, which was not easy to do.
Her voice broke through my thoughts. “Ivan, where’s the blood?” She looked disappointed.
A deep rumble erupted from his chest, his amusement finding voice. His eyes crinkled at the corners as warmth and joy radiated from him, surprising the hell out of me. “I didn’t think you were serious.”
Shaking my head, I couldn’t imagine why they were having this conversation.
“We’ll need to go off site for that. The war room is not equipped for actual bloodletting.”
She shrugged her shoulders and her eyes danced. “That’s too bad. You could bring one of your filthy scum bags here, and I’d be more than happy to end him, slowly, painfully.” She jabbed her blade into the pig again.
“It’s different when a live person is on the other end of the blade. You realize that, right? You will hesitate the first time, I guarantee you. What about the other things that make you freeze? What if he has those?” Ivan asked.
“I promise you one thing, I won’t hesitate. If I have my enemy before me, and my blade is drawn,”—she positioned her body in a fight stance—“I’ll use it with such ferocity that you’ll only be able to see the whites of my eyes. His blood will be everywhere.”
Conviction filled her voice. “However, if he has the other items that make me freeze, then it will mean I have lost. So plan my funeral, for I’ll be done for in that instance.” She turned the blade over in her hand.
“Not if you tell me what those items are. I can prepare you, condition you to steel yourself. I’ll teach you not to react, little love. You need to trust me.”
“I do trust you. Far more than I should. However, it would be torture for both of us. And I don’t think you could do what would need to be done.” Her gaze finally found mine, sensing my presence.
