By the time we’ve gone through the house, my hands are trembling, and I feel like I’m going to throw up. I’ve also seen a lot during my career, and I always thought I had a strong stomach—but nothing could have prepared me for this.
“I need some air,” I gasp out to Dutch, and jog to the front door, bounding down the steps. Leaning back against my car, I take several deep breaths, trying desperately to calm my racing heart and get my mind back into some semblance of order.
Dutch joins me, closing her eyes and lifting her head to the sun, letting it warm her. I would almost think she was immune to the horror show inside if it wasn’t for her clenched fists and jaw.
Turning towards me, she murmurs softly, “I can almost get behind whoever is killing these fuckers.”
I raise a brow at her, nodding slowly. “I get that,” I reply quietly. Can’t have anyone overhear us, it’s not exactly the opinion federal agents should be taking.
“Think they’re connected?”
“Oh, definitely,” I reply. “I don’t believe in coincidences, and this one is too much. Obviously, we’ll need to get IDs on all the bodies and try to work out what the fuck happened in there, but if it’s not related, I’ll eat my badge.”
Dutch huffs a laugh. “I won’t take that bet. The question should maybe be: how hard do we go after the person taking them down?”
My lips curl up at that. “Maybe only as much as we need to.”
Chapter 16
Trey
It’s been over a week since I took Rebecca from her home, and I have to say, I’ve never been happier. Do I deserve happiness? No. But I’ll take it.
I can’t believe it took three days for the police to find the house. Incompetent fuckers. Although hindsight is definitely 20/20—if I had realized it would take them so long to show up at the scene, I would have cleared out the office to make life easier for me. Tracking down all the men that Rebecca wants me to would have been a damned sight easier if I had been able to get names and information from the computers.
On top of feeling like a failure over that, I’ve also been dealing with an immense amount of guilt over Rebecca. Last night she told me the little she can remember of her former life. Curled up next to me, her head on my chest, she hesitantly spoke of what she terms ‘before’. At first, I was surprised about how little of her former life she remembers, but then, she was only ten when she was taken and has had eleven years of torture and that asshole’s ‘attitude adjustments’ to cope with. It’s not overly surprising then that she was forced to repress memories, it would have been a survival technique.
“I know I had parents,”she told me.“I can’t see their faces anymore, but there’s a—feeling, I suppose? Of being loved. When I think about it, I see golden sunshine and laughter. And someone else, someone playing with me, like a sister? Maybe a good friend? There’s a rush of love for her, but I can’t picture her either.”
“Is Rebecca your real name, or did you have a different one?”
“I think I was called Charlotte. When I first came to Papa and Momma’s house, I tried to tell them that my name was Charlotte, but they kept telling me it was Rebecca. They would punish me, so I eventually became Rebecca.”
“What would you rather be called?”I had asked, curious what her answer would be.
“Rebecca. Charlotte died a long time ago. I’m no longer that little girl.”
I had pulled her tighter against me, offering support while she delved through the memories.
“Do you know what I remember the most from before? Terror. I can still feel the tightness of my chest, the fear squeezing my lungs, my heart racing in panic. Red. Red everywhere. And the need to hide.”
During her conversation, I realized something then that nearly broke me. When she was being taken, abused, tortured, raped—I was playing the role of priest, following Tessa around like a lovesick puppy. So busy with my obsession that I saw nothing but her, while Rebecca was suffering.
If only God had led me to her instead; I could have rescued her, saved her from so much. I had raged inwardly through the night, barely sleeping, chastising both myself and God for letting down the beautifully damaged woman that slept in my arms. Slept soundly, too, as if she trusted me to keep her safe.
You’re not trustworthy,my mother’s voice hisses in my head.You’re such a disappointment. You never do anything right. Beg God to forgive you, for you are nothing but a failure.
I feel the call, the need for redemption. Rebecca is in the shower, so I go to our room, dragging the duffle bag out from under the bed. Kneeling on the floor, I face the window as I pull the flogger out of the bag. The handle is thick and coarse, faded over time and its many uses. The nine straps of braided leather dangle from it, sharp metal barbs decorating the tips, glinting in the morning sun as they whisper to me of forgiveness.
Removing my shirt, I toss it onto the bed, then gaze up at the sky as the familiar words leave my mouth.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
The whip flies through the air, the metal barbs hooking into my back, drawing out my sin. Over and over I repeat the process, blood streaming down my back as my eyes fill with tears.
You are worthless. You are not worthy of forgiveness.
“Please!” I call out, working the whip even harder, offering up this sacrifice to God, hoping it pleases Him enough to earn redemption.
