“Right, sorry.” He taps a couple more keys and our phones ping with the address.
“230 Miller Street,” River reads. “It’s fifteen minutes away. Let’s go.”
Oz pulls back his blankets.
Jude’s eyes widen. “Woah, what are you doing?”
Oz stares at River. “I’m coming.”
River works his jaw, but Oz doesn’t back down. “Fine, but you’re staying in the car.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Freya
I’M SCARED. I want to run. I want to run faster and farther than I ever have before, and it takes the amount of self-control I thought only River had to stay rooted to the cold concrete floor.
I’ve played out this moment over and over again. The day I find my father. I wanted it to happen, I’ve been hunting him and now he’s here. Twenty feet away from me. Only I didn’t find him. He found me. And I underestimated how bone-crushingly terrified I would be.
I’m trembling from the inside out, like my organs are fighting to escape my body because they remember exactly how much pain this man can cause. My breath stutters in my chest as I struggle to find oxygen.
He takes a step towards me and his army boot hitting the concrete has me scrambling back. I grip the edge of the metal table Angelica chained me to. I’m not a rising star detective right now, I’m a little girl in her living nightmare and the monster is coming for me.
He moves closer.
Angelica takes hold of my hand but I don’t fool myself into thinking it’s an offer of support. She’s merely preventing me from running.
Arthur Maxwell stops in front of me, his dark brown eyes taking me in.
I’m in my underwear, my chest dripping with blood from Angelica’s handiwork. He smiles at the sight and gives my sister a nod of approval.
The cold air chills my skin.
I force myself to focus on him. He looks different than before. Not so much that I don’t recognize him, but he’s clearly had enough work done that facial recognition wouldn’t. Brown hair slicked back, eyes blue instead of hazel. His cheeks are rounder, his nose smaller and he’s grown a short, neatly trimmed beard. It all makes him look softer, less like the killer I know he is.
My dad raises his hand and I flinch.
Nothing happens.
Always do the unexpected.
I open my eyes to see his hand waiting inches from my face. He picks up a strand of my hair, stuck to my cheek with sweat, and tucks it behind my ear. “Hello, daughter of mine.”
I don’t know whether it’s from pain or fear or both, but I turn to the side and throw up. Spots of vomit splatter against his boots. I wipe my forearm against my mouth and stand up.
Maxwell’s perfect new face twists in disgust. “Your tolerance is far too low.” He nods to my chest. “A few cuts are nothing. We’ll have to build your stamina back up.”
My vision blurs and I flash back to my childhood. To days in that basement as my dad cut over the crosses in my skin, opening them up again every time they began to heal. I’m getting dragged under into the memories and it’s only when they start talking about Oz that I’m able to ground myself.
“Where’s the agent?” my father asks.
Angelica tips up her chin. “I dealt with him.”
“What?” his voice drops low, quiet and the threat in it has me trembling.
“He talked too much. I wanted to be alone.”
Maxwell narrows his eyes. He looks around the warehouse, like he’s realizing he might not be as in control as he thought.
