“Val, Dr. Jefferson is in Diamond Creek.”
“What? Why?”
“I don’t know. I can’t get close to the clubhouse without giving away who I am. I don’t know how much they know about either of them.”
Did Dr. Jefferson know about Val’s daughter living at the clubhouse? Did she know the little girl she was taking care of was Amber’s niece?
“Kytten, I need to know why she left Oklahoma City with Dante’s daughter.”
“Sypher still doesn’t remember anything?”
Val sighed on the other end of the line. I knew this was tearing her up. Sypher worked with us, helping women and children find a new life away from their abusers.
Getting them out was the easy part. That was what the Nyght Nymphs did. Keeping them from being found again was the hardest, most important part.
Sypher did that. He gave them new identities. Solid backgrounds that would keep even the smartest assholes from finding their victims. Without him, we wouldn’t be able to effectively do what we did.
“No, and they left. No one knows where they are.”
“Left? Why?”
“I don’t know. Something happened. They both disappeared without a trace.”
That seemed strange. If Sypher didn’t remember who he was or what he could do, then who helped them?
“How?”
“I don’t know.” The loudspeaker at the hospital mumbled something in the background. “Kytten, I have to go. Do what you can to get that information.”
“I’ll do my best. But if any of the women recognize me, I can’t guarantee the results.”
Val was counting on me. My skin began to itch. The familiar racing of my heart was a second behind. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the knife I carried. Flicking it open, I ran the flat side against my leg. The sun caught on the metal, almost as if the blade were mocking me.
“Just do what you can.”
The phone disconnected, and I slipped it into my pocket, preventing me from replacing the knife into its former location. I stared at the blade. One tiny nick. That’s all it would taketo calm my racing heart and take away the itch that crawled under my skin like a centipede with its hundreds of tiny legs.
My nails scratched at my leg. Sliding beneath the frayed tear in the denim. Adding more pressure with every passing second. I thought about Val. Letting her down was not an option.
Just one tiny puncture, then I could carry on.
I slid the blade over my exposed skin. The burn was immediate. The crimson line appeared, a thin stroke of blood between the tattoos that covered the surface.
I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. Closing the knife, I slid it into the front pocket of my jeans. Then, swiping a finger over the delicate cut, I smeared the blood into the colorful ink.
I revved the bike beneath me. Riding through town, I let the memory wash over me. With so many bikes, it would be easy to go unnoticed. Except, my pink hair and tiny stature made me stand out more.
At least that was why I did it. I wanted to be noticed. I didn’t want to blend into the crowds. My brother would never find me that way. So I did what I needed to do in order to stand out.
A few days after arriving in Diamond Creek, I found this little path that led up the mountain. It was narrow but wide enough for my bike. There were a few branches that spread out and if you weren’t careful, they would catch on your clothes. Scratching any exposed skin they came in contact with.
It was a way for me to hide. A way to feel the pain and justify that I wasn’t doing it to myself.
I rode up here daily, allowing the brush to caress over me, leaving small scratches similar to the one I left on my leg that day. I told myself it was cathartic. Like therapy.
I lied.
When I reached the top, I wasn’t alone. A man crouched by the edge. He stood when I cut the engine, and when he turned toward me, his eyes widened in surprise.
