As Gallows raises his gun and cuts them down one by one,bang-bang-bang, the girls fall like dominoes. Blood seeps into the sea, only to be dragged back by the tide. The men move in quickly, bagging the slight bodies and tossing them into the speedboat like sacks of rubbish. And there’s Axe, still on his knees, praying—praying for their lost souls, and praying for his own damned one, too.
—
Hours later, Axe lies curled up on his bed, weeping as hopelessness presses down on him, heavy as a gravestone.
Interpol never came.
There’s no rescue, no boat to slip onto, no escape on the horizon. The plan—the only thread of hope he had—was nothing but smoke. The man in Manchester had it wrong. All of it was for nothing. The false alarm shattered the last bit of faith Axe had clung to, the hope that someone, anyone, was coming to save him.
How could it be so easy for the world to look the other way? Why isn’t anyone doing something? Surely someone out there is searching for these girls. Rage boils in his chest, but it has nowhere to go, trapped under the crushing truth that nothing will ever change.
“No matter.” Da had shrugged, completely unfazed, smoking a celebratory cigar after a bullet dodged. “Hamish will be home soon with fresh, younger merchandise. Won’t be long now.”
That’s what Da has to say about murdering twenty-two girls for no reason at all.
Fifty-One
Josie
The warmth of dark chocolate wood paneling and ancient cranberry wallpaper greets me as I step into the hallway, the fabric worn in places, the whole space dripping with old-worldly, haunted mansion–stye opulence. Oil portraits of stern-faced white men, all framed in gaudy gold, line the walls between massive mounted stag heads. I glance left, then right—the hallway stretches endlessly in both directions, a faded green carpet running down its center like a spine connecting the rooms.
The eerie stillness sends a chill down my back. Not a soul in sight, just the cold echo of an empty space too large for comfort. I think for a moment that this might be Niles von Getfucked’s hunting lodge, but no—this place is far too grand. The scale is enormous, far more intense than some “lodge.”
I glance down at the floor, searching for footprints, hoping for a clue about which direction to take. There’s nothing—no sign of anyone. I make a quick decision and turn right, moving as quietly as I can, my footsteps light as I shuffle through this strange…palace? Mansion? Hotel? Whatever it is, it’s massive and disorienting. If I weren’t literally fleeing for my life, I might even be curious enough to explore. After what feels like forever, I stumble upon aspiral staircase and descend three flights. At the bottom, I step into a giant industrial kitchen. It’s empty, but the lingering scent of hot oil hangs heavy in the air, a sign that someone was just here.
The place feels recently alive yet completely abandoned.
I feel like I went to sleep at Honor’s art show and woke up a prisoner in Downton Abbey.
I slip out the back door, and the wind hits me like a slap—sharp, cold, and drenched in rain. It cuts through my wrinkled, sweat-soaked black dress, and every step sends a raw sting through the soles of my bare feet as they meet the rough concrete. I turn, staring up at the building I just escaped. The dark gray walls seem to shoot into the sky, crowned with turrets that jut out like ridiculous dunce caps.
Okay, this is a motherfucking castle.
Now I break into a run. No plan, no map, just go. I sprint up a grassy hill, hoping for a view—a town, a highway, hell, even a McDonald’s. By the time I hit the top, I’m panting hard, but at least my asthma’s in check—good thing, too, because my inhaler’s God knows where. Probably with my bag. I imagine Niles dumping it out the plane window at thirty thousand feet, laughing like an asshole.
I spin around to see a scattering of buildings and green lawns, which seems to be my best option. My heart leaps out of my body, because beyond that, there’s a perimeter of jagged, brutal cliffs and, beyond that, nothing but a churning curtain of black-blue sea.
This is a motherfucking castle…on a motherfucking island.
—
Ten minutes later, I end up in a chapel—a totally random choice of building after a sad, desperate game of Eenie Meenie MineyMo. I crawl under a pew and, because I’ve got no clue what else to do, I start to pray. The last time I did that was at MS Hospital, right after Dr. Don had told me the cancer was back, and he’d hit me with theyou’ll be lucky to see the end of the yearspeech.
Fuck Dr. Don and double fuck Niles von Grafenhagen.
When the footsteps come, I cover my head and curl into a tiny ball.
“Josie-Jo, I know you’re in here. Skara Brae has cameras everywhere. That’s how we keep this place safe. Come on out, sweetheart. I’ll never hurt you.” Niles’s voice is soft, like he’s trying to coax a scared kitten. In a split second, I change strategies—I will revert to old tried-and-tested battle plans. I will go full JosieFightsOn.
“I’m here,” I say, from under the pew. I try to make myself sound small and fragile, though every fiber of me is burning to roar, to leap up and tear Niles apart with my bare hands. “But I’m scared. I know you drugged me, and I don’t understand why.”
My voice wobbles perfectly. No tears—I’m too pissed for that—but just enough to sell it. I clench my fists so hard I’m surprised I don’t break skin.
Niles will not see my fury. I will only show him my faux fragility.
“Oh, sweetheart, I had to do that. You were so scared because you knew Axe was coming to get you, and so I figured that was the best way to get you here. To safety,” Niles says. “It was all for you. To protect you.”
I slowly come out of my crouch and sit down on a pew. Niles drops down next to me, so close I have to bite back a gag. His thigh presses against mine.
