Breathing hard, I spun around and saw the chaos I hadn’t noticed before—folders scattered on the floor, file tabs bent, some torn. Pictures. Dozens of them. Black and white. Rose getting coffee. Rose brushing her hair. Naked.
My hands shook as I picked up one of the files.
EXPERIMENTAL PSYCHOLOGY – THEO L. KLINE.
I flipped it open. Bile rose in my throat.
Inside were dozens of pictures of electrocuted and mutilated chickens, each containing detailed notes of the torture that was done, recording bodily stats such as heart rate and temperature, the length of time it took the animal to die, as well as detailing each stage of death. I picked up a handful of pictures of Rose, in her office, getting coffee, at the gas station. Each picture had been dated and time stamped, with notes of events pertaining to the day, such as the time she arrived, the time she took her lunch, what she ate, her demeanor, what she was wearing.
Then, my eyes shifted to another folder labeled “Suitors.” Inside, were not only pictures of Josh Davis, but of me as well, including an aerial view of the Steele Shadows Security compound and possible breaching points. Next up, pictures of Carl Higgins in different stages of death, as well as closeups of his melted skin seconds after the electric wires had been ripped away. My stomach rolled. Next were pictures of Andrew’s body, taken from a cell phone, presumably.
But the most unnerving thing I found was the transcript of Rose’s interview with the department of human services when she was just eight years old, detailing the moment she found her foster mother dead, and how she ran for her life after. Theo’s shaky, handwritten notes included‘subject’s emotional resolve now slipping. Events beginning to take mental and emotional toll.’
“Subject’s.”
Rose was a subject—a fucking science experiment. Theo Kline’s own, personal science experiment.
The man was out-of-his-mind crazy.
My hands clenched so hard the folder crumpled in mygrip. And then I saw it—divorce papers at the top of the stack, dated exactly six months earlier—to the day.
Rose’s words thundered in my skull:“There’s usually an emotional trigger that makes someone with a mental illness snap...”
“Holyshit…” Gage said, suddenly behind me.
Just then, from the front of the office?—
“Rose, where are you?! We need to take shelter!”
I jerked my head up, spun on my heel and jogged out of the office.
Zoey squealed and dropped the coffee in her hand, sending a funnel of steaming liquid into the air like a fountain. Cameron froze behind her, carrying a bag of takeout.
“What… you’re… Phoe?—”
“Have you seen her? Rose?” My voice boomed across the room.
Zoey’s face drained of color. “No—I—what’s happening? Is she okay?”
My eyes narrowed. “Have you talked to her today? At all?”
“No. Cameron and I both got in late. The storm—what’s going on?!”
“Give me Theo Kline’s home address. Now.”
She scrambled to the computer, fingers flying. “Thirteen-sixteen Sycamore. But?—”
I was already pulling my keys.
“Is there a basement here?”
“Yes.”
“Get down there. Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone except me or the police.”
And with that, I ran out into the storm to save the only woman I’d ever truly loved.
41
