The truth of it cut deeper than any basement blade. But I didn't pull my hand away.
"Same time tomorrow?" I asked.
"Wouldn't miss it," he said. "After all, patterns are important. Even dangerous ones."
Especially dangerous ones, I thought, watching him leave. Because Nathan Cross was becoming a pattern in my carefully constructed life, and patterns, as he'd warned, had a way of unraveling everything they touched.
But I was already too tangled to stop.
6
Witness
The pattern broke at 2:47 PM.
I was heading downstairs, humming softly to myself while balancing my toolkit and a fresh roll of plastic sheeting. Mr. Carter had finally given me a name—Dimitri Volkov, younger of the two brothers, scheduled to personally inspect a shipment next Tuesday. The information had cost Carter three fingers and most of his pride, but he'd been surprisingly resilient for a man who trafficked children.
The bell above the door chimed.
I froze halfway down the basement steps, checking my watch. 2:47. Nathan wasn't supposed to arrive until 3:17. The disruption in routine made my skin crawl.
"Bunny?" His voice carried down the stairwell. "You down there?"
Shit. Shit shit shit.
"Just grabbing inventory!" I called back, too bright, always too bright when caught off-guard. "Be right up!"
But footsteps were already descending. Slow, careful, like he knew exactly what he might find. My hands tightened on the toolkit. I could explain away a lot of things, but Carter was very much alive down here, very much restrained, and very much missing pieces.
"Actually," Nathan's voice got closer, "I wanted to talk to you about—"
He stopped. I didn't need to turn around to know he'd reached the bottom of the stairs, could see into the main basement room where I'd set up shop. The overhead bulb cast harsh shadows over my workspace, illuminating Carter spread out like a butterfly pinned to a board.
"—something else," Nathan finished quietly.
I turned slowly, meeting his eyes across the space. He stood perfectly still, cataloging the scene with that detective's precision. Carter on the table, wrists and ankles secured with zip ties. The neat row of tools I'd arranged by size. The blood—God, there was always more blood than expected—pooling beneath the drain I'd thoughtfully installed last week. The fingers I'd removed laid out like piano keys, waiting to be counted.
And me. Standing there in my pink uniform with pigtails and blood splatter, holding forceps in one hand and humming Brahms' Lullaby under my breath.
"You're early," I said stupidly.
"You're busy," he replied.
Carter made a noise through the gag—probably trying to beg for help. I'd explained to him already that help wasn't coming, that Nathan was just another customer, nothing special. But even gagged screams have a certain desperate quality that's hard to misinterpret.
I watched Nathan's face, waiting for the horror. The disgust. The moment when he'd see what I really was and run for the door, maybe straight to the police. I'd have to kill him then. The thought made something in my chest constrict painfully. I'd gotten attached—a stupid, sloppy mistake.
But Nathan just walked further into the room, examining my setup with professional interest.
"Plastic sheeting's smart," he observed. "Though you might want to double-layer near the table legs. Blood has a way of finding gaps."
I blinked. "What?"
"Also, your knot work could be better." He moved closer to Carter, who tried desperately to shrink away. "See here? You're relying too much on the zip ties. A few strategic rope placements would give you better control of movement."
"I—" Words failed me. Nathan Cross was critiquing my torture setup like he was judging a science fair project.
"Is this about the Volkov brothers?" He picked up one of Carter's fingers, examining the clean cut. "Nice work, by the way. Very precise."
