I showered off Richard's contributions to my investigation, changed into a soft nightgown covered in tiny rabbits. My reflection in the bathroom mirror showed someone Lilah would have hated—pink pigtails, wide eyes, a mouth that defaulted to smiling even when alone. But Lilah was gone, and Bunny remained. Bunny who was soft and sweet and needed protecting. Bunny who protected herself with other people's teeth.
The special phone had three new messages. Responses to careful inquiries. Breadcrumbs leading deeper into the maze. I crawled into bed, surrounded by my work, and let the happiness bubble through me like champagne. Every day brought me closer. Every contact revealed another thread. Every basement conversation added another piece to the puzzle.
"I'm coming, Daddy," I whispered to his photo. "Your good girl is being so patient, so clever. Following all the lessons you taught me. Using everything you made me to find my way back."
Sleep came eventually, bringing dreams of pink rooms and careful hands and the moment when I'd finally kneel at his feet again. When I'd show him how perfectly I'd maintained his training. How beautifully I'd bloomed in the wild, watered with other people's blood but always, always reaching toward his light.
Tomorrow would bring new opportunities. New contacts to explore. New breadcrumbs to follow. The network thought they were hunting Institute girls, but they didn't understand the truth—some of us had been made to hunt back.
And I was very, very good at being exactly what Daddy had made me.
2
Methods
"Good morning, sunshine!" I chirped, clicking on the basement's fluorescent lights. They flickered to life with that lovely buzzing sound, like mechanical bees waking up to greet the day. "Did you sleep well? I hope the accommodations weren't too uncomfortable!"
The man in the chair—David? Daniel? Something with a D—stirred against his restraints, blinking away the chemical drowsiness. His fancy suit was all wrinkled now, and there was drool on his expensive tie. So unprofessional! Daddy would have been appalled.
"Where..." He focused on me, and I watched recognition bloom across his face like a bruise. "You. From the bar."
"That's me!" I did a little twirl, my yellow sundress with the sunflower print flaring out. Today's outfit was extra cheerful—pigtails tied with matching ribbons, white ankle socks with lace trim, and my favorite pink platform sneakers that made mebounce when I walked. "I'm so glad you decided to accept my invitation! Even if you were a teensy bit reluctant at first."
The basement looked so much better since Matt had let me organize it. Everything in its proper place: tools on the pegboard arranged by size, cleaning supplies in color-coded bins, drain in the floor that connected to the old bootlegging tunnels. He was such a thoughtful boss, especially after I'd explained how messy my hobby could get.
"Listen," David-or-Daniel started, pulling against the zip ties. "Whatever you want—"
"Oh, I want lots of things!" I pulled up my rolling stool, careful not to catch my dress on the wheels. "World peace, a puppy someday, maybe some houseplants that I won't forget to water. But right now, I mostly want to talk about Amy King. Remember her? Nineteen years old, psychology major at State, responded to your ad about 'modeling opportunities'?"
His face did something complicated—guilt and fear and calculation all mixed together like paint colors making mud.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"That's okay! Sometimes people need help remembering things." I opened my toolbox, humming a little tune from the music box Daddy used to play during conditioning. Each tool had its own foam cutout, everything neat and tidy. "Amy was Institute Batch 43, you know. Three batches before me! Like sisters, kind of, if sisters were made instead of born."
I selected the prettiest pair of pliers—the ones with the rubber grip handles in cherry blossom pink. They matched my nails!
"According to the paperwork in your briefcase—which, by the way, terrible password choices, really—you paid $2.3 million for her through something called Acquisition Services. That's a lot of money! You must have really wanted a friend."
"She was willing," he said quickly. "She signed the contracts. Everything was legal."
"Legal!" I giggled, scooting closer. "Isn't that word funny? Like we all agreed on rules and suddenly things become okay or not okay based on paper and signatures. Daddy taught me that consent could be manufactured just like anything else. Create the right conditions, and people will agree to anything!"
I took his left hand in mine, gentle as a nurse. His manicure was fresh—clear coat, buffed nails, the kind of maintenance that spoke of a man who cared about details.
"See, Amy's still out there somewhere. Your paperwork says you had her for seven months before she 'malfunctioned.' That's the word you used in your complaint to customer service. Malfunctioned. Like she was a broken toy instead of a girl who remembered she was human."
The pliers closed around his index fingernail with a soft click.
"So I need you to remember where she went after she left your house. Because Institute girls don't just disappear. We're too valuable for that."
"I don't—" He started to lie, but I was already pulling. The nail separated from the bed with a wet sound like scotch tape peeling off gift wrap. He screamed, which was totally understandable. Manicures were expensive!
"Shh, indoor voices please!" I dropped the nail into a little ceramic dish shaped like a bunny. It clinked like a penny in a wishing well. "Now, let's try again. Where did Amy go?"
The morning continued so productively! David-or-Daniel had such interesting things to share once we got past his initial reluctance. Each nail revealed another detail: the company that handled "returns," the warehouse where "malfunctioning products" were processed, names of others in his exclusive little club of collectors.
"You're doing so well!" I encouraged, working on his thumb now. "See how much easier honesty is? Daddy always said the truth was like a splinter—better to get it out quick than let it fester."
