"Please," he gasped. "Please, I'll tell you everything."
"You already are, silly!" I reached for the bone saw—a darling little hand-held model with ergonomic grip. "But let's talk about something super important. Do you know Gabriel Mire?"
The way he went still told me everything. That perfect freeze response, like a rabbit spotting a hawk.
"You do!" I clapped my hands, genuinely delighted. "Oh, this is wonderful! Tell me tell me tell me!"
"I only met him once." The words tumbled out fast, desperate. "At a product demonstration. He was... he was showing off his newest batch. The conditioning techniques. How to maintain them after purchase."
My whole body went warm and tingly, like sinking into a bubble bath. Daddy had done demonstrations. Had shown off his work. Had stood in front of men like this and explained his art.
"What did he say?" My voice came out dreamier than intended. "What did he look like? Did he mention me? Batch 47?"
"He said—" David-or-Daniel swallowed hard. "He said the later batches were more stable. More thoroughly conditioned. That by 47, he'd perfected the process."
"He talked about me?" The bone saw trembled in my hands. "He said I was perfect?"
"Not you specifically. Just the batch number. Please, that's all I know—"
But I was already moving, already needing more. The saw met his wrist with the efficiency of all those anatomy lessons, allthose careful dissections Daddy had supervised. The radius and ulna were such elegant bones, running parallel like train tracks toward a destination.
"Tell me everything about that meeting," I said, working through the tissue with practiced motions. "What was he wearing? How did his voice sound? Did he seem happy with his work?"
David-or-Daniel screamed answers between sobbing, painting a picture of my Daddy commanding a room, explaining psychological principles to men who bought broken girls. My Daddy, proud of what he'd made. My Daddy, calling Batch 47 his masterpiece.
The hand came free with a final push, and I placed it carefully on the drain grate. Everything had a place, even the pieces we didn't need anymore.
"You're being so helpful!" I told him, though he seemed to have fainted. Silly boy. We were just getting to the good part.
The door at the top of the stairs creaked open. Matt's heavy footsteps descended with the patience of someone who'd done this before.
"Morning, Bunny." He took in the scene without flinching—the tools, the blood patterns on the concrete, David-or-Daniel's new asymmetry. "Productive night?"
"Super productive!" I showed him my notes, written in glittery gel pen. "He knew about Amy from Batch 43, and he's seen Daddy! I mean, Gabriel. He's seen Gabriel doing demonstrations!"
Matt pulled on industrial gloves from the supply shelf. He'd been in the military once, he'd told me. Had seen worse things than anything I could do in his basement. That's why he understood the necessity of certain hobbies.
"This one going to wake up?"
I tilted my head, considering David-or-Daniel's pallor and the growing puddle beneath the chair. "Probably not? But if he does, I still need to ask about the warehouse address. He was being a little vague about the exact location."
"I'll prep the tunnel access." Matt was already gathering supplies—tarp, bleach, the industrial-grade cleaners that didn't ask questions. "You've got the morning shift today."
"I know! I better hurry and clean up." I started organizing my tools, humming that same music box melody. Each instrument went back in its designated spot, ready for next time. "Matt?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you for understanding. About... this." I gestured vaguely at the artistic splatter patterns. "Most people wouldn't be so accommodating."
He paused in his work, looking at me with those tired eyes that had seen too much. "Kid like you doesn't end up like this without reason. Figure the least I can do is make sure you're hunting the right people."
"They're all connected to the Institute," I assured him. "Every single one either bought a girl, sold a girl, or knows where to find the people who did. I'm very selective!"
"I know you are." He checked David-or-Daniel's pulse with professional detachment. "He's done. Help me with the wrap."
We worked together in comfortable silence, teacher and student in the art of disappearance. Matt showed me how to fold the joints for easier transport, how to use the tarp to contain seepage. All practical skills that would serve me well in my search.
"The Amy girl," Matt said as we secured the package. "You really think you can find her?"
