Thosepoor women, I correct myself, seeing the other folders that Lex scrolls through. “Do you think they’re all the same?”
“Given his obsessive-compulsive nature, I think so, yes. Men like him are creatures of habit. This is his process, his modus operandi.”
Just to make sure, Lex opens another one of those videos, and sure enough, it unfolds exactly the same way. Except this time, the woman doesn’t break, and Becker ends the session on his own, sweaty and exhausted, before defiling her like he did Lorelei.
We close that folder, deciding we’ll come back to it later, and inspect the other ones. The one namedButterfliesintrigues me, so I ask Lex to open that next.
Instead of feminine names, it’s butterfly species. The last folder is Friday, and something tells me we’re about to see what happened to those three women Horvat delivered to his penthouse. As I look at them, sorted from most recent to oldest, I realize all these match a specimen on his wall.
Those are trophies. That’s why the wall of framed butterflies felt so morbid. My sixth sense was warning me, telling me thiswas never about the butterflies. It’s about the women they represent. And Becker has those trophies displayed in front of him at all times, all over his penthouse. But only he and his special guests know what they mean.
I feel sick, my stomach twisting with disgust. I can’t believe I was in the same room as that man. He deserves more than jail at this point. He deserves death.
“Do you want to check out the one that had your father’s name on the entry?” I offer softly, knowing Lex needs the closure.
“I don’t know …”
“To me, it was your father’s breaking point,” I explain, like I did a few days ago. “He was friends with Becker, was invited to one of his sick gatherings, and not only did he leave, but he also cut all ties with Becker. I’m convinced of it.”
“You’re giving him a lot of credit.”
I smile tenderly. “Half of you comes from him, so I know there’s no way your father is that big a monster, baby.”
“Now, you’re givingmea lot of credit,” he jokes.
I give him a little nudge with my shoulder and nod at the screen. “Go on, find that folder. If I’m right, you’ll owe me a beer.”
“And what if you’re wrong?” The teasing is there to mask his actual concern, and I notice it.
“If I’m wrong, I’ll owe you as many beers as it takes to forget that your father is a bigger dick than we thought.”
“Sounds fair.”
I don’t even need to pull up the page Lex photographed, as he remembers the exact date. He opens the folder that matches, and we look at the thumbnails. The men we see are in all-black suits, with their masks, while one stands out, white from neck to toe, with a golden domino mask.
“Is that Becker?” I ask, pointing at the all-white man.
Lex opens a screenshot, and, sure enough, we recognize his lower face. “What an egomaniac douche,” I snort. Who the fuck does he think he is? Some kind of god?
When Lex opens the video, I grab his free hand and squeeze it. We watch as a few men are gathered in a circle around an empty chair, six of them in black, then Becker in white.
“That’s my father,” Lex says, pausing the frame to point at one of the men. The pain in his voice echoes in my heart. God, I hope I’m right. Please let me be right.
Contrary to the other videos we saw, there’s someone handling the camera this time. It isn’t on a tripod or handled by Becker. Another random guy just made it onto our shit list, it seems. Becker makes some kind of ceremonious speech while they all listen, then he calls for thebutterfly to be brought in. The man who does is Horvat, but I don’t recognize him right away since he doesn’t have his snake tattoo yet and has a head full of receding hair.
Horvat brings the “butterfly,” an alarmingly young Black woman who wears a small, silky white dress. She seems frightened and uneasy as he walks her to the chair and makes her sit on it. Two more men follow him, pushing carts that are draped with white cloths. Once everything is in place, Becker pulls a cloth away, revealing an arsenal of accessories meant to inflict pain. Floggers, paddles, crops, whips, and even what looks like a fucking taser. On the other cart, all sorts of restraints and penetrative accessories, some of them even wider than my forearm.
I’m about to say something when someone off-screen does it for me. “What is this?” the man asks.
I know that voice, even though it has changed in the past decade.
“This, my friend,” Becker answers, “is how we pay homage to our pretty butterfly.”
“I don’t understand,” Richard Coleman insists.
Becker walks to the middle of the circle and rests his hand on the young woman’s shoulder. “Do you want this, child?” he asks, his tone sickeningly concupiscent.
“Yes,” the girl answers.
