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  Crying.

  I replay the tape over and over. Observing carefully the way the droplets splash against her cheeks.

  I like her tears.

  My mouth waters when they spill down her throat and onto her naked breasts. She feels so sorry for herself, this little beauty.

  She doesn’t know the meaning of sorry yet.

  My cock is uncomfortably hard and swollen when I retrieve the knife from my pocket. The flat edge presses into my thigh, and I imagine her cheek beneath my blade. I will see her tears again.

  The tip of the blade digs into my flesh, and I twist until I am consumed by the pain. Crimson oozes from the wound, and I smear it over my bloody knuckles, shoving my hand into my briefs.

  On the live feed, Bella steps from the bath, naked and wet with blotchy red skin from water that is too hot.

  She does not reach for a towel. She does not move at all. Her eyes are on her reflection in the mirror.

  Lifeless.

  She does this often. Her lips are quiet, but I know her mind is loud.

  She is picking herself apart the way the papers do. Wondering if she is beautiful, or if it is all an illusion. The overnight success with mediocre talent.

  Some of the things they say about her are true.

  She is beautiful. With pure, pale skin and ice blue eyes. Long raven hair that kisses the curve of her lower back. She is the most delicate thing I have ever seen, and she sings like an angel.

  Mediocre, she could never be.

  So clean and innocent and tender. The thoughts I have of her are so dark. The fixation blooms inside of me every time I watch her this way. She is a witch, and she has me under her spell.

  This is not the way it should be.

  She should be in my possession already. Every day that I wait, I risk losing my chance. I risk losing her to a force outside of my control.

  An enemy of her father.

  Anyone that ever knew Ray is being eliminated. One by one, I have watched them disappear in a series of car crashes and freak accidents. It’s only a matter of time before they come for Bella too.

  I need to move soon. Before time and circumstance have the pleasure of taking what can only be mine.

  The light inside of her will be snuffed out, with certainty. But only by my hands. Mine alone.

  And yet, something holds me back.

  Something makes me question everything I have planned so meticulously. When I watch her this way, I have doubts. I need only to draw on my memories to vanquish those doubts.

  Visions of torture fill my thoughts and my heart. The rage consumes everything good and leaves only bitterness in its wake.

  That bitterness coats my tongue when I watch Bella crawl into her bed and reach for a book on the nightstand. So soft and carefree.

  She has never known hardship. She has never known hate.

  But she will.

  Crossing her delicate ankles, she pulls her knees to her chest and tries to read. It doesn’t last.

  She is anxious. Fidgety. Distracted. And beneath her thin blue tee shirt, her nipples are hard. She discards her book and pulls the bed sheet up over her body. Frustration mounts when her hand slides down into her panties, into a place that I can’t see.

  She closes her eyes and breathes softly while she touches herself. My bloody fist chokes my cock while I watch. I punish myself for wanting her this way. For the thirst that breeds inside of me every time I see her pretty face.

  She touches herself uncertainly, never quite satisfied. I imagine tasting her, and then I hate myself for it. I imagine her bound beneath me, immobile and under my control. Squirming, crying. Hating me and wanting me.

  I want to hurt her. I want to mark her. I want to witness her blood contaminated with the blackness of mine.

  Her phone rings, and it is Luke. She doesn’t answer it.

  Contempt surges inside of me, equal only to my viciousness. I want to rip his beating heart from his chest and force him to choke on it.

  Isabella moans, soft and weak, and then releases herself with the tiniest of tremors in her body. Her eyes flicker open, and I zoom in on them.

  I imagine my come dripping down her face and her throat. Marking her. Claiming her. Smearing my seed all over her body, mixing with the blood from my fingers.

  The release is violent. My ears ring, and my lungs cease to function.

  I am bloody and spent. But I wait until she is tucked into bed and her breath grows still before I move on to my next obsession.

  I track his phone first. Luke is still at the hotel in the city. The bug planted in his phone allows me to hear everything he does. Every move he makes.

  I take note of his transgressions. I take note of each and every one. And I bide my time.

  He’s fucking Megan again. High, again. He fucks her for thirty minutes and can’t come. She asks if he wants another line and he tells her to piss off.

  “Is this about Isabella?” she snarls.

  There is a growl, followed by a soft whimpering noise. I envision him with his hand around her throat, threatening her.

  “What did I tell you?”

  “Don’t say her name,” she chokes out.

  There’s a sputtering cough, and then the sound of the door opening.

  “Do you love her?” she asks.

  There is a pause before he answers.

  “So what if I do, kitten?” he taunts.

  “Luke.” Her voice is desperate.

  “What does it matter?” he replies. “You’re the one I fuck every night. Aren’t you?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ART AGREES to speak with me while I’m back in Virginia.

  The house that I grew up in is about an hour outside of Fairfax, which is where Art requests to meet. It’s at the same diner we’ve met at several times before, where the waitress knows him by name, and she doesn’t make a stink about us holding up the table for hours at a time.

  I spend the afternoon with him. He feeds me pieces of information from the investigation and tries to make them sound promising. They don’t sound promising at all.

  I still don’t believe what he’s telling me. Nevertheless, I continue to pursue my only hope. I plead with him to consider allowing me to contact Javi.

  In the end, the result is the same.

  I spend hours with him. Grilling him. Begging him. Wishing for any scrap of hope he could give me. It never comes. And eventually, he grows tired and unsympathetic.

  He leaves me with the same line he always does. They will continue working on it.

  The drive home is long and frustrating. I’m exhausted and I know I have to go back to Luke soon, but it’s the last thing I want to think about right now.

  When I turn the knob on the front door, it’s unlocked. My palm hesitates on the handle, and I don’t remember leaving it that way. I rationalize. I can barely remember what day of the week it is, let alone basic safety precautions.

  But when I step inside, I know. I know something isn’t right, even before I turn the corner and see the mess.

  Someone has been in here. Someone has completely trashed the house in search of something. What, I don’t know.

  My first instinct is to call the police. But then I think of Art.

  This could be important. This could have something to do with my father’s disappearance.

  I pull out the canister of pepper spray that I carry in my purse and walk through the house, checking to be sure whoever it is has gone.

  When I’m certain that they are, I dial Art again. He answers with a sigh.

  “Someone broke into the house,” I tell him. “I think they were looking for something.”

  The other line is quiet for a minute, and then, “are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. They aren’t here anymore.”

  “You need to pack your things and leave, Isa. I will take care of it.”

  “Do you think this could have something to do with…”

  “I don’t know,” he tells me. �
�I’m turning around now. I’ll be there soon, but don’t wait for me. Just pack your things and go back to the city.”

  “Okay.”

  “Let me know when you get there.”

  He hangs up, and I do what he says. I pack. But I can’t leave like this. I can’t leave without checking to be sure that some of my father’s possessions are still alright.

  There are things everywhere, strewn all over the floor. My books have been pulled from the shelves. The photos that remain on the wall are crooked, and the ones that aren’t have shattered to the floor.

  Even the photo of my father.

  My hands shake as I pick up the pieces and replace them one by one. It's a long process. I save the broken knick-knacks on the floor until last. But when I move to sweep them up, something odd catches my eye.

  And because of who my father was, I know exactly what it is before reality has time to sink in.

  A listening device.

  An icy draft crawls down my spine and settles into my shaking hands.

  Someone has been listening to me.

  Before I can even comprehend the full horror of my situation, I’m tearing the place apart. Searching the walls. Underneath the counters. The vents.

  Things my father used to do.

  By the time I have finished, it isn't only listening devices I have retrieved, but cameras too. The shockwaves have taken control of my entire body now. My heartbeat thrashes in my ears. My fingers tremble, and my lungs struggle to take in air.

  It isn't the agency.

  It can't be the agency.

  Right?

  But if not them, then who?

  The cameras were in my bedroom. In my fucking bedroom. Where I changed. Where I... touched myself.

  Oh god.

  I think I'm going to be sick.

  CHAPTER SIX

  LUKE BOUGHT a plane ticket for this evening, but when I get to the airport, they tell me that I’ve been rescheduled to an earlier flight. I assume that it’s also his doing. He probably thinks if I put it off any longer, I will lose the courage to go back. To smile for the cameras and pretend.

  The flight is short. The ride to the hotel is short. Everything is happening too fast, and I’m right where I don’t want to be again.

  I feel sick. So, so sick.

  I find myself wishing the power in the building would go out, and I’d get stuck in the elevator, just for the peace it would give me.

  I’d welcome the blackness. I’d welcome it with open arms. But I have no such luck.

  The elevator goes up without a hiccup. The keycard I had from before works without a hiccup. And everything in the hotel suite is as it was two days ago.

  Only it’s not.

  Because this time I catch sight of Luke across the room, fucking Megan over the sofa.

  His eyes are squeezed shut, and he’s dripping with sweat. It isn’t until the door falls back against my foot that they hear me.

  Both of them freeze. Megan smiles. Luke looks horrified. And then angry.

  He shoves Megan away.

  He’s already zipping up his pants and preparing to give chase as I flee to the elevator bank. I press the button frantically, but there isn’t time. He’s coming down the hall. So I make a run for the stairwell, but I don’t reach it.

  Luke snags me by the arm and whirls me around.

  “It’s nothing,” he tells me. “Isabella, please. I don’t even think of her. I only think of you.”

  I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  “That doesn’t make it better, Luke,” I tell him. “I don’t want to know what you think of. And I never want to see that again. It’s disgusting.”

  “Disgusting?” he repeats. “Is someone jealous?”

  God, the man is so conceited that’s the only possible explanation that would make any sense to him. There is no arguing with him, so I get straight to the point.

  “I want my own room. One where I’m the only person who has a key.”

  He laughs, and it’s cold.

  “Yeah sure thing, baby. How do you plan to pay for that? An IOU? It’s a long wait until your check is cut.”

  “You’re a pig.”

  He tries to drag me back down the hall, but I pull away from him and stand my ground.

  “I’m not kidding, Luke. Either you give me my own room, or I go home. I don’t care about the money anymore. You want to sue me? Go ahead. I’m not as stupid as you’d like to believe. There are ways out of this contract.”

  His jaw works and his eyes narrow as they fix on my face. I’ve never called his bluff before. But I really don’t care anymore. He can bankrupt me. Ruin my life. Tell the media whatever he wants. I refuse to cave on this.

  “You want a world tour?” I gesture back down the hall. “Then take Megan.”

  “Megan isn’t the goddamned winner of American Star.”

  I cross my arms and refuse to budge. The tension is almost too much. But I can’t do this anymore. I legitimately cannot take one more second in that room with the two of them, and I think Luke knows it.

  He slides a hand through his hair and sighs. Then he turns on the charm. The same charm he used to get me into a contract with him in the first place.

  “Fine, baby. Fine. I get it. You’re pissed. You need to cool off. I understand. I fucked up, okay. I fucked up. I just… I want you so much.”

  “It’s never going to happen, Luke.”

  My words roll right off him. He refuses to believe it.

  “It will,” he says. “Just give it time.”

  “Hotel room,” I tell him. “I want it now.”

  “Okay.” He holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Just tell the front desk to charge it to my account.”

  I turn towards the elevators, and Luke takes a step towards me.

  “Don’t follow me, Luke,” I warn him. “Not tonight.”

  For once, he listens.

  I ride the elevator down to reception and check into a new room on a different floor under Luke’s account. It is quiet and simple.

  I lock the deadbolt behind me and turn the shower to scalding hot, stripping off my clothes before stepping into the spray. I stay there until it goes cold. Until my eyes are red and my skin is raw, and my feelings are numb.

  I’m exhausted when I brush my hair and put on some face cream. I’m bare. Naked- emotionally and physically. I don’t know how long I stand there staring at myself in the mirror. Hating the reflection of the person staring back at me. Wishing that girl never had any aspirations at all. Wondering if what they say about her is true. Wondering if her father is still alive. If anything will ever be good again.

  I snag a pair of shorts and a tank top from my bag and pull them on before dragging myself to the bed.

  I may not be able to count on the power in the building going out, but I welcome the blackness that sleep will provide.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  RIVER BITES into his apple and peers at me over the shiny red skin, chewing silently while he thinks loudly. He is seeking out signs of weakness in my eyes.

  “Any word yet?” he asks.

  “There is no need for pointless conversation,” I tell him. “If I’d had any word, you would already know.”

  He shrugs. Takes another bite of his apple.

  “Well, perhaps this is all by design then,” he muses.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Perhaps there are more enemies in the woodwork.”

  “Again,” I tell him. “This is something I’ve already considered.”

  “Yes.” He leans back in the chair and props his foot up on his leg. “Perhaps there are many, in fact. We can never really know for sure, can we?”

  He smirks, and I do not indulge him with a reaction. Psychological warfare is River’s favorite leisure time activity. Usually, he can entertain himself for hours with subjects less intelligent than him. But that has never been the case with me.

  “I’m going to move soon,” I assure him.
/>   He shrugs again. Finishes off his apple.

  “I didn’t even mention her.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “Maybe you have nothing to worry about,” he says. “Maybe they won’t come after her.”

  “Your games don’t work on me,” I tell him.

  But he is grinning because I am reacting as I told myself I wouldn’t.

  River reads me too well, sometimes. He knows I’ve been putting it off. But he doesn’t know why, and he’s made it his mission to get to the bottom of it.

  “All I’m saying is that it seems you’ve moved on,” he says. “It’s like you don’t even remember the cage. It’s like you don’t even remember the animal they turned you into.”

  One single word.

  The cage is all I need to hear to bring back those visions. I close my eyes and recall the suffocating weight of death in my chest. Those memories flash through my mind in rapid succession.

  The waterboarding. The torture. The hallucinogenic drugs and the interrogations. My body still bears the scars of those years. The years that I spent in the secret program made especially for children like me.

  Children predisposed to murder.

  I was exactly the target they sought out. When they took me from the asylum, it was a simple matter of what my file said. That I had killed my mother. The perfect subject.

  I remember those words. Those were the last words I heard before they assigned me a number. A number that meant I was no longer part of the human race. A number that would become my only identifier in the darkest pit of hell. And when I had finally reached the end of my contract… when I was finally able to come home… vengeance could no longer be mine.

  I open my eyes to meet River’s. The resolve that wavered before is unhindered now. He smiles because he knows it too.

  “Can you just imagine it though?” he asks. “The expression on his face when he learns of all the ways the student has surpassed the teacher?”

  I can imagine it. I have imagined it many times.

  “If you don’t think you have it in you though, I’d be happy to volunteer,” River offers. “I’m not as well-versed in torture, but I think I’d do a bang-up job of it.”