Torture (Siren Book 2) (9 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Milla

Tears well in my eyes, as I survey the cameras. For hours, I've been watching to see if anyone would notice and destroy them, cut off my eyes and ears. But no one has, and that anxiousness has
long
since given in to euphoria. One down. One down, and the message
well
fucking received.

I'm only sorry I wasn't there personally, to see her blood on my hands, and smell how it permeated the room. I'm only sorry I couldn't drink her fear in firsthand.

There aren't words for the thrill of knowing the world's now a better place, for her loss, and knowing that's on
me
. She'll never accept expensive gifts to make policy out of turning down insurance claims against RI again. She'll never quietly rubber-stamp RI's disputes, labeling the victims at fault for their own disability.

She'll never nail the coffin shut for another faceless worker tossed into the street, her smug sneer the last thing they see before they commit to living the rest of their days panhandling, or in shelters.

She'll never judge the value of our lives again.

It's a start, and one that spurs me to do better. I've got more sedative, and I've tracked down a few more people, including an accountant who embezzled several employees' retirement funds, and falsified records of their deposits to claim they never
had
the money in their accounts.

It's an ugly world, but bit by bit, I'm purifying it. The colors are almost brighter, the smells almost sharper, though I'm sure it's all in my head.

I can't entirely parse my feelings on the hoarse sobs continuing to come through the mic in the room. Obviously Calder has something else going on in his own head; he
certainly
didn't mourn Alex like this.

Some part of me loves the timbre of his voice when he cries, the raw humanity in it, that he suppresses the rest of the time. Some part of me wants to know
exactly
where the hurt is coming from, if only to have that fracture point in my head, should I need it. But some traitorous part of me remembers him comforting me when I cried, and thinks that it should be reciprocal. That I should be there, soaking in his tears, and praying he'll emerge washed clean by them.

And that won't do. Rather than risk temptation or frustration, I stand to leave.

But that's the moment he sees the camera. The sobs change to fierce yells and swear words.
Now
, he sounds like a red-blooded man, not a bloodsucking bureaucratic zombie. He knows the ceiling's out of reach, and he can't climb out—he hasn't tried, even once. And that the doors surrounding him are bolted shut. But he's bound to figure out
something
soon, and I
have
to be there to see it.

Surely
he won't risk breaking his flashlight and being stuck in the dark, just to get one over on me. Surely he has his priorities right.

But he's a little too smart for that. He opens the flashlight, saving the batteries and the top—the breakable parts—and then hefts the metal handle, throwing it at the camera. A metallic thud is cut off by static.

He's more resourceful than I gave him credit for. Once he finds the handle, he'll have his light,
and
be free of scrutiny. He doesn't know there's another camera behind him, but he'll find it eventually, I'm sure. In the meantime, let him feel he's accomplished something.

He's got some challenges ahead of him, and I'll put
myself
through them alongside him before I'll risk him going down without a witness. As much as the idea of being near him again unnerves me

Some part of me wonders why I'm
so
attached to the idea of seeing him die, even moreso than the others. I haven't had the urge to put myself alongside Allen, or even Denise. But him? I want it so badly, it's intoxicating. I need
every
detail I can get. I can't imagine his victims will be interested in hearing me whisper it over their graves, letting them know they've been avenged. I don't know that it'll make
me
feel better; I can only kill him once, after all. And I have no clue what's left for me, once he's dead.

He's still weak—
too
weak, to be honest. With the first camera destroyed, his energy's gone. He collapses, and is asleep within minutes. Perfect.

I don't want him to lose his fight before I'm ready for him. I've got some more work to do. But in the meantime, I have a cooler ready for him. His first food in days. I've argued with myself for hours over what to include in it. I'm not sure if he honestly has a preference for one food over another, but if he's anything like me, he'll be drawing on every association possible to feel
some
control. Will he remember me suggesting how unpleasant eating smoked meat was, given how much burned flesh he's smelled? Will it be twisting the knife to give him egg salad, make him think of when he gave it to me, and promised to protect me and keep my secrets?

In the end, I go with the egg salad, but momentary inspiration stalls me from bringing it to him.

I pull the knife out of my pocket, and pull my pant-leg up. Cutting's never been my speed, but there's a time and a place for everything. The blade's not terribly sharp, but it'll do the job. There's a moment of revulsion at the idea of seeing my own blood, that nearly stills my hand. But I whip the blade across my leg fast, before I can chicken out. The cut is shallow and long, but gives me just enough blood to work.

I put the sandwich to the side, and catch a few drops in the bag, smearing the sides together before I replace the sandwich. It looks gruesome, but should taste just fine. If he's that desperate, which I suppose I'll find out later.

The first aid kit here is better stocked, and has a bandage for me. But I want to hurry before Calder wakes, so I barely waste any time stamping it on. He's sound asleep, but I don't chance it, simply dropping it off, and then leaving him behind.

*              *              *

The doors are all shut, well and truly secured. But something rankles, on the way out. I know the instinctual prickle; I'm not alone.

I pause on the gangway, stretching lethargically. A dark figure emerges from the treeline, but I don't let anxiety seize me. It's probably another teenager. But as he approaches, I realize how wrong I am. Evan. He knew I was here. He's coming to check it out. Obviously he could blow the whole thing. But there's nothing incriminating on the outside. He doesn't know
anything
for sure, other than that I like exploring urban decay and abandoned places. That's the
only
suspicious stuff he has proof of.

So I smear my most relaxed smile across my face, and take a few loping steps to reach him faster.

“Evan! You like this shit, too?”

“Camilla? What're you doing here?”

“What do you
think
, silly? This place is kind of an atmospheric goldmine! You've never seen the
Siren
before?”

“No, sorry. Didn't know it was here. I saw your truck, and thought you might have broken down.”

“Oh, sorry—hope it's not dragging you out of your way.”

“It's—it's nothing. I'm glad you're okay.”

“Any word on what's-his-name? Your friend?”

“No. No one saw anything. It's
frustrating
.”

I wrap an arm around his waist comfortingly, and squeeze him before releasing him. “That sucks. Anything I can do?”

“Umm, not really? Where the fuck
are
we, anyways?”

I squeal—bad timing or no, he
is
giving me a
real
treat. “Oh, come on. I've gotta get to work, but we'll walk around a little before I take off. The
Siren
—”

His eyes glass over as I tell him every bit of history I know about the place. How the teenagers used to come here to make out, until the rumor went around that it was haunted, but how I've never seen a ghost here. How someone bought it to refurbish it, or scrap it, or something, but that just hasn't happened. I lead him around the exposed decks, and test a door or two, feigning disappointment when they remain firmly shut, even to his strong grip.

His hand is warm in mine, and he even seems to be enjoying holding it as I tug him around. I don't know how long I have with him, but I'd rather not risk him coming back later, possibly with people who know how to crack her open, if he doubts me. I need to find out what he thinks, and decide a plan from there.

“Can you imagine fifty years' worth of people living in this thing? Just, working on the open sea, no one else around for
days
? One task, or set of tasks, just a cog in the machine? It's kind of inspiring, isn't it?”

He shudders. “No thanks, Camilla. I'm claustrophobic.”

“Oh, poor thing,” I tease. “How're you with heights?”

“Okay? I guess?”

“Want to see my
favorite
spot?”

I wink at him, and turn toward him to look up into his shaded face. I raise my eyebrows like I'm waiting for an answer.

“When the lady asks like that, how can I say no?” He smiles, softly, and his fingers drift to my cheekbone. They're more calloused than Calder's were, and his touch isn't especially satisfying. Still, it's a good start.

“Okay—this way, then.”

I lead him up the outer stairwells, to the roof of the bridge. His eyes widen, and he takes in the view, and the wind.

“You ever do the
Titanic
thing on one of these?” He smiles, glancing at the metal poles around us.

“No?”

“You want to?”

“Oh, Mama told me about boys like you. You just want your arms around me.”

“Damn right. You game?”

“So long as you don't grab my tit.”

He laughs. “What kind of gentlemen do you think I
am
?”

“The kind my mama warned me about.”

I start for the sturdiest looking one, and step up onto the cross bar. He laughs, and barely catches up to me to lock his arms around me as I fling my arms wide, and lean away from the pole. “
Oh, Jack
,” I call, as sensually as possible, as his arms tremble from his laughter, behind me. Finally, he releases me, and I jump back down.

“I see why you like it up here.” He squeezes my hand, and grabs a seat on the tarred ground. I lean next to him, kicking at the weak antennae listlessly. “I think I needed that. Things with Calder, it's just weighing on me.”

“Sorry.”

“He's, well, we've been friends since we were kids. Our dads knew each other in the old days. Then we went to boarding school together. I stuck with him, and when he had to come back here, the pay was good enough, that it was like, why not? He takes care of his friends.”

I'll bet he does. “Awww,” I say, with as much conviction as I can muster. “That's cute.”

“I mean—my dad, he was a
hard
man, and I don't think Cal's was much better. But they
tried
.”

“What'd your dad do?” He seems to have his mind on family stuff, so why steer him away from it?

“Lots of stuff. He was... persuasive.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Went a lot of places, talked to a lot of people.” There's something he's not saying, but as his face closes off, jawline tensing, he doesn't need to.
I recognize him
.

I know who his dad is. I know what his dad
does
.
Intimately
.

“Anyone I know? Anyone local?”

I need him to confirm it before I do anything rash, no matter how the anger hums in my veins. No matter that I can almost taste the blood.

“Doubt it? He's been in a nursing home a few years. Took a few too many blows to the head.”

I raise my eyebrows at that, and he quickly covers. “He was an amateur wrestler,
way
back when.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

“Try me anyways. I grew up around here. I bet I know
everyone.
I'm surprised I never saw you.”

“Like I said, I went to boarding school. He—” he pauses, wondering whether he can trust me. “He had a lot of enemies.”

“Oh.” I bite my lip, making it clear that I think he just doesn't trust me
enough
, that I find him evasive and cold.

He takes the bait, wanting the flirtatious atmosphere back. “You'd know him if you saw him. Tall guy, bald, scar?”

Unconsciously, my finger rises to trace the path of the scar, from nose-bridge to jawline. His eyes widen, and turn apprehensive.

“You know him then.”