TORTURE ME_ The Bandits MC(14)

She walked over to stand next to him in the kitchen, accepting the glass from his hand. Their fingers brushed together slightly, Fiona’s skin prickled where it came into contact with Gage’s. She quickly downed the whiskey, relishing the sweet burn of the alcohol as it went down her throat, grimacing a little at the after-taste. This was cheap stuff, but it would get the job done.



“Want some scotch?” Gage asked, grabbing a nearly-full bottle from his liquor cabinet and waving in front of Fiona.



She just nodded, handing her empty glass back to be refilled with more alcohol. This went down smoother, but it affected her more immediately, filling her fingers and toes with a numb buzzing sensation that she had missed sorely during all those months of sobriety.



“You must be starving,” Gage said, opening up the refrigerator and pulling out large containers full of food. “I made some stuff earlier. I thought you might like it.”



Fiona poured herself some more scotch and walked over next to Gage to look at the options he’d laid out in front of her. It was pasta and chicken, her favorite. He’d remembered. But somehow she didn’t feel warm and fuzzy about it. It scared her, sending a cold chill up her spine. But she faked a polite smile anyway. Somehow, she felt like she was in a silent war with Gage, and the battleground was her own expression, her own emotion. If she gave ground and revealed that he’d successfully shaken her up, he’d win, which was completely unacceptable. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you upset. Don’t let him see that you give a single fuck at all, she silently coached herself, nodding at Gage to wordlessly tell him to reheat the food for dinner.



“I figured we’d get started right away,” Gage said, piling the food onto plates and sticking them into the microwave. “The missing girl is probably in the hands of The Knife, the serial killer who’s been hunting teenage girls in the area for the past several months. He’s killed a dozen already, and there are at least two in his custody, as far as we know. The police aren’t helping me, as per usual, but I’ve managed to get my hands on some crime scene photos. I figure it might help get into his mindset,” he said as he walked over to the living room to pull something out of a set of drawers sitting against the wall. It took Fiona a second before she recognized the piece of furniture—his evidence cabinet. It was in their old home, once upon a time, and now it was here. It was a little disturbing, seeing reminders of their old life together, but Fiona shrugged her shoulders up and down, trying to shake the weird feeling off. Every time you get anxious, he wins. Remember that, she said to herself, plastering on a fake smile as Gage returned to the kitchen.



The microwave dinged a moment later, so Gage set about getting the food ready before he put the plates down on the kitchen table, nodding at Fiona to sit down before him. She chose the plate with less food, an old habit leftover from her childhood. Her mother always taught her to be nice, polite, and self-sacrificing. It was a hard habit to shake, even in her early thirties.



She’d barely gotten her fork into her mouth, tasting the mouth-watering flavor of Gage’s familiar cooking, when he spread out five pictures in front of her—five dead bodies, all mutilated beyond recognition. Fiona swallowed her mouthful of food, even though now it felt like a rock tumbling down into her stomach, and placed her hands on the first picture, tugging it closer to get a better look.



The dead girl had long, thin cuts on her legs, like only the very tip of the knife was used, without digging deeper. They were so neat, so precise. He must have had the girl pinned down somehow, secured in place, so that she wouldn’t mess up his work by squirming around in pain. Maybe she was even sedated.



There was a hole in her chest, much messier, with clots of dried blood visible even in the photograph. Her heart…. The killer had taken her heart out. Fiona swallowed thickly to clear the lump in her throat and blinked a few times, willing herself to keep going, to keep looking until she found something that really mattered. Fiona’s eyes scanned over the picture, trying to find any detail that stood out to her as different or weird or special. It took her a few minutes before she saw it, and then it hit her all at once.



“Her clothes,” she murmured to Gage, who hovered next to her rather than sitting down and eating.



Gage leaned over her shoulder to look, staring at the picture for a moment before shaking her head. “I don’t see it…what’s wrong with her clothes?”



“Nothing,” Fiona said. “That’s the point. There’s nothing wrong with them. They’re impeccably clean, except around the chest. They’re freshly laundered. That…most killers don’t do that, even if they keep their captives for longer than a few days. Most killers will let their victims just sit in their own filth, getting dirtier and dirtier as each day goes by. This guy…this guy didn’t do that. He cleaned them.”