TORTURE ME_ The Bandits MC(3)

“What do you need from us?” Mrs. Greenwood asked, sniffling repeatedly, even though she had successfully suppressed her tears thus far.



“I’ll be stopping by your house later to look at your daughter’s room, get some insight into her habits and routines. If she has a diary, I’d like to see it.”



The Greenwoods shared a loaded look with each other, obviously a little hesitant about this latest request. The mother spoke first. “Um, I’m not sure…”



“I understand that you want to respect your daughter’s privacy, ma’am, but there are more important things at stake here,” Gage cut in before she could finish her thought. He was sometimes a little too blunt, a little rude with people. But he figured that was part of being a private investigator. If he wanted to be nice, he would’ve chosen another profession entirely. This one was about disappointing people, mostly finding the disappointing birth parents of stupidly hopeful adopted kids and providing proof of countless spousal infidelities. It wasn’t a cheerful job, but it was the only one he was suited for, really.



But Mrs. Greenwood just nodded rather than taking offense. “Okay. We’ll…we’ll give it to you as soon as we can. Maybe…maybe we should go ahead and get it, right, John? Stop wasting time?” She wiped at one of her eyes as she got to her feet.



Mr. Greenwood followed her, placing a hand on the bottom of her back. “We’ll be back later with the diary. Actually, I think she had more than one. I know she kept one on her computer,” he said.



“Bring both,” Gage instructed. “And….get some rest. I’ll take it from here.”



The older couple exited the office as quietly as they’d entered it, their heads bowed like they were already in mourning. Maybe they really were. But it was up to Gage to make sure they didn’t have to grieve.





Chapter Two




Gage stared at The Knife’s symbol some more. It definitely looked like it was drawn by a man, at the very least, although to be fair, most serial killers were men anyway, especially those that specifically targeted young girls. He put the piece of paper down, accepting that there was no magical hidden message that he was going to understand from the murderer’s insignia. Gage picked up the photograph of Tori again, absorbing all the details of her face. She had a heart-shaped face with a pronounced widow’s peak at the top of her forehead. Just like Abigail did… Gage thought.



He jumped out of his seat and turned to the window behind his desk, staring hard at the flaming sun that rose above the horizon. It was hard to think about Abigail, even the good, happy memories of her. His little sister was forever crystallized in his mind as a twelve-year-old girl—peppy, sassy, and fun to annoy. But sometimes, at night right before he’d fall asleep, the images would come, images of little Abby tied up, crying, and desperate for someone to come save her. But nobody ever did.



“I shouldn’t have taken this case,” he whispered to himself as he stared out of the window, down on the city below. He was trying to get his life together, after all, maybe cut back on the cigarettes and the booze and stop hanging around bars just to pick up cheap women. But he knew, without even thinking about it, that none of that was going to happen as long as he was working on this case. It would consume him, the way Abby’s had when he was a teenager. He’d be obsessed with finding the fucker that was taking little girls off of the streets, cutting open their bodies before cutting out their hearts to send in the mail to their families. So far, there had been no real leads, no fingerprints, no DNA, no microfibers to match with the killer’s clothing—nothing, absolutely nothing. Gage knew he would fight this to the end, but for that to happen, he needed to find something, anything, to go off of. Maybe the girl’s diary would have some clues, but he already knew that it wasn’t going to be enough.



I need to know what he is before I can figure out who he is, Gage thought to himself as he stepped back from the window, walking over to the corner where he kept his laptop computer under lock and key. You never knew whether or not to expect a break-in in this city, at least in the neighborhood that Gage worked in. He unlocked his case and pried open his computer, typing in his password and opening up a web browser. He didn’t exactly know what he was doing; his fingers moved over the keyboard of their own accord, acting without letting his brain in on the plan. But in his mind, the same sentences repeated over and over again in an endless loop. I have to understand him if I’m going to find him. I have to get into his brain. I have to understand him. I have to get into his brain.