Page 28 of SINS & Lies

“Shh,” I shush him like a child and straighten my cuff. “I have an engagement to attend to, or I’d be able to give you my full attention. But fear not. We’ll have more one-on-one time tomorrow.” I pull out a syringe.

Panicked, he foolishly struggles with the zip ties again. “What’s that?”

“Just something Smoke found in your little stash.” I carry on as I hold the needle up to the light. “I’ve been given every assurance that this little concoction will prolong every sensation.” Without warning, I drive it into his neck.

By this point, his freak-out is epic. I’d be freaking out, too, if I were him. His nightmare is only just beginning, and my imagination has so far to go.

“Tomorrow, we’ll talk more about my sister, Trinity. You remember Trinity, don’t you?” I don’t wait for him to lie. I keep going. “Four years,” I seethe through gritted teeth, my heart constricting tight. “We lost our sister for four years. Trinity couldn’t speak. Or sleep. Or eat, for the most part. Smoke heard nothing but her screams, every night, for four years.”

By now, he’s weeping uncontrollably. I take a step back to avoid the fresh puddle of urine seeping over to my shoes.

“When Trinity handed an image of the attacker to Smoke, he nearly shit a brick. What luck? He recognized you.” I chuckle. “We were idiots, thinking our father’s disappearance had anything to do with our sister’s attack. We should’ve been hunting a serial rapist. Especially since all this time, you’ve been right under our noses.”

“I’m sorry!” he wails. “I’ll do anything...” His words start to slur. A side effect of the medication, I’m told.

“Do? Oh, don’t worry. You don’t have to do a thing. We’ll do all the heavy lifting.”

On cue, they hoist the chair up by the legs, letting Mort dangle upside down like a piñata.

I motion to the man with the pliers, instructing him carefully. “Fingers. One knuckle at a time. Stretch it out as long as you can and give him enough water to keep him alive. Leave him like this until tomorrow.”

My stand-in smiles like the kindred psychopath he is. “Will do.”

I’m about to depart while Striker stands motionless, poised like a clueless statue. Seriously, what the hell?

I’ve just ripped open a festering wound of a human, and now I’m expected to open my own goddamn door?

I tilt my head and give a pointed cough. “Ahem.”

Striker stares past me and gestures. “Something fell out of his pocket, sir. I think it’s a photo.”

Huh? I pivot around to spot the photo lying too close to the urine stream for my liking. No way am I getting within ten feet of that mess.

With a mere glance, the photo is scooped into Striker’s hand, ready for my scrutiny.

In an instant, apathy makes way for white-hot rage. Liquid fire fills my veins as I free-fall to the center of hell.

I snap up the photo, my fingers trembling with rage as I study it.

My eyes lock on every contour, every line—etching each detail into my brain.

I knew the man I was interrogating had victims, plural. They always do. But seeing another photo laid bare in front of me is a wrecking ball to the gut.

Because it’s not just any victim I’m staring at in the photograph. It’s a girl. A mere child, barely fourteen or fifteen years old at most.

Her eyes, innocent and dark, seem to bore into my soul, pleading for justice that I’m not sure I can deliver.

Every strand of her hair, every delicate sprinkle of freckles on her nose and cheeks, serves as a stark reminder of her youth, her vulnerability. They pave a path down her neck—and to one heart-shaped freckle.

My heart lurches as I stare.

It’s Kennedy.

My Kennedy.

Anger boils within me, mingling with a protectiveness I’m not sure I can control. I turn my head to the man dangling by a chain and clench my fists, ready to burn him alive.

I reach for the nearest weapon—a Taser—and strike him center-chest. “Where did you get this?”

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