Page 75 of Obsession

Cain whips his head around, scouring the passersby, but it’s hard to tell even where to begin.

“Too many people here,” he mutters. “Too many goddamn civilians. We’ll have to find them and isolate them.”

A shiver skates down my spine. I’ve read what he does to them when he has them alone. “But first we have to find them.”

When we draw near to the Fleur-de-lis, I don’t see anything that can lead us to where Dossier’s got Skylar.

We walk up and down the paths, intent on finding details or something that would give us a clue.

Near the arcade, something purple catches my eye.

“Cain.” I point wordlessly, as my stomach churns with acid. Bordering the entrance to the arcade are gorgeous purple irises in full bloom.

“They usually bloom earlier in the year,” I say to Cain, shaking my head. “But spring was late with the cold weather, and they’ve bloomed later than usual.” He exhales as I continue, “He used those flowers because he wants you to find him.”

His hand takes mine as we walk side by side. “You ready for this?”Cain asks.

“The man tried to attack me. He used intimidation tactics and hurt me. He came after your sister and other innocent women and did the very worst things he could have. Am I ready for this?” I huff out a mirthless laugh. “I may fight you off so I can kill him myself.”

My breathing hitches when he tugs me a little closer to him and says in a low voice laced with approval, “That’s my girl. We’ll fight him. We’ll rescue Skylar. And then we’ll kill him.”

“They do call you the executioner. I hope you live up to the name.” I love the way his eyes light up, even as a mask of fury and resolve etches lines around his eyes.

“You do know how to flirt with a guy, don’t you?”

“Not in the slightest. But with you, I’m learning.”

We move gracefully. As one.

“We’ll go into the arcade. See what we can find. I texted Joe and my surveillance team, they’re getting back to me with specs on the arcade’s layout.”

It’s dim and hot in the arcade. Skee ball flanks one wall, across from air hockey machines and foosball tables. Large, clunky machines spit out coins and tickets, and everywhere we turn, I see flashing lights. I can hardly hear myself think in here with the bells and whistles and loud, raucous music.

Cain says something to me, but I can hardly hear him. I shake my head to tell him I can’t hear him. He lifts his phone. He’s got the arcade blueprint.

Two floors. The first houses video games, skee ball, and the table games, but upstairs are the classic games, virtual reality, and funhouse. Behind the funhouse are storage rooms and a small studio apartment.

They could be anywhere.

According to this map, the stairs are to the left of the foosball tables. I reach for his hand so we don’t get separated in the crush of people. I locate the dimly lit back stairs. He goes ahead of me but reaches his hand behind him so we don’t let go.

The noise increases as we go upstairs. At first, my heart beats faster at the sound of a scream, but at the top of the stairs I see a macabre Halloween game with a screaming banshee. A few teens are laughing and playing, racking up points for every scream the banshee shouts. A few feet away, my body’s tall and distorted in the funhouse mirror, and Cain’s looks oddly frightening with a twisted clown’s face staring at us.

“I hate arcades,” I mutter to myself. “I fucking hate them.”

I once got lost in an arcade as a child and never forgot it. They’re easy to get lost in. Cain doesn’t know how much it means to me that he’s holding my damn hand.

I jump when one of the teens hits the jackpot, the screaming banshee’s wails pitching louder and louder. Cain frowns, his eyes narrowed. Here, right behind these walls, are the storage rooms and studio apartment, likely designed for the owners to live in or rent.

“Those fucking screams don’t help,” I mutter. His body goes rigid.

“Christ, Violet. That isn’t the machine,” he says. I look wildly back to see the teens have gone, the game is back to the “start” menu, but the screams haven’t stopped. A chill runs down my spine.

“Through here,” I say, pointing a finger at the break room door. “In here.”

It’s locked, but that doesn’t stop him. It’s an old wooden door that opens inward, and the locks look flimsy. A perfect setup. “Back up.”

The guy’s a human bulldozer, larger than any other human I’ve ever met, and he knows how to use his body. He lets loose with a roundhouse kick, followed by a shoulder ram. The door whines and cracks. Another kick, shoulder, kick, shoulder. The door splinters and breaks. I help him kick the broken wood aside, half expecting someone to attack, but no one comes at us at first.

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