My breath catches in my throat.
The cabin, the nightmare, the place where Rhett has her—it’s just ahead. I feel it, like a demon on the edge of my consciousness, a dark pull that draws me in, submersing me in bloodlust.
We followed Rhett’s instructions.
Tell no one.
Arrive in the bush plane alone. Just the Strakhs.
Remove your clothes.
Enter the cabin, naked, with your hands in the air.
If you break these rules, I’ll kill her.
He hasn’t given us much wriggle room, but we have a plan.
It’s simple.
We’re going to butcher him, slowly and ruthlessly.
62
Frankie
—
Wolf.
Oh, God, I loved him. I loved him so much, and he’s gone.
Gone.
I feel it in my chest, in my stomach, in the way my insides tremble and convulse as if my body is trying to reject reality.
It’s not just grief. It’s a bottomless, excruciating pit, swallowing all light, all air, and all hope.
The drug keeps me locked in the empty darkness, my anguish trapped with no release. Tears pour from my eyes, hot and unending. And silent. I can’t make a sound. I can’t free my agony.
“You can keep them as long as you want.” Rhett strokes my hair to comfort me, but it only deepens my horror. “They don’t stink. I embalmed them and preserved them in chambers of frost. They’re perfectly preserved for you, sweetheart.”
Chambers of frost? Does he mean a morgue refrigerator? I strain my eyes toward the walk-in freezer in the kitchen. Did he keep them in there? How did he transport them here without getting caught?
And what gives him the impression I would want this?
Revulsion curls through me. He desecrated their bodies and turned them into morbid displays for his twisted pleasure.
He went through a lot of effort to set this up. Although, if he wanted to hide bodies, this is the place to do it.
I imagine he didn’t have much time to prepare them. Some of their clothing must’ve been cut or partially removed to facilitate the embalming process.
Denver is shirtless. Sirena and Doyle wear the clothing I last saw them in. Same with Wolf. The bloodstained coat he borrowed from me hangs off his shoulders. The shirt beneath the coat appears dirty. Old.
He’s been dead for ten months.
I’m going to die here, too. I’m going to die in the place I fought so hard to escape, surrounded by the corpses of those I loved and hated.
Why else would he lay me on the table like a sacrifice, positioning me among the dead?