Page 63 of Dirty Liars

My head throbbed where I’d been struck. Warm blood trickled down my neck, seeping into the collar of my shirt. I tried to focus on the sounds outside—the crunch of gravel, the whine of the engine, anything that might tell me where we were headed. But the effort sent another spike of pain through my skull, and darkness swallowed me again.

* * *

The next time I opened my eyes, I was no longer moving.

Cold metal pressed against my back, and harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, searing my retinas. I blinked slowly, my vision swimming into focus. I was in a chair—a metal folding chair—and my wrists were still bound behind me, now secured to the back of the seat. My ankles were zip-tied to the chair legs, the plastic cutting deeper as I instinctively tried to move.

A warehouse. Industrial ceilings soared above me, crisscrossed with metal beams and exposed ductwork. Concrete floors stretched in all directions, stained with oil and marked with tire tracks. The vast space was empty except for a few wooden pallets and the chair I was bound to. Tall windows near the ceiling let in angled beams of morning light, illuminating dust motes that danced in the stagnant air.

I recognized the layout—we were in the industrial park off James Madison Parkway, the same area Riley had mentioned when we’d found Rogan’s body. The symmetry wasn’t lost on me.

The place felt abandoned, a hollow shell where no one would hear me scream. I tested my restraints and found no give. Whoever had secured me knew what they were doing.

Think, Jaye. Think.

My head throbbed with each heartbeat, and I could feel dried blood crusted on my neck. My tongue felt swollen, my mouth parched. How long had I been unconscious? Minutes? Hours? Jack would have noticed I was missing by now. He would be looking for me. All I had to do was stay alive until he found me.

A door screeched open somewhere behind me, the sound of metal against concrete setting my teeth on edge. Slow, deliberate footsteps approached, circling until they stopped directly in front of me.

Emmett Parker.

He looked younger in person than in the photos Doug had pulled up—barely nineteen, with a boyish face that still carried traces of adolescent softness. His hair was sandy blond, cut close on the sides but longer on top, falling across his forehead in a way that might have seemed innocent in any other context. He wore jeans and a plain gray T-shirt, so ordinary it was jarring.

But his eyes…God, his eyes. They were pale blue, almost colorless, and utterly void of emotion. They assessed me with clinical detachment, like I was a specimen under glass. When he smiled, the expression never reached those eyes.

“Dr. Graves,” he said, his voice surprisingly deep for someone with such a youthful appearance. “I’m glad you’re awake. Josef said you might not make it. Guess your skull’s thicker than it looks.”

He crouched in front of me, bringing his face level with mine. His breath smelled of mint gum and something metallic, like pennies.

“Where is he?” I asked, my voice a rasp.

“Josef?” Emmett shrugged one shoulder. “Setting up a little distraction across town. Fire department and police will be very busy in about twenty minutes.” His lips curved in that empty smile again. “He told me to wait until he gets back before I kill you. A good soldier follows orders.”

The casual way he said it—like he was discussing the weather—made my skin crawl. I swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way my heart was slamming against my ribs.

“You’re the apprentice,” I said. Not a question.

His eyebrows lifted slightly, the first genuine expression I’d seen on his face. “You’ve been doing your homework. I’m impressed.” He stood and walked a slow circle around me, his fingertips trailing across my shoulders. “But then, you’ve been very thorough in your investigation. Too thorough.’

I had to keep him talking. As long as he was talking, I was breathing.

“How did you get involved with New Dawn?” I asked, working to keep my voice steady. “With Paul Prather?”

Emmett paused behind me, and I felt his hands rest on my shoulders. His thumbs pressed into the tender spot where my neck met my skull, not quite hard enough to hurt, but a clear reminder of how vulnerable I was.

“My, my,” he whispered. “Someone knows more than they should. I guess it’s a good thing you’re going to die.”

His thumb pressed into my flesh hard enough to make me whimper, and then he pulled away.

“Paul saved my life,” he said simply, moving back into my field of vision. “I was fourteen, living on the streets after running away from my third foster home. Got caught stealing from the wrong people. They stabbed me and left me for dead in an alley.”

He pulled up his shirt, revealing a jagged scar across his abdomen. The puckered tissue formed a crooked line from his navel to his ribs.

“They didn’t do a very good job,” he continued, dropping his shirt. “Paul found me. He has a gift for finding broken things with potential. He took me to New Dawn, had me patched up, made sure the authorities thought I was dead. The old me ceased to exist, and I became someone new.” His eyes took on a fervent gleam. “Someone better.”

“New Dawn,” I echoed. “The cult.”

His expression hardened. “It’s not a cult. It’s a family. A community. Paul protects us, teaches us. Some of us he trains to protect the others.”

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