Page 77 of Riot's Thorn
I spot four closed doors around the room, and even though the last thing I want to do is fill my head with more repulsive thoughts, I owe it to the victims to know what went on. It was my grandpa and dad, my blood, who did this to them, and I can’t help but feel responsible.
The first door I come to leads to a bathroom, but it’s rudimentary—just a tile-covered room with a drain in the middle, a single toilet on the far side, and what I assume could be a dressing room on the other. That area is no more than an empty space with cubbies, so I can’t be sure.
The middle seems to be a shower, though there’s no curtain or showerhead. Instead, a green garden hose is connected to a spigot with a sprayer attachment connected at the end. They must’ve hosed their prisoners off like cattle.
Leaving the first room, I go to the next. This one’s technically a bedroom, since it’s a room with a bed in it, but that’s all. The walls are painted black, and the bedding is red silk. My feet carry me over to a built-in cabinet across the room I almost didn’t see.
“Oh, god,” I mutter to myself. Hanging inside are paddles, whips, crops, and other implements. Below it is a bench the bed had been hiding from the doorway. On it are disinfectant supplies and a bowl of condoms.
My brows furrow when I see another hose hanging by the sprayer head coming from the wall attached to the bathroom. It’s then I notice the vinyl flooring. Why would they need to—I suck in a breath and speed walk my way out.
The other two rooms are much like this one, only I notice details I didn’t pick up before, like the leather cuffs chained toeach of the four metal posts of the bed frame and the cage under the mattress, partially hidden by the bedding in the first room.
Back in the main room, I sit down, taking it all in. Really, the only reason it freaks me out is because Riot told me about the victims. If not for that knowledge, this could just pass as a sex dungeon where old men get their rocks off with willing partners. There has to be something else.
I search both end tables, only finding lube and condoms. Chewing the inside of my mouth, I look for other spots to search. There’s a bookshelf in the back, which is strange, since no one’s coming down here to read, but I guess it adds to the opulence people like Grandpa required of their surroundings.
Pulling a book off the shelf, I flip through it, hoping something is hidden in the pages, but it’s just a book. When I go to return it to its original spot, my eyes catch on a strip of colors at the back of the shelf. I remove a few more books, exposing an instant print camera. It’s old, but when I push the shutter button, a white framed photo shoots out the front.
Someone liked to document their time down here, which means there’s evidence. I yank every single book off the shelf, aware I’m destroying evidence, but since I don’t know for sure a crime has taken place yet, can I really get into trouble?
Coming up short, I spin in a slow circle until I remember Dad telling me when Grandpa renovated the mansion, they found all sorts of stuff hidden behind the walls—money, documents, and even a couple of old watches. Apparently, the guy who built this place in the 1940s thought it was a good hiding spot, and for all intents and purposes, it was.
I flip my phone flashlight on and inspect the walls. If I’m right, there has to be some kind of seal or opening, since they’d want to access their stash. Ultimately, I don’t find anything, so I guess I’m wrong.
Sighing, I walk to the door leading upstairs and rest my hand on the light switch, taking one more look around. Maybe since Killer said she has proof of what went on here, she can leak some evidence somehow. It’s too late for Dad, but god, I want to stick it to Bart.
Right before the light goes out, I catch a disruption in the paint around one of the outlets. It’s not much, just a couple of flecks on the rim of the plastic above where a lamp is plugged in. The rest of the room is immaculate, so it’s a little strange.
I kneel and try to unscrew the outlet cover from the wall with no success. Clearly, I’m grasping at straws. I need to leave the search to the authorities and hope they find something. But as I’m poking around, I notice the top outlet doesn’t sit as deep as the other. I press it and gasp when the top half pivots out, revealing a cubby.
Reaching in, I grab a stack of pictures. I’m about to stand, but I don’t even make it past the first photo without bile rising in the back of my throat. Flipping them over, I put them back in the outlet but leave it open so the authorities can take them.
That cage in the middle of the room was used to imprison women and young children; the picture proves it. This can’t be real life. It must be a nightmare. I hear stories on the news and read articles about things like this, but it’s never something you’d think you’d ever come this close to. I feel like I’m coated in filth, something oily and unholy.
Clambering back up the stairs, I pull out my cell phone and run a search for “FBI.” Is that how it’s done? I have no idea, but I can’t trust anyone with the Reno PD. I find a website that links me with the phone number for the local office, and, taking a deep breath, I hit call.
Turns out, it’s surprisingly easy to speak with someone at the FBI. After hearing about thirty seconds of my story, the operatorputs me through to an agent who listens to five minutes of my story before telling me to stay put, that he’ll be there soon.
It’s a long time to wait with only my thoughts and a healthy amount of fear Bart or Riot will get to me before security or the FBI show up to keep me company. Realizing I’m still dressed in Riot’s T-shirt and a pair of leggings, I head upstairs to change in the room where Dad moved the stuff I didn’t take to college.
As I lift the hem of the shirt up, I pause, inhaling faded tobacco and woody amber. It’s been only hours, and I’m already heartbroken and missing him. Maybe there was something I could’ve said so he’d let me handle this. But I know there’s not. One of the things I like most about him is his convictions, so I don’t get to complain when he stands by what he needs to do to keep me safe.
This is no time for thinking about what I gave up to do the right thing, so I tear off my clothes and put on a casual, deep green, floral print wrap dress with sheer sleeves and a ruffled hem that sits just above my knees. Does this say, ‘I’m a respectable member of society who saw her disgusting filth of a father get shot and then spent two weeks in hiding because I was in shock?’ I throw my hands up and huff. This is a nightmare.
A knock echoes from downstairs, so I slide my feet into a pair of nude flats and dash to answer the door. Four large men and one woman stand in front of me, looking over the yard and the house.
“Hi. Are you with the security company?” I ask.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Cormac, but people just call me Mac. I’m the owner of Midnight Security. This is Paxon, Otto, Thorne, and Bodhi.” He points out each remarkably handsome man, though none have the devilish eyes that drew me to Riot. Then he motions to the stunning woman. “And this is our beautiful wife, Rebel.”
I try to not react, because I genuinely don’t care, but it’s not every day you meet a poly family, so I’m sure my shock is evident. “It’s nice to meet you. Come on in. The FBI should be here momentarily, and it’ll be easier to tell you everything all at one time.”
“If there’s anything you don’t feel comfortable telling law enforcement, I want to assure you, we are exceptionally discreet, and anything you say will be kept between us.”
“Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”
I’ve just shown them to the sitting room when a knock sounds again. This time, two older men with perceptive eyes and relaxed postures that feel forced, as though they want to make me comfortable, are at the door.
