Page 63 of Daughter of a Monster

He’s rolling on the ground, blood smeared across his face, the noises coming from him a combination of crying and laughter.

I draw in ragged breaths, attempting to calm my rage. “I’ve got something you might be interested in seeing.”

The monster spits blood onto the ground. “I doubt it.”

Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I open the app containing the feed to the cameras. Rewinding through the footage, I grab his hair, yanking his head up to make him look.

“See anyone familiar?” I hiss.

His eyes say it all. They widen, scanning the screen, horror crossing his expression. “No.”

I glance downward. It’s at the part where I’m holding Berkley against the wall, my hand around her throat. He tries to lunge at me when Berkley’s limp body slumps to the ground after I release her. I jerk out of the way, letting go of the hair fisted between my fingers and he falls to the ground.

He glares up at me, eyes lit with derangement. It’s the most reaction we’ve got out of him. And it’s because of her. Seeing her like that pained him. And now he wants to hurt me back.

“She used to drag her fingernails up her arms, scarred what belonged to me.” There’s a wicked and crazed grin on his face. The blood seeping from a cut in his lip only adding to his demented look.

It’s not Berkley he’s talking about. It’s Hope. Twisted emotions crash through me. It’s the first confirmation from him that he knows her. He knows Hope.

He laughs. “You’ll never find her. You’ll never find out where she is. You may as well forget about Hope. She’s gone.” He laughs. “All hope is gone.”

“You better be ready to forget about your daughter then.”

With strength I didn’t think he had, he gets to his feet, rising to come within an inch of me. “You touch even one hair on her head and you will pay.”

I cock my head to the side, attempting to mimic his crazed smile. “Funny. That’s exactly why she’s here. To make you pay.”

chapter twenty-one

BERKLEY

The shine of luxury quickly fades when it’s used as a prison. The Sanctuary, which I thought to be so beautiful when I arrived, now mocks me. Even though the windows of my room are open, there is nowhere to go unless I’m content to fall. While looking outside, if I crane my head to the left, I can just make out the ledge where Barrett said the woman the house was built for plunged to her death.

At the time I thought it strange that anyone could feel that way when living amongst such beauty. But maybe she was a prisoner like me. Why else would someone build their home miles away from any other living thing if not to keep their practices private?

It’s only been an hour since Jericho trapped me in here, but it seems like a lot longer. But with every tick of the imaginary clock, my panic subsides. Somehow, deep down inside, I feel responsible for this. Like it’s my fault. For years I lived with a man who kept women as captives and I was blind to it all. And it seems as if I’ve done it again.

This is my penance.

I’ve become the captive.

I haven’t got a plan. I don’t know what to do. But surely he can’t intend on keeping me locked up here for long. Eventually people will start looking for me. They’d probably do it a lot sooner if they were used to hearing from me instead of me ignoring their calls.

My phone is useless without coverage or reception. It’s good for nothing more than playing music. There’s no food, so surely someone will come to give me some. Unless he intends on starving me.

If Jericho Priest is not working for my father, there’s really only one reason I can think of that he would want me. Revenge.

Maybe he was in direct competition with my father. Maybe he intends on blackmailing him. Maybe I’m here to help lure my father out of whatever shelter he’s found.

I’m so distracted by my thoughts I miss the sliding of the lock and the turning of the handle. The door bursts open and Jericho stands in the frame, eyes blazing, his clothing and hands covered in blood.

The first thought that comes to my mind is concern. That’s how stupid I am. I’m worried he’s hurt. I’m worried my captor is hurt.

Stopping myself from getting to my feet and walking over to examine him, I resist the urge to ask him if he’s okay. I stay sitting on the edge of the mattress, attempting to arrange my face into an expression that conveys boredom. I don’t think I succeed. Or, if I do, Jericho does not notice or care.

He stalks over to me and grabs my arms, yanking them behind my back. Rope cuts into my wrists as he ties them tightly and drags me out the door.

“Where are we going?” He doesn’t answer and instead pulls me down the stairs. I tug against his grip as I stumble behind, but it’s too tight. “Where are you taking me?”

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