The Butterfly Garden (The Collector #1)(41)

“Do you sleep here?”

“Occasionally. Let’s go, Desmond.”

“Why?”

I bit my lip against a laugh. It was a rare treat to hear the Gardener truly flummoxed.

“Because I find it peaceful,” he eventually answered. “Pick up your flashlight. I’ll walk you back to the house.”

“But—”

“But what?” he snapped.

“Why do you keep this place such a secret? It’s just a garden.”

The Gardener didn’t answer right away, and I knew he had to be thinking through his options. Tell his son the truth, and hope he buys into it, keeps it secret? Lie to him and risk the truth being found out anyway, because a son disobedient once might prove disobedient again? Or was he thinking something worse, that somehow a son could be just as disposable as a Butterfly?

“If I tell you, you must keep it an absolute secret,” he said finally. “You cannot breathe a word about it outside these walls. Don’t even speak about it to your brother. Not a word, do you understand me?”

“Y-yes, sir.” It still wasn’t fear, but there was something there, something a little hard-edged and desperate.

He wanted to make his father proud.

A year ago, the Gardener had told me that his wife was proud of their younger son, not necessarily that he was. He hadn’t sounded disappointed, but maybe against his mother’s easy-shown pride, his father’s was harder to detect. Or perhaps his father simply withheld praise until he felt it had been earned. There were any number of possible explanations, but this boy wanted to make his father proud, wanted to feel a part of something greater.

Stupid, stupid boy.

There were footsteps then, growing softer, moving away. I stayed where I was, stuck until the walls lifted. A minute or two later, the Gardener stepped into the far end of the hall and beckoned to me. I obeyed, like I always did, and he absently ran a hand over my hair, now back in a messy knot. He was seeking comfort, I guess.

“Come with me, please.”

He actually waited for me to nod before putting his hand on my back and giving me a gentle shove down the hall. The tattoo room was open, the machines shrouded in plastic dustcovers until there was a new girl again; once inside, he pulled a small black remote from his pocket, hit a button, and the door came down behind us. Through the room, the door to his private suite was also open. The punch pad beeped when the door closed. His son stood in front of the bookshelves, turning at the sound of the lock engaging.

He stared at me in openmouthed shock.

Up close, it was easy to see that he’d inherited his father’s eyes, but most of him belonged to his mother. He had a slender build and long, elegant fingers. Musician’s hands, I thought, when I recalled what his father had said of him. It was still hard to guess his age. He could have been my age, maybe a little older. I wasn’t as good at that game as the Gardener.

His father pointed to the armchair under the lamp. “Sit down, please.” For himself, he chose a seat on the couch and tugged me down next to him, all while keeping my back from sight. I curled my legs beside me and leaned back against the well-padded cushions, my hands folded in my lap. His son was still on his feet, still staring at me. “Desmond, sit down.”

His legs fell out from under him and he collapsed into the recliner.

If I spilled horror stories to this shocked boy, could he get the police here faster than his father could kill me? Or would his father simply kill him to silence him? The trouble with sociopaths, really, is that you never know where they draw their boundaries.

I couldn’t quite decide if it was worth the risk, and in the end, what stopped me was the thought of all the other girls. All the air for the Garden came from a centralized system. All the Gardener had to do to take out the entire flock was put a pesticide or something into the air. After all, he had to keep all sorts of chemicals stocked for the care of the greenhouses.

“Maya, this is Desmond. He’s a junior this year at Washington College.”

Which would explain why he only walked with his parents on weekends.

“Desmond, this is Maya. She lives here in the inner garden.”

“Lives . . . lives here?”

“Lives here,” he affirmed. “As do others.” The Gardener sat forward on the edge of the couch, his hands clasped loosely between his knees. “Your brother and I rescue them from the streets and bring them back here for a better life. We feed them, clothe them, and take care of them.”

Very few of us were from the streets, and in no sense were we rescued from anything, but the rest of it could be true from a certain skewed perspective. The Gardener never seemed to think of himself as villainous, anyway.

“Your mother does not know about this, nor can she. The strain of caring for so many people would put too much work on her heart.” He sounded so earnest, so sincere. And I could actually see his son believing him. Relief worked over his face, chasing away the momentary flash of horror that his father had been keeping a harem for his own pleasure.

Stupid, stupid boy.

He’d learn better. The first time he heard a girl crying, the first time he saw someone’s wings, the first time the walls came up and showed all those girls in resin and glass, he’d know better. For now, he swallowed it all. By the time he learned better, would he be in too deep to do the right thing?