The Butterfly Garden (The Collector #1)(9)

His thumbs stroked along my spine, where the first ink was done and the most healed, traveling up to the nape of my neck to tangle in my pulled-up hair. Greasy ointment clung to his hands, leaving my hair matted and heavy in his wake. Without warning, he pulled me down the bench until my feet were on the floor, my upper half still on the leather. I could hear him fumbling with his belt and zipper and I screwed my eyes tightly shut.

“Maya,” he groaned, running his hands along my sides. “You are Maya now. Mine.”




A hard knock on the door stops her from describing what came next, and she looks both startled and grateful.

Victor swears under his breath and lurches out of his chair to the door, jerking it open. Eddison motions him into the hallway. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he hisses. “She was actually talking.”

“The team going through the suspect’s office found something.” He holds up a large evidence bag filled with driver’s licenses and identification cards. “Looks like he kept all of them.”

“All of them that had one, anyway.” He takes the bag—Christ, that’s a lot of cards—and shakes it a little to see past the first layer of names and pictures. “Did you find hers?”

Eddison hands him a different bag, a small one holding a sole piece of plastic. It’s a New York ID and he recognizes her immediately. A little younger, her face softer even if her expression isn’t. “Inara Morrissey,” he reads, but Eddison shakes his head.

“They’ve scanned the rest and are starting to run them, but they put this one first. Inara Morrissey didn’t exist until four years ago. The Social Security number matches a two-year-old’s who died in the seventies. New York office is sending someone to the last listed place of employment, a restaurant named Evening Star. The address on the ID is a condemned building, but we called the restaurant and got the apartment address. The agent I talked to whistled when he gave it to me; apparently it’s a rough neighborhood.”

“She told us that,” Victor says absently.

“Yes, she’s so trustworthy and forthcoming.”

He doesn’t answer right away, absorbed in studying the ID. He believes his partner that it’s a fake, but damn, what a fake. Under ordinary circumstances, he has to admit he’d be fooled by it. “When did she stop showing up for work?”

“Two years ago, according to her boss. Taxes support it.”

“Two years . . .” He hands the larger bag back and folds the plastic bag around the single ID until he can tuck it into his back pocket. “Have them run these as quickly as possible; borrow techs from other teams if they can get away with it. Identifying the girls in the hospital has to be a priority. Then get us a couple of earbuds so the techs can pass along updates from the New York office.”

“Got it.” He scowls at the closed door. “Was she actually talking?”

“Talking hasn’t exactly been her problem.” He chuckles. “Get married, Eddison, or better yet have teenage daughters. She’s better than most, but the patterns are there. You just have to parse through the information for what’s significant. Listen to what isn’t being said.”

“There’s a reason I prefer to talk to suspects rather than victims.” He stalks into the tech room without waiting for a response.

As long as he’s out of the room, he might as well make use of the break. Victor walks briskly down the hall and out into the team’s main room, weaving through desks and partial cubes to the corner that serves as a kitchen or break room. He pulls the coffeepot from the machine and gives it a judicious sniff. It’s not hot, but it doesn’t smell completely stale either. He pours it into two mugs that look clean and pops them in the microwave. While they nuke, he digs through the fridge for anything that might be open season.

Birthday cake isn’t quite what he’s looking for, but it’ll serve, and soon he has paper plates loaded with two thick slices and several packets of sugar and creamer. He hooks his fingers through the handles of the mugs and returns to the tech room.

Eddison scowls but holds the plates for him so he can insert the earbud. Victor doesn’t try to hide the wire; the girl’s too smart for that. When he’s got it settled comfortably, he takes the plates back and enters the room.

He startles her with the cake, and he carefully hides a smile as he slides one of the plates and a mug across the stainless steel surface. “I thought you might be hungry. I don’t know how you like your coffee.”

“I don’t, but thank you.” She sips the coffee black, makes a face, but swallows and takes another mouthful.

He waits until her mouth is full of a red frosting rose. “Tell me about the Evening Star, Inara.”

She doesn’t choke, doesn’t flinch, but there’s the slightest pause, a moment of absolute stillness that’s gone so fast he wouldn’t have seen it if he weren’t looking for it. She swallows and licks the frosting from her lips, leaving streaks of brilliant red across them. “It’s a restaurant, but then you know that.”

He pulls the ID from his pocket and places it and the bag on the table. She taps a fingernail against the ID, intermittently obscuring her face. “He kept them?” she asks incredulously. “That seems . . .”

“Foolish?”

“Sure.” Her face pulls into a thoughtful frown, and her fingers flatten to hide the plastic card from view. “All of them?”