“So glad you could make it, Zack,” Daniel greets, gripping one hand in a handshake and slapping me on the back with the other.
Dan’s house is just as ostentatious as any other person with a bank account sitting in the millions. His house is rustic, with an accent wall made of wood to imitate a cabin, exposed beams, wooden floors that he paid big money to look weathered, and a lot of tan and brown accents.
Abstract paintings decorate the walls, each painting with an earthy tone of reds, browns and yellows. I pause at one in particular, the drone of Daniel greeting other guests behind me turning into a low buzz.
The painting looks like two big brown eyes, with streaks of bright red trailing from them. Soft yellows and reds make up the round, short curves of the girl’s face. My eyes roam, taking in every detail until the full picture comes together.
It’s a little girl crying tears of blood.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
I drag my eyes away to find Daniel standing next to me, his eyes roving over the painting with a wicked gleam in his eyes.
He stares at the painting with pride as if he painted it himself.
“Yes,” I murmur, before turning away. I’m not going to stand there and interpret art as if I'm not standing in a museum of depraved paintings. One glance around shows the other paintings are carved in subtle morbidity.
I shake hands with a few people I recognize from Savior's and Pearl. Minutes later, Daniel has us all join him in the dining room, the twenty-foot-long table set for at least twenty people.
It’s not a normal set up. There are crystal glasses, white plates and a fork and knife set on a thick plastic covering. The entire middle of the table is completely empty. Normally, flowers and decorations will take up space in the middle to add a taste of class to dinners.
I keep my face blank, despite my heart thudding heavily beneath my ribcage.
“Take a seat next to me, Zack, please,” Daniel insists, pointing towards the chair to the right of him. Of course, he sits at the head of the table, smiling at his guests like a king.
He leans over and mutters to me, “I’m very excited for you to see tonight’s entrée.”
I smile, and even I can feel how ice cold it is. “What would that be?” I ask.
“Well, we wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise, now would we?” Dan deflects before turning his attention to the guest on his left side.
I stay silent, instead observing the guests seated around me. Everyone looks to be at complete ease, talking amongst each other, laughing, and smiling.
As if it’s just another day, sitting at a dinner table and waiting for a young child to be served.
There are three exit points in the dining room. One leads into the kitchen, where there’s a back sliding door. The second leads down a hallway towards the game room and deeper into the house. The third leads back towards the front door.
I imagine the girl is in the kitchen. I don’t know if she’s already dead or if this will be like their rituals in the dungeon.
My question is answered five minutes later when the kitchen door opens, and an older man walks in, hand in hand with a little girl no older than six.
Her brown eyes are wide with terror, looking upon the table like every boogieman in her nightmares has come to life.
The monsters inside her dreams were only there to show her what they look like on the inside.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Dinner is served.”
Chapter 38
The Manipulator
A
ll the information Daya and I have gathered so far is splayed out on the island before us. I twist my lips as I mull over what we know for the millionth time, while Daya twists the ring in her nose ‘round and ‘round. She’s waiting on a call back to get the DNA results for the blood on the watch.
“You know, we still never found out who sent me the envelope with all those pictures and the note,” I mumble.
“I know,” Daya says, dropping her hand and pursing her lips. “That’s so odd. I have no idea who it could’ve been.”
Just as I open my mouth, Daya's phone rings. She picks it up so fast, you'd think it was sitting on a burning stove.
"Hello?" she answers, clicking the button to put it on speaker.
"Yes, Daya Pierson?" a woman’s voice asks.
"This is her," she responds, anxiety making her eyes pinball around the room. She chews her bottom lip, the tiny gap between her front teeth on display, while I abuse mine just the same.
"Yeah, I got the results back pertaining to the sample you sent in.” She pauses, and it feels like when a rollercoaster crests the top of the hill. And just for a single second, you're suspended in time before you go crashing back to the ground. “We did get a match. Genevieve Parsons.”
Brown eyes clash with green in a symphony of shock and excitement. Daya clears her throat.
"Perfect, thank you, Gloria. I appreciate it."
"No problem," she chirps before the line disconnects. Mutual silence descends as Daya and I both process the new information.
"Holy fuck."
Before I can fully process the information, Daya reaches over to her bag and pulls out a thick manilla envelope.
“I had some testing and research of my own done. I went ahead and found a sample of Frank’s handwriting in a police report and the note we found and sent it in to an analyst. Now just to make you aware, graphology isn’t always taken seriously in the name of science, but there have been cases where it held up in court. Regardless, I think it’ll be good evidence to have.”
My eyes widen with excitement. “Really? Let me see.”
She holds up a finger, signaling for me to wait. “Also, remember how the serial number was illegible on the watch?” When I nod, she continues. “I have a friend that’s pretty good at deciphering shit like that, and he thinks he got a match. This, Addie, is where the real evidence is. If we confirm it’s Frank’s watch that had Gigi’s blood all over it, and if the handwriting is a match, that’s sufficient evidence to prove that Frank was the murderer.”
“And?”
She bites her lip. “I wanted to wait to open the email with you. So, you ready?”
I nod my head eagerly, impatience ballooning in my chest.
She opens the envelope first and slides out the results. Laying them flat on the island, we both nearly bonk heads in our pursuit to read them.
…concerning the two samples provided, it has been determined that the handwriting…
“Oh my God. It’s a match!” I squeal, almost breathless from excitement.
Daya grins, giddy with her own excitement.
“Okay, now for the real test.” She slides her laptop closer, her email already pulled up. She clicks on an unopened message.
Daya,
I checked into the serial number like you asked. It was pretty fucking difficult, whoever scratched that number did it pretty good. But not well enough to get past me. The serial number was tracked down to a buyer by the name of Frank Seinburg. Hope this helps.
James
“Oh my god!” I shout, nearly jumping out of the seat with excitement.