“Justin Prior is my biological father.” I’ve been repeating the phrase in my head all night, but that doesn’t make it feel anymore real. Instead, it floats through my mind like a nightmare, like that night in the woods with the needle in my neck … “Why would your captor care about something like that?” The question is virtually rhetorical. I’ve already figured out the who part of this equation.
What I haven’t figured out is the why. Most especially, I haven’t been able to figure out the where.
Where are you, Parrish? Where, where, where?
Footsteps precede a male figure, dressed in a black sweater and slacks … and a black stag mask with what I’m pretty sure are real antlers attached. The man pulls a chair up in front of Parrish, blocking him from view.
“Hello princess,” he says as I swallow hard and try to remember how to breathe. “You must have a lot of questions.”
I just stare at the man, trying to place the sound of his voice. I’ve heard that voice before, I swear. But I’m either too addled to place it or it’s a voice that I’ve only heard in passing.
“You’re Justin,” I say, because even if that isn’t the case, I’m pretty sure that’s what this man wants me to think. “You’re my … bio dad.”
The man simply folds his hands in his lap, watching me through the macabre shape of the stag mask. There must be some symbolism to it that I’m not getting, but I’ll figure it out. Give me time, and I swear I will.
“That’s true,” he starts, his voice unflappable, almost eerily calm. Behind him, Parrish groans in pain, shifting so that I can hear the chair creak. “You’re a smart girl. Not a surprise considering we share DNA.”
There’s that stupid fucking word again. DNA. The bane of my existence. Unfortunately, at this point, I can’t run from it. I can’t hide. It is what it is. The only real question here is if this man is telling the truth about who he is.
“What do you want from me?” I ask, trying to bait this guy into giving me something that I can use against him. If I tell the police that Parrish is with Justin Prior, my bio dad, could they look him up? Could they find him before it’s too late? Then again, how do I know this really is Justin Prior? Could be a crazed fan, some psycho off the streets that’s obsessed with Tess’ work.
“You’ve done well so far,” he continues, as if I haven’t spoken. “You follow instructions, but you aren’t a slave to specificity. You know how to interpret things in their own way. That sort of initiative will serve you well in life; I can only hope that your trust in Kwang-seon McKenna isn’t misplaced.”
My blood chills, and goose bumps cover my arms and legs. How does Parrish’s captor know that Chasm knows? What the actual fuck? My eyes flick to the camera at the top of my phone. It’s possible, if this guy is even a remotely capable hacker, that he could’ve hacked in to watch me. The thought is almost too terrifying to consider.
“Why are you doing this?” I continue, because the longer I keep him talking, the more information I can absorb. The mask he’s wearing is so unique; could I trace it to its maker? What about his sweater or his pants, his shoes? Could I find them online, pinpoint them to a specific store?
“Mia, let me take a moment to explain the rules, just so we know that we’re on the same page. It’s important for parents to keep open lines of communication between themselves and their children.” He looks right at me, stares straight through that screen and into my eyes. There’s no recognition in me, no spark of long-forgotten memory, like with Tess’ perfume.
He may as well be any stranger off the street.
“You’re deranged,” I whisper, my hand shaking as I squeeze the phone so tight that my fingers start to cramp. “If you really are my father, why kidnap Parrish and not me?”
The man doesn’t seem perturbed by my insult. Instead, he smiles.
“I always keep my promises and honor my vows. I expect you to do the same. I will never lie to you, Mia. In exchange, all I ask is that you never lie to me either.” He relaxes back in the chair, crossing his legs and folding his hands over his knee. He’s wearing gloves, so I can’t see his hands. Unfortunate. A tattoo or a scar might’ve helped offer clues as to his true identity.
“Well then, how is this for honesty? I hate you.” It’s a childish thing to say, but I can’t help it. He wants the truth? There it is. Besides, if I piss him off enough, maybe I can trick him into giving more away.
Unfortunately, my admission only seems to have the opposite effect. The man pauses, thinks for a moment, and then has the audacity to look pleased.
“I understand that, but it won’t last forever. Hate is such a useless emotion, such a waste of valuable energy.” He taps his foot against the stone floor as I study the scene, committing it to memory as best I can. Also, what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him: I’ve installed an app on my phone to record the video call. It’s a smoking gun if I hand it over to the authorities. “Here’s the deal: you find Parrish Vanguard and you can keep him. You do what I say, and I keep him alive—provided you don’t break any of my rules.”
“So no lying?” I query back with a dry humor that I don’t really feel. On the inside, I’ve gone completely numb. Out of control emotions won’t serve me here. I almost let them get the better of me yesterday; I can’t make the same mistake again.
“You will not tell the authorities about our conversations. In fact, you will not tell anyone that will pass that information along. If Kwang-seon talks, Parrish dies. It’s that simple. Consider your pawns carefully.” The man continues to watch me, but there’s not even a shred of emotion to latch onto. He’s as cold as Tess is. Shit, maybe this really is Justin Prior? Seems like they’d be a match made in heaven. “I appreciate your ingenuity in recording this conversation, but I suggest you delete it. If Tess finds that phone—or anyone else for that matter—and passes the information to the police, then Parrish dies.”
“Look at you. Fucking tough guy. Who do you think you are: the Seattle Slayer?” I know I’m pushing the envelope, but I can’t just sit here and smile prettily. I’m going to fight back.
Once again, the man pauses, like he’s considering his words very, very carefully.
“I’ve always hated that name. It’s incredibly gauche, don’t you think? I’d prefer it if you simply called me ‘dad’.” He waits patiently as I blink through his words, doing my best to process them.
“Wait, what?” I query back, shaking my head and pinching the bridge of my nose with my left hand. “You’re not the Slayer.”
“Call me whatever you want. It doesn’t matter. Here are my conditions: play the dutiful daughter, follow the rules, and do what you’re told. Find the right clues. Follow the right trail. Or someone you love gets hurt. Good girls get rewarded; bad girls are punished. Am I making myself clear?”
I sit there in stunned silence because I don’t know how to respond to that. He thinks this is a game? This is a game to him?!
When I don’t answer right away, the man stands up and pushes his chair out of the way. He moves out of view of the camera, leaving Parrish front and center. I just sit there and stare at him, at those beautiful brown eyes with their gold flecks. Memories of his hands on my body, of his body inside mine, of his hot mouth pressed to my lips, come flooding in, and I clamp a hand over my stomach to hold back the nausea.