"I said, go to hell."

"All right. If that's the way you want to play it, that's fine with me. So you figured it out, huh?"

"Figured what out?"

"Figured out that I don't really need any of your answers. Like I said, I can find all of this online. And then pay a little visit to your place of employment. Have some fun. And since you've figured out that I don't need your answers, you've figured out that the part of the interrogation that I like is the part where I ruin your hands. So let's skip the Q&A and get to the good stuff."

* * *

Vivian was sitting on the upstairs couch when Ken walked into the house.

"Did she give you what you needed?" he asked.

Vivian shrugged. "She gave me enough."

"I got some antiseptic, some bandages, some gauze, and a needle and thread. I'll sew her up as well as I can, unless you want to do it."

"I'll pass."

He went downstairs and into the basement room. Gertie was slumped forward in her cage, eyes vacant. If not for the rise and fall of her chest, he would've thought she was dead. When Ken went over to the cage, he saw that the tips of all ten of her fingers were bloody.

Wow. That bitch must've been seriously uncooperative.

Ken poured some chloroform onto a rag, then reached through the bars and shoved it against Gertie's face. It didn't seem to make a difference, but he sure wasn't going to let her escape by something like faking catatonia.

* * *

Sewing up her stab wounds had gone horribly. The gashes were a mess of thread, but they seemed to be holding together well enough to keep her from bleeding too much. Ken was under no illusion that she'd live long enough to starve to death, but as long as the wounds didn't get infected—and they might, because once he raised the cage he wasn't lowering it again—she'd probably be around for at least a couple more days.

He shut the door, entered the passcode, then went back upstairs.

Vivian was still on the couch. "How's she doing?" she asked.

"Not great. That's pretty awful what you did to her fingers."

"She's lucky I didn't feel like tracking down a pair of pliers."

"But you got the information out of her?"

"I know my next step, yes."

"And that is...?"

"Are those your toys in the bedroom?"

"No," said Ken. "They're not. I promise they're not. They belong to my friend Darrell. He pays most of the rent on this place."

"Do we need to DNA test them to be sure?"

"I'm not lying."

"I know. I'm messing with you, sweetie. Will Darrell mind if we borrow some of them?"

"I assume so."

"Do you care if he minds?"

"Not at all. We'll wash them."

"Let's go."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER THIRTEEN