Page 15 of Secrets

He’s one of Babin’s goons.

I place one hand on the doorknob while slipping a pair of shears from the nearby pegboard with the other. With a flick of my thumb, the metal lock slides out of place and a heavy clank echoes around me as I slide open the door.

The man smiles when I come into view, his eyes dripping down my frame. For a solid moment, I consider plucking the light blue orbs out of his skull before shoving them down his throat, but before I can act on it, he jerks my delivery boy forward. “From Mr. B.”

Kline peers up at me, and though the ordeal appears taxing, his pupils expand when they meet mine. Oddly enough, there isn’t an ounce of relief in them. Instead, there seems to be more fear.

Interesting.

Returning my attention to the man, I slip a hand around his prisoner’s thin biceps. He flinches under my hold. “And to what do I owe such a gift? Especially one I already own.”

The man’s smile widens knowingly. “He thought you might enjoy finding out your boy here is one of his best testers.”

My insides flare with anger, but I’m quick to mask it with a strained smirk. While I’m not one to care about what others chose to do with their lives, the routine checks done on the sex workers employed under Alexi have always been rather…unsavory to me, which means none of my boys are permitted to be involved. A deal they fully understand and commit to when working for me. “Is that so?”

“Yes. He even has a signature he likes to leave. A bite mark on their ribs that more often than not needs stitches.” The man slides his hands into his pockets. “Funny thing, though, he’s not on Miss Falcon’s or Mr. B’s payroll.”

The grip I have on Kline tightens, and his hiss of pain from my nails embedding in his skin sounds muted behind my increasing heart rate. “Care to elaborate?”

“He’s been visiting the clubs and taking the girls home, claiming he was one of the boss’s and needs to ensure quality. Over the past few weeks, he was able to get through twelve of them before we caught him.”

Kline whimpers, and I barely register the warm liquid seeping through my fingers. “I’m sure this gift comes with strings.”

It’s more of a statement than an inquiry, but the man grins as he begins a dramatic walk backward. “Not so much strings as a simple message. Your timer has started: Twenty-nine days left.”

I narrow my eyes slightly, reminding myself I have too much to do and probably shouldn’t stab him with the pair of scissors, before jerking my delivery boy inside and slamming the door shut.

He drops from my hold as though he weighs a thousand pounds, his knees hitting the concrete with a sharp crack. “I’m sorry, Miss Baudelaire. Truly. I was forced. They said I had?—”

I hold up a hand as I lock the door behind me. “You were forced?”

Kline’s head bobs harshly. “Yes. They said if I didn’t, they would ship my body parts to my mother’s house.”

“Didn’t what?”

“Atone.”

My stomach rolls as I realize what he’s saying. He’s not saying he was forced to test the girls, but was given a choice in his repentance. Confess to me what he’s done and endure whatever punishment I dole out, or be tortured by Seline’s men before having his extremities shipped to his family—all the while he’d likely be kept alive as long as possible, a trademark of the club owner.

“I didn’t mean to hurt them, they said I could?—”

“Could what?” I ask calmly. “Open their skin with your teeth? What did you tell them the bite was for?”

I’m not sure why I’m asking. It doesn’t matter anyway.

“T-that the mark meant—” His shoulders tremble with a sudden sob, snot falling from his nose and into his mouth. “That it meant they p-p-passed.”

I shake my head, leaning over to one of my work benches to toss my shears down and grab a chair. It’s hard to quell the anger now building in my gut, but I manage to tamp it down enough to question him. “Tell me, Kline, did you truly think you would get away with it?”

His sobs grow louder and I quickly realize how taxing this will be. “I—I, please don’t kill me, Miss Baudelaire. I just?—”

I bend forward, tipping his chin up with my index finger. “Did you rape them?”

He starts to open his mouth again, but I’m quick to stop him when I grip his arm and guide him to his feet. He follows suit, rising enough to sit in the chair I’ve brought over.

“Let me be clear.” I stride behind him, checking the tape binding his wrists. The surrounding skin is raw and red, bruises already blooming. Leaning over, I grab a bit of loose twine at my station, making quick work of securing him to the chair. “To every question I ask from here on out, I only want a yes or a no.”

“But I want to explain?—”

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