Free 11 by Kylie Brant Page A

nod. “I also compiled a team of the top investigators and forensic scientists in the country. In addition to lab services, my agency provides consultation on specific cases at the invitation of law enforcement entities.” Reaching into his briefcase he withdrew a file and glanced at her. “Hope you don’t have a weak stomach.”
    She stared back at him. All of the most human tendencies had slowly diminished in captivity. Being regularly brutalized by a sadist had pared down traits shared by normal people. Surprise. Empathy. Disgust. Mia sometimes wondered how much longer it would have taken for her to turn into something like Four. Walking, breathing, talking, but no longer human in a way most would understand. A soulless robot fashioned by a monster.
    “I’ll be fine.” Five and a half years of freedom had rebuilt some softer emotions. But her defenses were fortress strength.
    He handed her a folder and she set down her water to take it. As she looked at the photos stoically he explained, “Female. My forensic anthropologist is working on an approximate age. She was left in a mineshaft about four years ago. We found a scrap of scalp that had ink on it…the type used for tattoos.”
    Mia’s gaze flew to Raiker’s, before looking at Jude. His face was expressionless. He’d known about that fact before coming after her. She’d bet on it. But he hadn’t chosen to share it. She wondered if that stemmed from loyalty to Raiker, or his distrust of her.
    “Your tattoo.” Raiker’s voice had grown quieter. But his brilliant blue gaze never wavered. “Do you still have it?”
    A sudden wash of nausea threatened. Fighting it, she swallowed hard. Mia hated that his mark was still on her. Had been tempted more than once to have it removed. But something…some niggling thing had prevented her from doing so. Although the police hadn’t considered it much of a clue, it was the only tangible proof she had of the demon who’d kidnapped her. Who’d raped and abused her for years.
    And it was the only connection she carried of the other women she’d left behind. If she erased it, she’d erased the last link to them. And her abandonment of them would be complete.
    “Yes.” The word was barely audible. She cleared her throat. “Top of the head, here.” She pointed to a spot four inches above her eyebrows in the center of her scalp. Four inches, centered exactly. That hated voice remained so clear despite the intervening years. Precision is important, Eleven. Perfection is all.
    “It’s unlikely that a matching sample of the ink will give us any particular clue about the killer’s identity. But it’s remotely possible a match would help establish a link between this victim and your case.”
    She stared at him; unable to believe she’d heard him correctly. “You think she…this victim…she’s one of The Collector’s?”
    He exchanged a glance with Bishop. “The Collector?”
    Mia considered the photos again. “I thought of him that way. He called us his collection. All perfect specimens on the outside. Beautiful. He said he was perfecting us on the inside. So we’d be worthy of him.” A quick tremor racked her. Steeling her spine, she shook it off. Gazed more closely at the pictures in her hands, before looking at Raiker. “What grade is that clear plastic sheeting she’s wrapped in?”
    Something flickered in his gaze, although his expression remained impassive. But she had a feeling she’d startled him. “Why do you ask?”
    She shuffled the pictures, peering at each more closely. The skeletal body inside the tarp told her nothing. But the sheeting… “He used twenty grade.” She stopped, thought a moment. “No, that’s not the right word. Mil. Twenty mil. It’s the thickest clear sheeting available. We’d be wrapped in multiple layers of it for punishment.” Jude made a small sound then, but she didn’t glance his way. It was easier to pretend he wasn’t here.
    “He had cuffs.”