Page 70 of Unholy Masks

“Where is she?”

We took the elevator.

“Here.”

There were two detectives in plain clothes, guarding the door. I pushed the door open and stepped inside, my heart hammering.

I took a step in and stilled.

Oh.

“Trish?” I whispered.

Her skin was pale, sickly. There was a white gauge around her neck, and the edges of it had turned red. An IV was hooked into her arm, which was bruised. There were marks on both her wrists. Like she was bound with metal shackles.

She looked too fragile, too sick.

My eyes went to her lips, which were painted a beautiful red.

Cherry Lush.

My stomach twisted as I took a step toward her.

“Trish? Can you hear me?”

Her eyelids fluttered.

“Ya-yara?”

“You’re safe now.”

She made a sound… like she didn’t believe what I just said.

“Am I?” she gasped, voice hoarse, before closing her eyes with a sigh.

“How-how are you feeling?”

“Like some-someone tried to stra—strangle me.” The detective told me… I was lucky. I don’t feel so lucky.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, eyes flickering toward the detectives standing near the door. She hesitated.

“He—he came out of nowhere. I didn’t…”

He?

“Did you see him? Are you sure it’s a man?” I asked, carefully watching her.

She winced.

“He looked sweet. I wouldn’t have… this is my fault.”

“No, it’s not your fault,” I said. “I’m sorry to ask this, Trish. I know it’s… When you get better, can you draw me a portrait?”

She was an artist, and that was something we never had. The Strangler’s victims were all dead, except this one. She’d lead me straight to him.

“I don’t know. It was all a mess in my head, a blur,” Trish said, coughing. “Water.”