The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection by Frost, J (great novels .txt) 📕

scoffs but pulls off his tee. He’s got some mottling on his throat and chest, which could just be stress, or his tan fading. I don’t see any punctures.

“Turn around. Let me see your back.”

He rolls his eyes, but turns and lets me see his back. I don’t see anything different from how he looked yesterday morning at my place when he was running around in his kecks.

“Okay. How are you feeling?”

“How am I supposed to be feeling? This is some fucked-up shit.”

“In yourself. How do you feel? Any fever? Chills? Nausea? Do you hurt anywhere?”

“No, I’m fine. Stop trying to fucking scare me. I already got the lecture from Manny. I’m sorry I opened the damn box. I thought it was something else. You told me I could shop online. I wasn’t expecting anything this big, so I got curious and opened it. Fucking sue me.”

“Stop barking at me when I’m just trying to keep you safe, Rick. I want you to call your GP and make an appointment. Ask for a blood test. Tell him you might have been exposed to something toxic.”

“I’m fine! Nothing came out of the box. Fuck, stop trying to make this worse than it already is.”

Rick grabs his tee off the floor and pulls it back over his head. I’ve rarely seen him blush, but there are two spots of color high on his cheeks now.

At least I’ve gotten his mind off Emily’s blow jobs.

“Rick, remember the anthrax scare? Five people died from anthrax sent through the post. A couple of years ago, a Russian agent died of radiation poisoning from something that was sprayed into his tea. Two people were poisoned and one person died in England from a nerve agent that was put in a perfume bottle. And I’ve got a client who has permanent scars on her face, neck, and hands from opening a package from her stalker that contained the chemicals found in pool cleaner. I’m not fucking around with you. Make the appointment. That’s the last I’m going to say about it.”

Around those spots of furious color, Rick pales. “Okay,” he spits.

“Thanks. If you haven’t taken a shower since you opened the box, how about you take one now? I’ll take a look while you’re getting cleaned up.”

“Okay.” It’s less of a snarl and more of a whine. He starts towards the hallway. “I thought I told you I wanted confidentiality on this one,” he grumps as he passes me, tipping his chin at Emily.

She still has her head down, good girl that she is, so she doesn’t see his glare. But she feels it, and I feel the way she shifts under my hand. She doesn’t break High Protocol to answer him, though, and I keep stroking her head so she knows I’m pleased with her.

“She already knew all about it from your social media. Her insight’s valuable and she knows to keep her mouth shut.”

Rick grumbles but stalks away. I wait until I hear him clomp up the stairs before I speak.

“Emily, I want you to stay there. I’m going to open the box facing away from you. If I’m okay with you seeing what’s inside it, I’ll turn it around. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Daddy,” she says softly.

“Good girl.”

The steps away from her and around the island feel much greater than they are. As I turn the box, I tip it towards me and give it a little shake to see if anything spills out. There’s nothing. No powder, no mist. I peel the loose tape off completely and examine it. I can’t see anything on the tape other than adhesive residue. After sticking the tape to the side of the box for later, I open the flaps.

The box is like something flowers would be delivered in. Three feet tall but only a foot wide and deep. The flaps open like doors, so I can see all the interior.

The colors hit me first. The browns and pinks of bare skin. Linen white. Bright splashes of red. Dull green. Then I take in each image. Slightly grainy pictures have been taped all over the inside of the box. Some are familiar: twenty-dollar bills strewn across a white sheet and a woman’s curving back. A man pounding into a woman from behind. A man slapping a thick black belt across a woman’s red-striped haunches. I know these are pictures of Rick and Laurel because I’ve seen them before, but otherwise I wouldn’t be able to tell because Rick’s head has been cut off in each one and his face pasted over Laurel’s. In the one with the belt, a flaming skull’s been pasted over Rick’s head.

Then there are the pictures I don’t recognize. These are higher quality. Taken with something more professional than a phone. A man holding a woman down over a spanking horse, his hand raised. A man fucking a woman in bondage. A man using a crop on a woman’s large, bare breasts. A man peeing onto a woman’s chest. These are probably all of Rick, but again, it’s impossible to tell. Some have the flaming skull instead of his head while in others, his face has been scratched off with a red ball-point pen, the scratches so deep into the paper that the fibers have lifted into a red pulp. Rick’s dick has received the same treatment in the pictures where it’s visible. Rick’s face is pasted over the woman’s face in all of these pictures, so it’s the flaming skull or the decapitated body fucking a female body with Rick’s face, over and over and over.

Lotta hate in one small box.

“Emily, stand and come over to me,” I say. I don’t want her to see this while she’s on her knees.

When she joins me, I hold the box’s flaps open wide and let her take in the montage. I watch her face for any sign of distress as she views it. Her mouth purses, but other than that, she doesn’t show much reaction.