He does

Owen stared at her. At the words on her forehead. At the empty spot where the twins had been stored like tools.

He stood slowly, legs shaky.

Paige was in this house.

Somewhere.

And whatever had happened to these women… it had happened to her too.

He followed the maid deeper into the mansion, barefoot, silent, trying not to think about how clean his feet felt. Or how sick that made him.

Owen followed Maid #13 through an arched doorway into the living room.

The space was huge, high ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows letting in sharp afternoon light, walls lined with dark wood paneling and modern art that looked like it cost more than his apartment. Shelves held strange trinkets: glass orbs with swirling colors, antique brass instruments he couldn’t name, a row of small porcelain figures that might have been innocent if the room weren’t what it was. Expensive-looking rugs underfoot, plush sectional sofas in deep gray leather, a massive stone fireplace that probably never got used in Austin heat.

But none of that held his attention for more than a second.

The women did.

Naked, every one of them. Posed around the room like living statues. Some stood rigid on low pedestals, arms raised or bent in elegant arches, backs curved, tits thrust forward, legs slightly parted. Others knelt or reclined on furniture that had clearly been arranged around them, couches, ottomans, even the arms of chairs. Serene smiles on all their faces, eyes open but unfocused, like they were staring through the walls at something only they could see. Every few seconds, in perfect unison, they shifted: a slow tilt of the head, a subtle arch of the back, fingers sliding an inch higher on a thigh or across a nipple. Fluid, deliberate changes, like breathing sculptures cycling through a programmed routine.

Owen’s mouth went dry.

The cutouts in the walls caught his eye next, rectangular frames set flush into the paneling, like oversized picture frames without glass. Inside each one, hollowed-out niches held more women. Some alone, some in pairs or threes. One frame showed a blonde on all fours, ass high, face turned toward the viewer with lips parted in a silent moan, tongue extended. Another had two brunettes pressed chest-to-chest, mouths locked, hands buried between each other’s legs. A third frame displayed a redhead, his heart stuttering for half a second until he saw the hair was too straight, the skin too tanned, curled on her side in full fetish latex, corset cinched tight, eyes rolled back in exaggerated bliss. They moved too: slow, looping gestures. A hand drifting down to spread pussy lips, then back up. A head tilting to offer a neck for imaginary bites. Every few seconds the poses reset or evolved, living paintings on endless repeat.

Owen couldn’t stop staring. Stunning. Impressive in the sickest way. Whoever this Garrett was, he wasn’t just some awkward guy with a weird tape roll. He was fucking insane. And rich enough to turn a mansion into his personal gallery of broken women.

Maid #13 guided him to the largest sectional, the one facing the fireplace. Three women were already there on the floor in front of it, naked, on hands and knees, backs straight, heads bowed low. Their bodies formed a perfect low table: shoulders and asses level, tits hanging just enough to brush the rug. One had “COFFEE TABLE #4” written across her lower back in the same thick marker. Another had “COFFEE TABLE #2” on her thigh. The third had nothing visible from this angle, but Owen didn’t need to check.

“Would sir like tea or coffee?” Maid #13 asked, voice as calm as ever. “With or without milk?”

Owen’s brain lagged. He sat on the edge of the couch, the leather creaking under him. “Coffee,” he managed. “With milk. Please.”

She nodded once and walked away toward what he assumed was the kitchen, heels clicking softly on the marble.