by V. F. Mason
Killer.
Murderer.
“Even if you hate me, you have to think about yourself.” My brows furrow at his comment, and then he points at the tray. “Eat and think of the ways of winning in this fight.” He gets up, adds a few logs to the fire, which crackles a little, almost creating a magical atmosphere around us, and then grabs the door handle. “You are free to roam around the house. I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready to listen.”
“No matter what you say, it won’t excuse your actions,” I reply and see his back tense before he straightens, and without a backward glance at me, he goes away. And with a frustrated cry, I throw a pillow, but it lands on the floor instead.
Covering my face with my hands, I press the heels of my palms into my eye sockets and pray for the tears to stay back.
I can’t give in to hysterics when I need to be in survival mode. How else will I find the solution to my problem?
“Our topic today is serial killers.” Collective groans fill the auditorium once Professor Ronald announces it during psychology class, but he meets it with a chuckle. “Oh, come on. No one is interested in what goes on in their heads?”
“Not really,” one of the students shouts, bringing attention to her. “They kill people; they are sick. What else is there to know?”
I stay quiet, but I have to agree with her. Sane people should pray they never cross paths with those psychos.
“See, that’s where it gets tricky,” Professor says, perching on the table. “If you know about their childhood, you can understand them. And if you can do that, you might even save yourself and not be another victim.”
Murmurs erupt, and then Donald asks, “How so?”
“Most serial killers are connected by their childhood. Traumatic events that forever shape their lives. When they do what they do… they are fighting against something done to them in the past. When they inflict pain, they either do that to those who, in their mind, remind them of the nightmares of their past, or those who are just like them. So, they either punish the abuser time and time again, or themselves.”
I blink away the memory of our lecture and jump from the bed, breathing heavily while several thoughts play in my mind, one scarier than the other.
Is it really so simple?
All I need to do is find the key to his trauma and use it to my advantage, then strike him when he least expects it. He must have a phone around here. The minute I get access to that, I can call the police, and all this will be just a bad dream.
With determination fueling my blood, I do my best to get my composure under control.
Listen to me.
That’s what he said, and maybe I should give him the chance, only then will I be able to run away from him.
Shoveling the food down my throat, I ignore the part of my heart that bleeds for the child who lived through a nightmare.
Because loving a man never excuses his sins.
* * *
Eugene
A smile curves my lips as I lean on the doorjamb, crossing my arms, and I hear her rattle the porcelain dishes on the tray.
She must have finally decided to fight, instead of acting like a sacrificial lamb.
My smart little vixen.
She’ll analyze me, pretend, and then betray me the minute she gets a chance to act on it.
So, my mission is to give her everything she wants, but not what she expects.
Only this way I hold a chance of winning this round.
Chapter Eleven
Eugene, 8 years old
* * *
“Hi, Jake,” Miss Margaret says while extending her hand to me. “I’m very happy to see you.”
I nod but stay silent, hugging the white cloth to me. It was part of Mommy’s dress, the one she wore on my birthday.
She raises her eyes to my dad but quickly gives her attention back to me. “How are you?”
Instead of answering her, I run to the yellow table and sit down, take several colorful pencils, and start to draw.
While I do all this, I hear my father talk to Miss Margaret and notice his sad tone. But lately, he always has a sad tone, ever since he found me in that basement and I told him Mommy was dead.
“He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t sleep.”
“I understand your concern, Mr. Harrison.”
“Concern?” he asks with disbelief, and I stop for a second, looking at him as he fists his hair and then lets go, squeezing his hands harshly. “I’m not fucking concerned. I’m terrified. Something is wrong with my child, and no one has answers for me.”
“He experienced a traumatic event. Kids need time to return to normal.”
“I don’t even know what he experienced, because he doesn’t talk!” he shouts, and I cover my ears with my hands as a different voice enters my mind, shouting at me to pick up the hotdog. His smells and voice seem so close that I quickly pick up the red pencil and continue to draw the picture.
“He just needs time, Mr. Harrison.”
“My wife is dead.” A loud slapping sound, and then he says, “My wife is dead, and my son is not okay. I lost my wife, Margaret. I cannot lose my child.”
“Yes, but…” She pauses and then I hear her walk toward me, her heels clicking loudly on the floor, before she sits opposite me on the chair. “What are you drawing, Jake?” Putting one last touch on it, I slide it to her, and she picks it up. She covers her mouth with her hand and then swallows hard, all while I watch her every expression.
I always look at people like that now, so I won’t see the same madness the evil man showed.
“Is this your mom?” She points at her lying on the floor while I check for the pulse. I nod, and she asks again, “And this is you checking on her?”
I nod again and feel my dad joining us, kneeling next to me. “Did he hurt you and Mommy a lot?” I freeze when the images of those two days play in my mind and spin around to wrap my arms around my daddy, keeping him in a strong hold, and exhale when he does the same, patting my back. “It’s okay, son. No one is going to hurt you again,” he promises, and I dig my face into his neck, feeling his pulse.
“Jake,” Miss Margaret calls, and I look at her again as she places another piece of blank paper on the table. “Let’s draw something else? Want to show me something else?”
I nod and pick up the black pencil, showing her how this man gave me hotdogs.
I want to vomit just thinking about them, but she needs to know.
I don’t want Daddy sad, and for that, I have to get better.
But soon, I’ll learn that my father is the only one to blame for the disaster that forever took my mother away.
* * *
New York, New York
1981
* * *
Lila
Taking a deep breath, I lift my chin high and step outside the room, grateful for the socks, because this freaking marble would be cold as ice on my feet.
Slowly, I pad through the hall, avoiding all the expensive paintings that must have been acquired on the black market. Some of them go back to the Baroque era, if the style and paint used are anything to go by. But all their faces along with the demeanor of the mansion don’t really inspire in me a desire to study those without-a-doubt masterpieces.
Walking down the stairs, I can’t help but wonder why such an exquisite mansion is barely alive. A crystal chandelier glistens in the moonlight as the ceiling displays some kind of image, probably created under strict orders. Everything is made of the finest wood and marble with heavy curtains of expensive cloth.
The dining table can hold around twenty people, and the living room is so spacious I can imagine various meetings and gatherings where women chat about material things while men discuss business as classical music plays in the background.
Now, covered by white, dusty sheets, all this beauty does is serve as a fleeting memory of the glorious thing it once was.
Passing by the glassed terrace, I see an opening toward the gard
en, which has several alcoves and narrow paths coated in a light dusting of snow.
Looking around, I notice several more doors leading elsewhere, but I choose not to explore them.
A low voice snaps me out of my mood and reminds me why I’m here. “I see you made your choice.” His voice washes over me like silk, electrifying my skin to the point of pain, but I shake my head hoping to evade this feeling.
I follow the sound farther and farther into the hallway until I stop by a huge door that’s slightly ajar, and a crackling noise reaches my ears.
How many fireplaces does he have here? And why is there no heater downstairs?
The door squeaks when I push it wide, and I gasp as the room comes into view, lit by hundreds of candles all around the corners and in the chandelier. Bookcases fill the space from top to bottom with small stairs leading to the adjacent balcony-like area, where there are even more books with lounging space. “A library.”
Eugene stands by the fireplace, adjusting something with the poker before putting it back and then spinning toward me, his face void of any emotion.
He’s changed into jeans and a black shirt that is unbuttoned and showcases his handsomeness in all its glory. “My father built it for my mother.” I blink in surprise, because it’s the last thing I expect him to say.
In all our times together, he’s avoided talking about his parents, claiming it doesn’t matter. Based on some old newspaper articles Sorcha found, I know he lost his mother very young and his father died of a heart attack. Maybe some memories are too painful for him to relive, so I’ve never dug for more.
Well, no better opportunity than now. “He must have loved her very much.”
A bitter chuckle freezes me to the bone, echoing in the library like the sound of doom. Eugene drops onto the chair, resting his elbows on its arms. “Very debatable, but yeah, according to him, he did.”
“According to you, he didn’t?” Without trying, I’m given the perfect opportunity to find what demons hide in his childhood. Licking my dry lips, I sit on the opposite chair closer to the fireplace and swallow back the exhale of relief when warmth surrounds me. “Children have different perceptions of certain situations.”
He leans toward the table placed between us, grabs his whiskey glass, and takes a large sip, twisting the glass in his hand, and then his words make me gasp. “He killed her.” He says it so calmly, so… emotionlessly, as if we’re discussing someone else’s mother.
Stammering, I ask, “Whaaat, how is that possible?”
“It’s a long story. But in short… he killed her. Tragic really, because she loved him.” He picks up the bottle of whiskey and shakes it in my direction. “Want a drink?”
“No.” Why is he even offering? He knows damn well I detest anything that’s not wine.
As if reading my surprise, he explains. “Considering you’re talking to a serial killer, I thought maybe you might need some liquid courage.”
Deciding to push back my hysterics, because they won’t do me any good, I hike my calves under me, getting comfortable on the chair, and rest my chin on my palm, staring right into his hazel eyes that reflect the fire. He reminds me of the devil in his dungeon, playing with his latest toy, aka me.
But this toy is not some lifeless object, and I have no desire to burn in his freaking hell.
Fisting my other hand, I will all my self-control back and continue the conversation, breeziness lacing my tone. “I won’t give you any advantages. God only knows what you put in there.”
He nods, pointing a finger at me. “Smart girl. But for the record, I don’t need to drug a woman to get laid.” Instant jealousy rushes through me, the green-eyed monster showing its head while acid fills my throat at his statement.
As Eugene, he was a geeky guy who rarely dated and had no luck with women. But as Jake…? “Had many of those over the years I imagine.” No matter how much I try, anyone would have guessed by my tone how much this bothers me.
He stays quite for a few minutes and shifts his focus to the fire, still twisting the glass between his fingers. “It’s funny.”
“What’s funny?”
“You hate me, yet you’re still jealous.”
“I’m not jealous,” I quickly reply, but it’s useless, and we both know it. Over the months, he’s probably studied me better than anyone else, learning everything there is to know about his prey. “It’s not because I care. We’ve been engaged up until this morning, and I discover you have all this.” I huff in exasperation, searching for words but failing. “So, it’s just, you know… who knows how many women you have had?” And we stopped using condoms a while ago.
Stupid, stupid, Lila!
Does it matter though? Faithful or not… experienced or not… if I manage to run away from him, we’ll never be together anyway.
His true identity forever shatters any possibility of us being an us.
“The human mind is a funny thing.” He changes the subject so quickly he could give me whiplash. “The brain has the ability to convince us of things that are not true.” He pours whiskey into his glass and then turns his gaze back to me, but his expression stays blank. “Because we desperately want them to be true.”
“I prefer direct speech rather than riddles,” I say as I move a few strands of hair from my eye and hook them behind my ear.
“You can’t love a serial killer, Lila. And as a result, you can’t be jealous of me fucking other women.” I barely restrain myself from reaching for that second glass on the table and throwing it in his smug face. “But you are in love, and you are jealous.” Heavy breathing fills the space, and it takes me a second to realize it belongs to me. “What is it, sweetheart? Are you mad that something of yours was touched by another?”
I open my mouth to verbally jab him but snap it shut, reminding myself that outbursts of emotions won’t help me.
I have to cross to the other side, learn his weakness, and then make him believe I agree with his methods. A willing prey is a boring prey. So, I settle on something else. “Right now, the least of my worries are your women.” And shut down the part of me that demands to know about them.
His brow rises and he grins, lifting his glass to me. “Congratulations on trying, but, baby, you suck as an actress. So if the whole art job doesn’t work out, don’t plan on Broadway. And for the record, there hasn’t been anyone since my eyes landed on you.”
Don’t, don’t, don’t.
But putting this on myself doesn’t help, and my hands of their own accord wrap around the glass and throw it right at him.
He has a split second to dip his head and avoid it, and then it shatters against the floor in tiny little pieces. “Here she is.” Something akin to softness flashes in his eyes, but it’s quickly replaced with indifference. “For a moment there, I thought you were Lila’s weak twin.”
I jump to my feet, my hands shaking, and I practically vibrate with anger. Each word feels like someone tears it out of my throat. “Enough with the games, Eugene! You wanted me to listen.” I swipe my hands over myself, and his eyes immediately follow the path. “Well here I am to listen.”
“Are you? I thought you were here to find my weakness and run away.”
The breath catches in my throat, and I blink rapidly, not knowing what to say to the statement that is 100 percent true.
But then, what did he freaking expect? Placing my hands on my hips, I fire back. “Who hides that? But at least this way you have ears you so desperately desire.”
“You have no idea what I desperately desire.” He mimics my voice, and stands up, stepping closer while I retreat but I groan inwardly when the back of my knees hit the chair. Maybe I should have antagonized him in a different location. “You are so wrapped up in prejudices and flashbacks you don’t see what’s in front of you.”
“A killer.”
“A man who wants you. And will do anything to have you.”
I lean back as he leans closer, so close our lips are inches apart, and I j
erk to the right, but his hands wrap around my neck, cutting off oxygen for a moment, and everything inside me freezes while panic slowly sinks in.
He wouldn’t kill me now, would he? Slowly, agonizingly slowly, his hold on me loosens, and I gulp breath greedily while he rubs my neck, probably the bruises his hold inflicted.
“A man who can kill for you and protect you like no other. A man who lives for you.” His husky voice nips at my skin, enveloping me slowly in the cocoon where no one but us exists.
But the memory of the man’s scream will forever stay in my brain. “You kill people. Hunt them. Strip them of their sanity. Put them in hopeless situations where they have to plead for their life. Something that’s a gift from God. And you take it away from them.” My heart aches for all his innocent victims who died because he was bored or whatever other excuse he has. I can still smell the room the guys had me in, their laughter and breath, everything.
I wouldn’t wish such circumstances on my worst enemy, let alone someone else. How doesn’t he see that? “I can’t be with a man who does all this. And even if you stopped, your hands are forever smeared in their blood.” Tears roll from my eyes, but I keep my gaze on him, afraid that the minute I stop having his attention, he’ll do something drastic. “Even now, you make me a captive. This doesn’t have a future.” I finish on a raspy whisper, and his arm circles my waist, while his other hand travels to my nape and he tugs it back, putting a soft kiss on my forehead that for a moment in time brings me peace.
But the moment is quickly gone when he says, “Right. People like me don’t deserve love.” He lets go of me so swiftly I drop back on the chair and blink in surprise.
He throws the liquid from his glass into the fire, sending up a burst of flames, and then he shatters the glass against the wall eliciting a loud yelp from me and storms off, while I exhale heavily.
“What the hell?” I mutter, running my fingers through my hair, and try to digest what just happened.