Which reminded me—today was Monday. My mother was coming here tomorrow to pick me up. Getting fitted for the maid of honor dress for my sister’s wedding. I didn’t want to go; I didn’t even want to go to the damned wedding, but being a part of the family, being her sister, I was all but forced.
I wouldn’t waste my time thinking about it now. I had to write something back to him and hope he saw it. Something vague that didn’t give too much away, but something he would know exactly what it meant without hesitation.
Barbie and Ken are more alike than Ken thinks.
I sat back, rereading it a few times. It wasn’t an admission of anything, and there were tens of dozens of things the vague statement could’ve meant. I hoped he would understand what I meant; I hoped he knew it meant we were fated to meet face to face eventually. The Angel Maker and me. I got chills just thinking about it.
I hit the post button before shutting my laptop and grabbing my bag, getting ready to leave for work. Callie would literally kill me if she knew the dance I was doing with the Angel Maker. She would probably disown me, so it was a good thing she wasn’t here to see it, and I’d be sure to keep it to myself the next time I saw her. She made it more than clear to me she didn’t want to hear about it.
Callie was worried I could become like them? A serial killer myself? Well, after everything that happened in Edward’s and Lincoln’s basement yesterday, I was one step closer to it. Maybe even two steps…because I wanted to do it again.
I wanted to kill someone else.
Chapter Ten – Killian
I got in early on Monday. With my coffee cup steaming on my desk, I waited for my computer to turn on. I clicked through my work email, making sure to reply to anything that was marked urgent or important. As the worker bees started to trickle in, sliding into their desks in the front of the building with audible groans even I could hear behind my closed door, I went to the one website I knew I shouldn’t.
Her blog.
After printing it out last night and adding it to the binder, I’d done something I never had before—I commented. Anonymously, because I didn’t have a blog profile or anything like that. Just one word, but I knew that one word would mean a lot to her. I knew she’d be smart enough to know it had come from me. Not me, Killian Blaire, Stella’s boss, but me, the Angel Maker. Her Angel Maker.
It wouldn’t be long before she was mine. Tomorrow would be the day when everything changed, when I made Stella realize that guy wasn’t right for her, that she was meant to be mine. She’d be out of town, so there wasn’t a chance she’d be at his house.
Yes, my plan would commence in its entirety tomorrow, and I frankly couldn’t wait to rid the world of him, whoever the fuck he was. I knew he had a roommate, and I supposed I would have to take care of him too, especially since there was a chance they both had gotten their greedy, filthy hands on Stella. That was a sin I would not forgive. I wasn’t God.
And even if I was God, there would be no forgiveness. There would only be righteous fire and fury, death and destruction. I would be the Old Testament’s God. I was not the type of person who could forgive.
I didn’t blame Stella for her mistakes. I’d all but pushed her away with the shit I did; I blamed myself for this. For all of this. I should’ve planned it out better, but I didn’t.
Before I made it down to my comment on her blog post, the phone on my desk rang. I picked it up, “This is Killian of the Local Tribune. How can I help you?” I rattled off instantly, my usual greeting when I answered the phone. The truth was I didn’t want to help anyone but myself, but I needed the job because I needed the money.
I tuned out after the voice on the other line said he was an officer with the local police department. I’d known they’d taken Stella to the precinct; I’d watched from afar. And I knew they’d let her go after hours of interrogation. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind Stella had told them nothing. She wanted to meet me, wanted to know who I was, and she couldn’t do that if I was incarcerated, could she?
After a minute, I asked, “What can I do for you today, Officer?” I sounded so sickly pleasant. I wanted to tear my hair out. I hated playing nice. Playing nice was not one of my strengths.
“I need to ask you a few questions about a woman named Stella Price. Do you have any free time today? If you can’t come down to the station, I can come to you.”
“Give me a minute,” I said, setting the phone down as I went to look at the schedule in the computer, minimizing the blog. Stella started work at… “I’m free at ten,” I said, once I picked the phone back up. “We can meet in my office.”
“Alright. I’ll see you then. Thank you for your—”
I didn’t listen to his speech about my cooperation. Whenever he was done talking, I hung up the phone, leaning back in my chair. I supposed I was a cruel man, for doing the things I did, but I wanted Stella on the hot seat for a bit longer. I wanted her to see me talking to the police, her to wonder if we were talking about her, which I assumed we would be. She wasn’t the killer, but the police didn’t have other leads.
Of course, if I got the others talking about Sandy, and the officer heard the newsroom gossip as he was walking in, he would ask about Sandy, and then I would have to tell him she had been missing work for a few days now.
They had her ID, so they knew her name. What they didn’t know was the type of person Sandy was, whether she had any enemies or not. She didn’t, not really. She was the average, middle-aged divorcee. Nothing special about her in any way.
The police would get hardly any new information from me, but I just wanted to see Stella squirm a bit. Or maybe she wouldn’t squirm at all. It was quite possible she wouldn’t care. That woman hid her emotions almost as well as I did. Truthfully, I couldn’t believe I’d waited this long to make her mine.
Things were…a bit more complicated now than they were before.
Sighing, I reached for my coffee, taking a slow sip before I went back to the blog. I scrolled past the numerous comments, finding that Stella had responded to each one this morning, stopping only when I reached my anonymous, single word: soon. To my utter delight, she’d responded to mine, too.
Barbie and Ken are more alike than Ken thinks.
I couldn’t help but smile at the screen. There hadn’t been a single doubt in my mind Stella would know the anonymous comment had come from the Angel Maker himself. I knew she’d figure it out, and I wanted her to know that we would meet, truly meet with no masks, no lies, so very soon—after I took care of the blonde and his roommate.
What did make me pause and wonder, though, was the meaning of her words. It was obvious Barbie referred to her and Ken referred to me, but the whole being alike thing was…not exactly a surprise, since I had Callie’s decayed body in my basement, but more like something I wasn’t expecting.
Did she know I had Callie’s body? Had she seen the disturbance in the flowerbed? Was this her confession that she was like me? So many possibilities. So many different things her simple sentence could mean. My mind whirled, my thoughts racing.
I wanted to go to her right now and tell her I knew everything, that I didn’t judge her for her actions. Whether it was on purpose or an accident, I didn’t care. She was a killer just like me, and her words were basically admitting it in a way no one else would comprehend.
Even when I thought she couldn’t surprise me, she did. Fuck, Stella was so perfect for me. We could have such a good life together. We could do anything together. I had been upset with her in the past for not seeing me as I was, but I couldn’t blame her for it, because I’d put my true self behind a smile for too long. For so long, the mask felt real. I couldn’t blame her for believing it, especially since I’d grown to believe it for a while, too.
Two hours passed, and the front offices were full of employees diligently working. It was nine fifty-nine when Stella burst through the front doors, hurrying to get in her seat. We didn’t have time cards here, so no one had to clock in or out. She a
lways pushed her time, never late and only occasionally early.
I watched her for a moment, knowing the police officer would get here anytime now. She looked normal, if a little tired. Her brown hair was in a messy bun on the top of her head, her thin body in her typical wear. She looked anything but a killer, but that was probably the point.
She was a wolf wearing a lamb’s skin.
Chapter Eleven – Stella
Everyone was talking. So loud, even though there were only half a dozen people in their desks. Killian didn’t help things, strolling out of his office and mentioning Sandy. That set everyone aflutter. Sandy had missed days at work, when before her attendance was perfect. The police hadn’t given out the identity of the Angel Maker’s newest victim yet, so no one else knew that Sandy was dead.
No one but me.
I sure as hell wasn’t about to tell them, because then everyone would ask about what happened, why it happened, why me. Why I was still alive when Sandy wasn’t. I knew everyone liked Sandy more than they liked me, anyway. Mostly because I was quiet, and Sandy had always made a big show about gossiping and going out with everyone for dinner. Buying drinks and stuff. Adult things I never understood the point of.
I guessed I’d always been a bit broken.
Killian strolled to my desk, coffee mug in his hand. He looked good, wearing fitted black pants and a dark blue shirt, its sleeves rolled up to his elbows as they usually were. His red hair was slicked back, his green eyes sparkling. An easy smile grew on his face as he asked, “How was your weekend, Stella? Do anything fun?” He took a sip of his coffee.
I hadn’t even stopped by my favorite coffee shop this morning. I actually stayed home until the last minute instead of writing at the shop and getting my typical large black coffee. So unlike me, but this past weekend was…enlightening, to say the least.
Glancing up at him, I said, “Just a normal weekend.” A bit of murder, some kidnapping. Yeah, just a normal weekend. A normal weekend for me, apparently.
“Sometimes you have to live a little,” Killian remarked, glancing to the front door as someone strolled in. Weird, because we weren’t notified of any interviews…
But then I saw who it was, what he was wearing. Police Officer Two. Suppose it was better than One showing his face here. That guy didn’t seem to like me at all, not like I could blame him, because half the time I didn’t like myself either.
The moment Two walked in, everyone grew quiet. Some held their mouths open, as if they’d never seen a police officer up close before. Or maybe they put two and two together. Maybe they thought this was about Sandy. It wasn’t, at least not all of it. This was about me.
Everyone, including me, watched the officer nod to Killian, offering his hand in an introduction. Killian shook it with vigor, grinning. He tilted his red head towards his office in the back, saying, “We can chat in my office.”
Two nodded, tossing a look around the place, settling on me. I could not tell whether he thought I was a suspect or if he just felt sorry for me. I wasn’t certain which was worse.
They went back in the office, and I listened to the others talk out loud, wondering what he was here for. If it was Sandy. I pretended not to notice their curious glances toward me. They should know me well enough by now that I wasn’t about to partake in all of the gossip. It just wasn’t my thing.
I tried to focus on writing my next article for the Wednesday paper, but I kept getting distracted. Not by the gossip floating around me, but the officer in the back with Killian. Minutes ticked by, and I couldn’t help but wonder what they were talking about. Me? Sandy? I should just—
My thoughts were interrupted by my cell phone ringing. The caller-ID said it was my mother, and I felt a knot instantly grow in my stomach. I knew if I didn’t pick it up, she’d just keep calling. It was probably her trying to make sure we were still on for tomorrow, make sure I didn’t flake.
As if she’d give me the chance.
“Hey, Mom,” I said into the phone after picking it up, hoping I sounded normal. Enthusiastic. Whatever the hell I was supposed to feel about this damned dress fitting. It wasn’t every day your younger sister got married, after all.
“Stella,” her voice made me flinch. I hated the way she said my name. “I’ll be over at eight to pick you up. I trust you’ll be ready when I arrive? Seeing as how the place is a few hours away, I don’t want to be late.”
Ugh. A few hours in a car with my mother. Great. I could not wait. Seeing my sister again…that I could definitely not wait for, either. I was literally overflowing with enthusiasm and excitement. So fucking giddy I could not stand it.
Please note my use of sarcasm, as infrequent as it was.
“Of course I’ll be ready,” I said, fighting my urge to hang up. I hated talking to my mother. She made me feel so small, so insecure. I was glad to have gotten away from her after college. Almost foolishly, I thought she’d forget about me with the distance between us.
She did not.
“Great. And please make sure to wash your hair.”
“Yes, Mom.” I closed my eyes, wanting to swear at her. She was the reason I was so broken. Growing up with a mother like her, I was never good enough. My interests were too weird, too out there; she never approved of anything I did. She hated my blog with a passion; when I was in high school, I had to work on it in the library at school because if she saw it while I was home, she took my computer privileges away.
It was funny though—she never seemed like such a bitch to Bree.
Bree was the second child. The golden girl. Their precious favorite. It was like they forgot me the moment she came into this world, happy and smiling and blonde. Everything she did was perfection personified. She won homecoming queen, got good grades effortlessly. Boys lined up outside our door to date her.
Compared to Bree, I was nothing. Worthless. A waste of space. Just a body. Not pretty at all. Bree was thin, but not so thin she looked anorexic. She had curves guys loved, highlighted and bleached hair she styled every single day, ridiculously expensive makeup that cost seventy dollars for a pallet of eyeshadow. She was what everyone wanted, not me.
Never me.
It was insanely difficult to not have a complex about my family. They were…not your typical loving family. They might look nice from the outside, but on the inside, they were just mean. Conniving. Controlling. Manipulative. There was nothing redeemable about them in my eyes, though I would be hard-pressed to find anyone who agreed with me because no one else could see past their lies and detect the absolute favoritism.
“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow. Try to look nice, please. Your sister’s getting fitted, too. There will be pictures.” Then she hung up, which was good, because if she had gone on for one more minute, I was likely to throw my phone across the room.
I set the phone on my desk, staring at its lock screen. This day was awful. Tomorrow was set to be even worse, a hell of a long day, one I’d much rather sleep through. I turned my attention back to my laptop, at the blank screen before me.
I had to get this article written today, especially since I wouldn’t have time to do it tomorrow. After cracking my fingers, I got to work.
Hello, dear reader, it’s me again. Your friendly neighborhood serial killer watcher. By now the evidence is irrefutable, undeniable in every sense of the word: Eastland County has its own serial killer. The Angel Maker claimed his third victim on Saturday. It’s only a matter of time before this small town is swarmed with FBI. The big guns. The men and women who think they’re something special, who believe they can do what our local police department can’t, and that’s catch him.
Will they catch him? I have my doubts, because I know. What do I know? A lot of things, it turns out. For instance, I know the Angel Maker didn’t start killing this last week, not even this past month. His evolution could not have happened so fast, his bravado and confidence in his work too huge to be a new thing.
No, the Angel Maker has killed before, mark my wo
rds. Before the victim in the parking lot, before the one found in a house, before the one in a basement prone to flooding. These were not his first kills. Odds are he’s only made his active status known recently. The question we should all be asking ourselves is why.
Why did he come into the spotlight in such a rapid pace? Why does he make his victims hold their hands together and pray? Why display the bodies in such a cruel, irreverent way?
In spite of what you might believe, I don’t have all the answers. I cannot see into his head, cannot read his thoughts. I’m not a fortune teller. What I do involves a whole lot of assuming, but I ask you: is that not what the police do? Is that not what the FBI will do? We, as humans, assume many things automatically, sometimes to our detriment. Our first impressions are often wrong, thus you might say assuming anything in this case is something to avoid.
I don’t think so.
In the case of the Angel Maker, I think we have to assume. Assume that he is a male, assume that he is not old and withered, for the things he did to those bodies, setting them up like macabre dolls, is not something someone with a calcium deficiency could do. Assume that he is white, because most serial killers are.
I have seen the light, and it is a strange, beautiful thing. What the Angel Maker is doing is making a statement. He wants people to listen, to see him, yet he still hides in the shadows. How long until we know his true face? How long until he reveals himself to us? Make no mistake—if he shows himself to the public, it will be because he wants to. He is a master of the game he plays, that much is evident by the fact the police have no suspects.
The Angel Maker could be you. It could be me. It could be any one of us just going on with our daily lives, pushing forward to further pretend. Someone is hiding in plain sight, and it’s only a matter of time before the mask drops.
Cold Dark Souls : A Dark Reverse Harem Romance (Cruel Black Hearts Book 2) Page 7