“You shouldn’t have gotten out of bed,” Elias muttered in Dorothy’s direction. “You might be alive right now. It’s your fault you’re dead, not mine.”
It was a fact. Five more minutes to ransack the place, and her life may have been spared. She would have been out a husband and a few of her precious possessions, but she’d be alive.
Elias thought back to the events that took place in this room not thirty minutes ago. The kitchen light had flickered on. Elias turned just in time to see Donald, bat gripped in hand, shouting, “Stop right there!”
Elias had done what he was told. He stopped. Then he aimed and he fired. The first bullet went through and through, nicking Donald on the side of his chest before lodging into the wall behind him. By most standards, it was a decent shot, but in this particular situation, it was far from good enough for Elias. He needed Donald to be dead, and a decent shot wasn’t dead enough.
Upon seeing the gun, Donald had dropped the bat and outstretched a hand in front of him, using his other hand to apply pressure to the bloody area surrounding his chest wound. Voice now soft and light, Donald seemed to understand his only option was to bargain for his life. “Now, now, son ... let’s talk about this. Please. If you could just put the gun down, you can take whatever you like and just be gone.”
Put the gun down?
Elias laughed. Even now he couldn’t believe the look in Donald’s eye. The guy had really believed he had a fighting chance. The facts were simple. Elias’s face was covered with a ski mask. He’d just shot the guy. It should have been obvious what was coming next.
“You deserve to die, and you’re going to die,” Elias had said before firing again. That time, the bullet hit its target, going right where it was intended. Donald went straight down. Elias stepped over Donald and said, “You’re going to hell, sir. Right where you belong.”
The commotion downstairs had awoken Dorothy. She ran into the kitchen, arms flailing in front of her. Elias steadied the gun. A single shot smack dab in the center of her forehead was all it took, and she too was dead.
Looking at Dorothy now, Elias couldn’t peel his eyes away from the red ooze trailing down the length of her face. It slid down her cheek, pooling on the vinyl below. He wrinkled his nose, jerking his head in the opposite direction.
It wasn’t the death itself that bothered him.
Death was a beautiful thing.
A peaceful, ethereal thing.
It was the blood that turned his stomach.
Over the past year, Elias had robbed a total of twenty-one houses. The first thirteen occurred without incident. Precious items were taken, but everyone lived. During his fourteenth robbery, the man who lived there caught Elias after he switched on the living room light. Without a ski mask to conceal his face, the old man recognized him, leaving Elias with no choice.
On the one hand, Elias had grown up a good Catholic boy. Committing murder wasn’t how he was raised. On the other, something inside him had changed when he popped the old man. Something satisfying. Something he now realized had been there ever since he was a young boy.
An urge.
A festering.
A seed sprouting inside his young body, twisting and growing like the blood pumping through his veins.
He thought back to a fistfight he’d had with a classmate when he was seven. All the boy did was steal his money. Three quarters, one dime, and a nickel from inside Elias’s desk. The boy had even left a note: IOU ninety cents. Steve. Steve hadn’t touched his wad of dollar bills even though it was right next to the coins, in plain sight. Still, the rage Elias felt from his friend’s betrayal wouldn’t subside. He couldn’t leave it alone. He just couldn’t. He found Steve in the lunchroom, grabbed him by his collar, and yanked him out of his seat. Once outside, he thrust Steve to the ground and jumped on top of him. He punched and punched and punched, until the principal wrapped his arms around Elias, tearing him off his classmate. Later that night, Elias’s mom sat on the edge of his bed, her eyes red and puffy. She looked worried, but not just worried ... scared. “You’re not like other boys, Elias,” she’d said. “I guess I’ve known for a while now, ever since you stepped on our cat when you were three years old. I’m sure it’s hard, but I need you to control your anger. Keep it inside you. Deep inside. It’s important what happened today doesn’t happen again. Understand?” Not wanting to disappoint his mother, he’d nodded, and from then on he pushed his feelings down inside him. Deep down.
Now an adult, everything changed when he’d murdered the old man. It was like a dormant switch inside him turned back on again. He developed a taste for death, an irresistible need that, in the last year, had only grown stronger. And now here he was, several murders later, having killed his first woman.
When he’d popped the old man four months earlier, it was an odd feeling at first. One part shock over what he’d done. One part thrill. One part wondering why he didn’t feel any guilt after it happened. He’d stood over the man for several minutes, contemplating what in the hell must be wrong with him that he’d just committed murder, and yet he felt nothing. No sense of remorse, no sympathy—just a sea of calm. The festering wave inside him was gone. As a child he hadn’t understood what his mother meant when she said he wasn’t like the other boys. After killing the old man, he did.
Returning to the present, Elias clenched his hands into fists, pushing his knuckles onto the ground then boosting himself to a standing position. He walked over to the Hamiltons, gave each of them a few swift kicks. Neither moved. Satisfied they were dead, he grabbed his pillowcase of goodies and started for the back door, halting when he heard what he thought was the front door opening.
He glanced at the time on the cuckoo clock on the wall: half past midnight.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be.
Earlier that night at the high school football game, Elias had overheard the Hamilton’s daughter Sandra saying she was staying the night at her friend Vicki’s. This was why he’d changed his plans, decided to target the Hamiltons’ house tonight instead of the Morrisons’.
Sandra wasn’t supposed to be here.
So why was she?
The front door closed, and Elias heard the jangling of keys being dropped on a vinyl floor, followed by a female voice muttering, “Dammit!”
Elias’s heart sank. He would know that voice anywhere. Sandra.
The distance between the front door and the kitchen was a short fifteen feet, maybe less, leaving him with little time to weigh his options. He should flee, hoping he’d be far enough away by the time she screamed. He had three bullets left, and he didn’t want to use them. Not on Sandra.
The kitchen light came on, and Elias realized he’d contemplated his decision a few seconds too long. Sandra’s ear-piercing scream penetrated the air, droning on and on until he couldn’t listen any longer. He had to act. He had to act now.
The gun was raised once again, but Sandra didn’t seem to notice it, or him. Delirious, she was only focused on one thing: the dead bodies in front of her.
Faced with the prospect of a shattered eardrum, Elias spoke up. “Shut your mouth, would ya? Screaming won’t do anything.”
Eyes wide, Sandra’s mouth closed long enough for her to finally see she wasn’t alone in the room. She took one look at the masked man in front of her and jumped back, stumbling over her mother’s body in the process. She fell to the ground on top of her mother. Clothing now stained with her mother’s blood, Sandra pressed both hands over her face and began sobbing.
Elias remained still, watching her. Frozen. Confused. Wondering why he wasn’t running, why he was still standing there, unable to take his eyes off of her. He placed the gun on the counter, thought about walking toward her, but he didn’t. “Please. Stop crying. Just stop it, okay?”
The flood of tears continued, followed by an eighteen-year-old Sandra muttering, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy,” like an inconsolable five-year-old child.
&nbs
p; It was more than he could take.
“Sandra, please!” Elias insisted. “They’re gone. They’re dead. Get it?”
In an instant, Sandra switched gears, her tears slowing to a trickle. She wiped them away, glared at the man in the mask. “Do I ... do we ... know each other?”
He’d slipped, said her name. It was too late to take it back.
“We do, don’t we? You know me.”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
An awkward silence followed. It looked like she was thinking, processing, putting it all together.
Her eyes widened.
Recollection.
“Your voice ... I ... it’s familiar,” she said.
Even with the mask, it wouldn’t be long now.
He thought about sparing her life.
Could he do it?
Was it possible?
Of course it wasn’t.
What if she made the connection?
What if she figured out who he was?
What then?
He knew what then.
“I’m sorry, Sandra. I’m so sorry. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to be here. I never meant for you to see any of this If I could just explain, you’d realize I was only trying to—”
He stopped. It didn’t matter what he said now. It wouldn’t change what had already happened.
A terrified Sandra squeezed her eyes shut and whispered, “You’re going to kill me now too, aren’t you?”
He didn’t respond.
“Just do it.” She buried her head over her mother’s chest. “Get it over with. Do what you came to do. I don’t care what happens to me now.”
Sirens whined in the distance. They were coming. Coming for him. He wondered how it happened. Had a neighbor heard the shots and called the police?
Still unsure of his next move, he reached for his gun, shocked to find the counter empty, the gun no longer there. He turned his head, staring into the face of the person now holding the gun, aiming not at him, but at Sandra. Before he could do anything to stop what was about to happen next, a shot was fired. The bullet hit Sandra, slamming her body backward.
“What are you doing?” Elias yelled.
“It had to be done,” the shooter replied. “Don’t you see?”
The shooter wiped the gun down and set it back on the counter, then turned and fled out the back door. Instead of sprinting to freedom like he’d done so many times before, Elias ran to Sandra and dropped to his knees. Pulling her to his chest, he cradled her. He should have been surprised at his actions, but he wasn’t. The moment Sandra stepped foot inside the house tonight, somehow he knew it would all be over.
CHAPTER 12
Alexandra Weston
August 12, 1984
10:15 a.m.
Alexandra Weston sat on a stiff, wooden bench on the fourth row of a Louisiana courthouse, listening to the grand jury indict twenty-two-year-old Elias Pratt on several charges of first-degree murder, followed by a swift, unemotional recommendation for the death penalty.
While the verdict was read, the majority of men and women lining the seats inside the packed courtroom smiled and nodded in agreement. A woman sitting in the next row fist-pumped the air. A man in the same row clasped his hands together and looked at the ceiling, like the gateway of heaven had been opened and his prayers had been answered. In another row, an elderly couple clutched each other, both gushing exuberant tears of joy.
Justice had been served for all.
Elias wouldn’t receive a multiple life sentence; he’d be sent to Gruesome Gertie, the state’s unforgiving electric chair.
Alexandra shifted her attention from the weeping elderly couple to Elias Pratt. He’d remained stiff and still while the verdict was read, like a pole rooted in cement. His hands were in his lap, fingers interlocked, his dull, blank eyes staring at the judge, as if she were nothing more than an extra in a lackluster movie.
He didn’t seem to care whether he lived or died.
He didn’t seem to care about anything.
It didn’t surprise Alexandra.
Killers rarely did.
Dubbed the “Devil in Disguise” due to his boyish charm, middle-class upbringing, and devilishly handsome looks, most people speculated Elias was nothing more than a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a sweet-faced rich kid disguised as Lucifer himself. Devoid of emotion. A psychopath. A serial killer.
Given his crimes, Alexandra could see why the public felt this way. As to her own feelings, the jury was out. She wasn’t sure how she felt yet. Elias didn’t exhibit the traits she’d come to expect in the David Berkowitzes and the John Wayne Gacys of the world. He was different. Not innocent, but different, with a quiet reverence that shocked her. Staring at him now, she realized in some ways she almost felt sorry for him. How crazy was that?
Court was adjourned, and Alexandra stood, watching the sea of onlookers who’d come to gawk one last time, to support each other with hugs, high-fives, and smiles of satisfaction. The judge called for order. No one seemed to mind him.
To most in attendance, they’d just witnessed what would eventually lead to Elias’s end.
For Alexandra Weston, however, his end was just the beginning.
CHAPTER 13
Present Day
I woke to the sound of ice being jiggled inside a glass, just inches from my face. I pulled the covers over me, refusing to open my eyes.
“Hey,” Finch said. “It’s almost eleven. You need to get up. You’re meeting with Alexandra Weston’s agent today. Remember?”
I groaned.
He peeled back the covers, pressed the cup to my cheek.
I swatted it away. “Come on, Finch. Knock it off. I’m tired.”
“I’ll stop when you get up.”
He set the glass on the nightstand adjacent to the half-full glass of water from the night before. Then, in an extreme act of cruelty, he walked over to the window and yanked the curtains to the side. The room illuminated to a piercing degree, like if I looked at the window straight on, I’d see it was actually the doorway to the pearly gates. “You really hate me right now, don’t you?”
“You have forty-five minutes to get dressed and meet Barbara Berry at the pastry place.”
I flung the blanket off my body, realizing the only thing I had going on downstairs was a pair of black lace undies, and then I remembered tossing my pants after I’d refused to put them on.
Upon seeing me more naked than clothed, again, Finch jerked his head in the opposite direction.
“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s just like seeing me in bikini bottoms, if you think about it.”
“They’re not bikini bottoms though. And they’re see-through.”
I looked down. Huh. He was right.
Without looking at me, he bent down, picked my leggings off the floor, and tossed them to me. I slipped them on and stood too fast, my throbbing head a quick reminder of the destruction I’d put myself through the night before. “I want to, ahh, thank you for coming to my aid last night. I mean, I’m sure I had it under control, but still, I took it too far.”
He raised a brow. “You didn’t have it under control.”
“In any case, I’d like to just move past it. I shouldn’t have let things get that out of hand in the first place.”
When he didn’t reply, I looked at him. He was eyeing me strangely.
“What is it?” I asked. “What did I say?”
“Nothing.”
Saying “nothing” was his way of not asking me the same question I never answered when he’d first asked it. “I just had a few too many shots, that’s all. You know me, Finch. I do this, what, once or twice a year? I’m in my thirties. I’m pretty sure it’s okay to let loose once in awhile.”
“You’re not just letting loose though, are you? You’re forgetting.”
I socked him in the shoulder. “Oh, come on. Are you saying you’ve never had a few too many?”
He’d been avoiding eye contact with
me since I got out of bed. At first I chocked it up to his discomfort about seeing me half naked. Now I wasn’t so sure.
“Look, I’m sorry if it was hard on you to see me like that,” I said. “It was unprofessional. I blurred the lines between employee and friend. I don’t want you to stay mad at me.”
“I’m not mad.”
“What’s eating you then?”
He wiped a hand across his face. “Last night, right before you fell asleep, you said something about a—”
He stopped midsentence, looked at the time.
“Something about a what?” I asked.
He shook his head. “You know what? It doesn’t matter right now. We need to go. Never mind.”
CHAPTER 14
I found Barbara Berry sitting at a corner table at Perfectly Pastry, nibbling on a half-eaten beignet, her eyes fixed on a cargo ship lazing along the ocean. Although her lips were coated in white powder, she was possibly the youngest sixty-eight-year-old woman I had ever seen. Her skin was milky and smooth; her sleek, platinum, shoulder-length hair was tucked behind her ears so no one would miss the gigantic diamond stud earrings declaring her obvious station in life.
I approached and she turned, aiming a pointy, ruby-colored fingernail in the direction of a chair next to her. She put the beignet on a plate, cupped a hand around a paper cup, took a sip, and said, “Well, this is a damned disaster, isn’t it?”
I sat in the chair and wondered if the disaster she referred to had to do with her biggest moneymaker never publishing another book again.
“I’m sorry about Alexandra,” I said. “You two have been friends for decades. I’m sure you’re still in shock. I imagine everyone is.”
She blotted her lips with a napkin. “No, no. I wasn’t talking about how she died or the fact she’s dead. I mean, Alex’s death was tragic, to be sure. The disaster is the subpar coffee they’re serving in this place.” She frowned. “It’s stale and bitter. We should have met each other at Café Beignet instead. They have the best ... well, the best everything, but certainly the best beignets.”
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