by V. F. Mason
His mouth spreads in a smile as his chest lifts in pride. “That’s my boy. Getting gifts for his old man,” he says proudly, and gets out of the car, still flashing me a grin.
What a dumb fucker.
Because law enforcement didn’t have much on him, just the one assault, and his great behavior and ability to deceive people, he ended up in jail for only a few years, and then he was released.
I destroyed half the living room when the news got to Suzanne, who quickly packed her bags and took Kim, fleeing the city. I highly doubted he would trail after her, because the authorities would keep an eye on him.
I got offers from the police academy and had my entire future in front of me. They advised me to leave too and never look back.
But how fucking could I, when I knew he’d go back to his old ways? He’d charm some clueless woman who’d be stupid enough to fall in love with him, and he’d make her life a living hell.
He giddily paces the place, and I try to concentrate on my breathing, remembering all the teachings about torture, but I come up blank.
I don’t want to play with him. I don’t want to show my art to him. I don’t want to see excitement in his eyes as he sees what I’ve become, because that was probably his single-minded goal.
To make me as fucked up as he is.
So with that comes a decision, as I shout from the window of the car, “Matt, get back. Change of plans. I have a surprise for you at home.” He frowns, not liking it much, and opens his mouth to protest, but that’s when I have enough.
I drill him with my stare, and he blinks rapidly and gets inside. “What kind of surprise?” he asks, but I ignore him, not feeling the need to play a part in this charade any more.
We are going to end it where it all started.
In the fucking house where my mother killed herself.
New York, New York
June 2018
Ella
Pacing the room back and forth, I wonder where he went to be gone such a long time. He hadn’t left my side in the last two days, and I thought maybe I could convince him to change his mind, but I understand now that I thought with the mind of a woman in love, not a psychologist who knows better.
People like him do not change; they are too broken by the past to get beyond it. Most grow stronger through their experiences, but some use those experiences to define and lose themselves in this life.
The sound of the door shutting snaps me from my stupor and I walk to the living room and gasp in shock.
Kierian has a man on his shoulder. He dumps him on the floor and punches a security code into the keypad on the wall so no one can get in or out. The man is unconscious, a gash on his cheek leaking droplets of blood.
My first instinct is to help him, so I take a step in his direction, but Kierian’s harsh “Don’t” stops me midway.
He grabs my elbow painfully and I wince, but he ignores it and drags me to the far end of the hall, to the place he’s never allowed me to enter.
He presses a keycard near the door and it instantly opens. He throws me inside and I barely keep myself from falling.
What has gotten into him?
Only then do the computer screens showing different angles of his torture basement register in my mind. He presses on my shoulder, forcing me to sit in the chair in front of the screens, giving me a good view of what will happen.
“Kierian—” He takes out handcuffs and chains me to the chair so I can’t leave, even if I want to.
“You will stay here and see firsthand what it looks like when I torture a man.” He puts a blue file on the table, barking, “You can read all the information I have on him while I prepare him. Enjoy.”
So this is how he lashes out at me for telling him the truth?
“Don’t do this, please.” I promised myself I wouldn’t beg, but what else is left?
Please, don’t put me through this. Don’t make me see this part of you that will forever shatter my illusions of you.
At the end of the day, life makes me face the hard truth.
It doesn’t matter if you understand psychology or not; when you love a man, you expect him to get better or change.
Even if you know he never will.
He leans closer to me so that we’re only an inch away from each other, as he says, “No illusions, Ella. You’ll see who I truly am.” With that, he turns and leaves me alone while I close my eyes and pray for him to change his mind.
Because in this small room with the ten monitors and high-quality equipment, it will be impossible to hide from the truth.
And I’m afraid the truth might destroy me.
Flipping the folder open, I see the man is Mark Dacke, a doctor who has been married to his wife for the last twenty years.
They have a young son, and based on pictures in the first pocket, you’d think you couldn’t have seen a happier family.
It all changes though the minute you flip to another page, a report gathered by Kierian.
Medical treatment. The haunted eyes of his wife and son. Screams in the middle of the night. He must have spied on them, since these are his notes.
Throwing it back on the table, I cover my face with my hands and wonder what he will do to him.
In previous crimes, he didn’t have to prove anything to me, and he didn’t know the full truth about his biological father. Now though, all this pent-up rage will burst out onto this guy.
Is the doctor innocent? Of course not. But it’s not Kierian’s right to proclaim himself the judge of bad people. He could have spent his life catching people like this guy and let the justice system handle the rest.
That’s the right thing to do.
But how can I explain it to him?
Psychopath
Splashing water on the fucker, I watch him gulp for air as blood oozes from various cuts and stabs I’ve inflicted, and he barely holds his head up, exhausted from an hour of torture.
This one is more resilient than most. He hadn’t asked for mercy for an hour before he finally caved.
They all do, after all.
Watching him now, I know it’s time to move to my final stage of things and cut him open, but I can’t.
There is so much more I know to make a person feel sorry he was ever born. Half of them I’ve never used, because I had neither the patience nor the desire to spend so much time on the victim.
But maybe it’s a good opportunity to show Ella who she is dealing with.
I grab the brass knuckles, and I’m about to hit him, when Ella’s face appears in my mind, the fear in her eyes of what she’ll see, and I can’t go through with it.
For fuck’s sake! I shouldn’t be conflicted. I shouldn’t think about her. She is nothing but the prey.
But my egotistical self considers her mine, and as odd as the concept is to me, I don’t want to hurt what belongs to me.
Grabbing him by the shirt, I place him on the table and strap him to it while turning off the cameras, so she won’t have to see the grand finale to my sick hungers.
I think she’s had enough anyway.
And for the first time ever, killing a person doesn’t zone me out of reality. Instead, it reminds me that it’s the straw that will break Ella’s back.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Psychopath, 18 years old
The birds are chirping loudly as I sit down on the bench, resting my arms on my knees while Sociopath paces back and forth in front of me. “What the fuck were you thinking, Shon?”
“I didn’t.” How the hell could I, if the fucker got out of prison? I could have lived with the satisfaction that he was rotting in there. But to have him on probation so he could find someone else to torture?
Fucking never.
My hands shake just as I remember torturing him. His cries of pain and his blood pooling under my feet reminded me of all the times when I was the victim and he felt himself the king of the world.
“They are searching for you. You killed him in your house, Shon! I hop
e you’re fucking satisfied.” He takes out a phone, probably to call Lochlan while I think about his words.
That’s the thing though; I don’t fucking feel satisfaction or pleasure from the fact he is gone. He is dead, which means he can’t suffer, and what’s good about that? If only I’d shown more restraint, I could have kept him alive for a month, torturing him every day, creating awareness in his body with each step so he’d know what I felt. What my mother went through when he made our life a living hell. But the chance is gone.
Because the fucker is dead! I gave him an out, and he took it.
Roaring in fury, I get up and push over the bench that should be too heavy to move, and it falls on the ground. I kick it with all my might, needing to get out my frustration as familiar anger prickles my skin.
With one irrational decision and lack of control, I jeopardized my future and became a killer. My life will bring no justice to anyone, and I just wasted everything I’ve worked so hard for.
“Help me get out of town,” I whisper, even though I know I don’t deserve it. He trusted me when he took me under his wing, and I failed the first time around.
But as odd as it might sound, I don’t want to die or spend my days caught. I want to do something in life. Something that holds fucking meaning for the likes of me.
Sociopath stays silent for a beat and then comes closer, stopping next to me as he lights up a cigarette and exhales a cloud of smoke. “I’ve taught you self-control. Not this mess.”
I stay silent because what can I say to this? He’s right. But nothing could have stopped me in that moment.
“But I understand. In a way. There is one man in this world who I wish to choke with my own hands. And if I had the chance, I probably wouldn’t let it slip either.” He doesn’t elaborate, not that I expect him to. He never talks about his past… or present for that matter.
“Help me,” I repeat, and he exhales heavily.
“One last time, Shon. One fucking last time, I will help you. But if you break my trust, I will kill you myself. Don’t let it destroy you.” He pokes at my chest painfully, and I sway back from his strength. “Stay focused.”
Sociopath with his connections got me a new identity, a new passport, and a new chance.
And I used it well.
Catching serial killers is an exceptional job, because I help save people, most of whom don’t deserve cruelty. And a few times a year, I act like a judge, jury, and executioner, choosing my own victims and getting pleasure from it.
Back then, I thought no one had the power to break the status quo.
If only I knew that a dark-haired beauty would have the power to put me on my fucking knees.
New York, New York
June 2018
Ella
I sit on a chair, rocking back and forth with my legs raised and my head propped against my knees.
I tried to avoid looking at the monitors or hearing the cries of a man who begged to live.
Tears stream down my face as nausea swirls in me, but I can’t make a sound. I want to scream or shout or defend or try to get free, but I don’t do it.
I just numbly sit there, still remembering the monster he becomes while he is alone with his victims.
The picture will be forever imprinted on my mind.
At some point, he turned the cameras off, maybe an hour ago. Plenty of time to finish.
I hear a sound and then the door opens. Kierian is standing in the doorway in different clothes and smelling like shower gel.
Right.
He doesn’t want to have traces of his victims left on his skin.
Will he wash me off too?
Silently, he uncuffs me from the chair and gently rubs my wrist, but I snatch it back. “Don’t touch me.”
His lips thin at my words, but surprisingly he doesn’t object. Instead, he waits for me to get the hell out of there and I gladly do, hoping to never end up here again.
But once I’m in the living room, I wish I hadn’t left the media room.
Because a black garbage bag lies near the main door, waiting to be disposed of. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t do anything stupid,” he warns, and I sit on the couch, ignoring him and all the sounds associated with him as he finally gets the hell out.
Loud laughter echoes in the space, grating on my nerves, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s coming from me.
Did I think he’d change for me?
How can he choose light if he’s lived in the darkness for so long?
Stupid, naïve Ella. A woman becomes a fool in love hoping to soothe all the edges of her man, not understanding that sometimes all those edges just hurt her.
Knowing all he lived through, can I demand something else from him? Knowing myself, can I expect a future with him?
A love story that was doomed from the very beginning.
Why did I think we would have a happy ending?
He told me himself.
He is not Prince Charming.
Chapter Twenty-Four
New York, New York
May 2018
Psychopath
The music is blasting through the speakers as people dance wildly when I enter the New York club. John, the bouncer, raises his chin in greeting, as he is used to seeing me here.
With a green light, I stroll through the sweaty bodies, bypassing a few women who throw seductive glances my way, letting me know they won’t mind repeating the performance just for me.
Sadly for them, I came here for a specific target, who is leaning on a barstool, explaining something to the bartender as she points at the whiskey bottle behind him. The guy shakes his head, huffing, but takes out the silver shaker and gives her a thumbs up, clearly preferring to give her what she wants instead of refusing.
Her two best friends join her, squealing loudly and jumping excitingly, clapping their hands. Then with a shared mischievous look, they say, “Tada,” and place a large box wrapped with a red ribbon on the barstool while Ella’s eyes widen.
She smiles brightly at them, blinding me for a moment when I see utter happiness displayed on her face as she hugs them close, tightening her hold on them for a second.
Will she still smile after the torture I long to inflict on her with my knife collection? I’ll use the new equipment for her, made out of the finest steel.
From the moment my gaze first landed on her in that running park, the mental clock has been ticking inside me, counting the minutes and seconds until I can finally introduce myself and come one step closer to achieving my goal.
It’s not about the end result with her; it’s about the hunt.
She needs to answer a question for me that has driven me crazy through the years, and no amount of studying the likes of me has brought me any relief.
Is it out of love or desperation that a woman stays with a bad man who repeatedly hurts her?
The time has come to find out. I know Noah has called her and she’ll work with us soon. I could introduce myself now, but based on the report I’ve collected on her, she would never agree to this.
“Your favorite song, Ella!” her friend Chloe says and then tugs her to the dance floor, while she stumbles slightly on her heels and sends daggers to her friend, who just shrugs. But then she allows the music to guide her as she becomes one with it, and each of her movements is filled with grace, sensuality, and confidence.
One of the nearby men grabs her arm, spinning her to him while she gasps in shock. “Hey, beautiful, care to dance?” He slurs his words, having had too much to drink. I quickly scan his expensive gold watch, designer wear, and rather egotistical approach.
Ella pulls at her arm, but he doesn’t let go. “Come on.” He brings them closer, and she fans her face as she winces from his breath. Without warning, she pushes him away, and since he is not sober, he stumbles back, splashing his beer and staining the perfectly white shirt. His friends next to him, not in any better condition than he is, snicker. “Fuck it. No bitch is worth it,” he snaps at th
e girls, who roll their eyes. He walks in the direction of the bathroom, and although I hate letting Ella out of my sight, I trail after him, my hands fisting.
No one else is in the bathroom and he leans on the sink, wiping the beer away with a tissue before he registers my presence.
“What are you starting at?”
Without replying, I grab him by the nape and slam him to the nearby wall, hard, as a painful groan echoes through the space.
“You do not touch what’s not yours,” I say calmly and repeat the action, but this time a sinister smile spreads as blood slips from his nose while he is plastered against the wall, trembling.
“Sorry, man, an honest mistake.”
I want to hurt Ella in all the ways possible except one, but no one else has this right.
Never will.
She is mine.
Rinsing my hands, I get out of there, closing the door, and a giggle erupts when something soft bumps against me. “Sorry.” Her voice freezes me in my tracks, and I allow it to wash over me then spin around. My sudden movement sways her to the side, and I manage to catch her right in time, pressing her tightly against my chest.
Ella blinks a few times in surprise, her breath hitching as her hands rest on my shoulders.
A surge of energy runs between us, creating an awareness I’m not used to, and based on her lost look, she’s not either. An unfamiliar emotion threatens to erupt, confusing me, and for a second I consider letting her go and disappearing from her life.
She can be happy with her fulfilled dream, and maybe along the way meet a man who will chase all the monsters away.
But I quash it hard inside me.
I’m not capable of anything except being selfish.
“Kierian,” I introduce myself, and she nods.
“Ella.” With that, the plan is set in motion, and I wonder how long it will take her to catch me.
But most importantly, I ignore the part of me that screams to not do it.
What did Sociopath say all those years ago to me?