Lincoln paced back and forth, fury present on his darkened face. “Do you know what they did to me? Do you understand it? He faked my death, named me Colton Kilhouser—to mold me into his own personal serial killer.”
My breath came up short, guilt burning in my stomach. “Doctor Tuttle?”
He nodded. “He was fascinated with the minds of serial killers—that sick bastard. DoctorTuttle would order me to kill targets he deemed dispensable—his rivals, and the people who criticized him. I always left painted dolls where I killed my victims. The doctor found it incredible how I was never caught.” He paused for a moment, shutting his eyes, most likely remembering all the people he had killed. “The newspapers started calling me theDollhouse Killer.”
It all made sense—the pieces were fitting together. Colton Kilhouser was the killer alias that my brother used, the one that was forced upon him. In a way, Lincoln Frost still died that fateful day—a dangerous serial killer born in his place.
“Why would they fake your death? Why choose you?”
He scoffed at me, shaking his head. “I was a young boy, who killed…Doctor Tuttle nurtured me into a serial killer from a young age. He told me it was right—to lash out at a world that hated me. Tuttle funded all of Hamonte’s campaigns, so that’s how I ended up in his grimy hands. He convinced me that no one ever loved me. From bouncing around dirty hell holes, to Mercy’s Light, to our foster home…no one ever wanted us. I listened to him, because he was the only person I had—because you left me behind, and betrayed me.”
I couldn’t believe how Doctor Tuttle had manipulated my brother’s mind, it was sickening. He molded him into a serial killer for his own disturbing motives.
“How did you do all of this? The gifts at my door? Clara’s body in George’s basement? The game you’ve been playing…you were like a shadow.”
“I had a lot of time to plan. I knew it all because Tuttle told me everything, over so many years. He knew about Clara’s cover-up, Mayor Hamonte’s secrets—how he controlled the Whisper’s Creek police department.” He sighed heavily, the burden of it all weighed on his shoulders. “Tuttle was a sick man. He kept Clara’s body after Detective Castillo killed her. He wanted it as leverage against Hamonte—just in case he needed it.”
It was all so much—so many secrets, lies and truths being revealed after 20 years.
Lincoln scoffed and stared at the ground. “I’ve been planning this for so long, you have no idea. The people I’ve killed…the things I’ve done, for Tuttle. That’s why I finally killed him. You know what pushed me over the edge?”
I paused for a moment, not sure on what he was about to say. “What?”
“Tuttle sent me to kill Angela. That restoration project she was planning? She was looking too closely into things, into the funding for the institute. She would’ve caught on—so she needed to go. That was my opportunity. First, I killed Tuttle. He always saw me off when he sent me to execute people. That was his biggest mistake. Then I went to your house and took her—dragged her all the way here.”
I staggered backwards, almost dropping the gun, an ice pick plunging through my heart. “What? She’s…dead? She’s dead?” I asked shakily, tears streaming down my eyes, my cheeks flushed. “Why? Why would you do that?” I sobbed quietly.
“I didn’t kill her. She’s still alive.”
I had some relief from that statement, but not nearly enough, after everything I had gone through. “You’ve put me through so much hell, Lincoln. Where’s Angela? Please. Where is she? She’s innocent in all of this. Please!” I begged him.
He shook his head slowly. “No. I’m not done yet. You will understand why I’ve done all of this—to slowly destroy you. I wanted to moldyouinto a killer, just like how Tuttle molded me into one.” He shut his eyes, tilting his head upward. “The way he forced me to do his bidding, he convinced me that he had saved me and that I owed him my life.”
“How? How does that make any sense? This is all insane, Lincoln! Absolutely insane!”
He opened his eyes, bringing his head back down. “I played this game with you because Tuttle had played it with me. 25 days to execute. 12 gifts that related to the person I needed to kill. I decided to do the same, and put my own twist on it—just for you.” He let out a dry laugh. “I knew how much you loved Angela because of Tuttle. Then it all came back to me—he reminded me of when you abandoned me, betrayed me…left me behind with a monster!” he shouted ferociously.
I breathed in deeply, not knowing what to say. I couldn’t believe that my own brother had done this to me. He had forced me to become a killer, just like him.
I knew the outcome of his twisted game.
I had become the Xmas Day Butcher.This is what he had wanted all along.
This is what his long game of revenge led to. He forced me to become a killer.
I sighed, and stared at the ground, sick and tired of it all. My mind was a revolving door of dark thoughts—rooted in pain and misery.
This was a Christmas Day I would remember forever, for all of the wrong reasons.
“What must I do, to get Angela back? Please, you got what you wanted. I’m a killer now, like you. I’m the Xmas Day Butcher. Please…tell me what you want from me,” I pleaded desperately.
He pointed at my gun. “Drop it and kick it over to me. If you try anything, Angela will die.”
I immediately dropped it and kicked it over to him, I wasn’t taking any chances. He picked it up and stuffed it in his back pocket. He grabbed something hanging near him, I hadn’t noticed it before. It was a rope, tied to a beam up high.
“Stay here. I will bring her out. Don’t you dare move.”
I did as instructed, I didn’t want him to hurt Angela. He walked away into darkness. It wasn’t long before he took out Angela, his hands placed firmly on her thin, bony shoulders. She was gaunt, with heavy dark circles around her eyes and she looked malnourished, but alive. My poor love. She was alive.
