Definitely a psychopath.
I’m in shock as he crawls out from between my legs, closes the window, and then pulls me in front of the car. I stare out the window as he buckles me in. He’s a psychopath. A killer. It’s almost… a relief. I knew it. I fuckingknewit. I’m not out of mymind with paranoia. There are psychopaths all around me. Well, maybe not all around me, but Soren is one, at least.
A moment later, he puts the car in drive, and we take off. That stirs me out of my thoughts.
“Where are we going?” I ask. He looks in the rearview.
“Christmas tree shopping,” he says, flicking on the radio. The cozy purrs of Dean Martin spill into the car.Let it snow!he croons as Soren gets on the highway. I look in the backseat and see Soren has buckled in the dead body, too. Lord forbid he gets a head wound in a collision.
“Jesus,” I sigh, bending over my knees and rubbing my temples. Academic texts are rearing up in my mind, a Pandora's box of information spewing facts about psychopathy.
I blow out a breath and sit back up as I feel the car switch lanes. Soren’s taking an exit. A big sign pointing East says a tree farm is up ahead in two miles.
“You’re serious,” I deadpan. “Christmas tree shopping?” His attention flicks to me briefly before focusing back on the roads.
“Well, it’s more romantic than his car.”
“Romantic?” I blurt while looking at him in horror. He remains silent as we approach the farm, slowly taking the turn in and driving around until he finds a desolate spot to park near a work building.
Soren gets out of the car, looks around quickly, and then leans back in.
“Come on.” I do as he asks. There isn’t much choice, is there?
Once I’m beside him, he pulls my hand under his arm as if walking me like a gentleman instead of a kidnapper.
He opens the back door, and we look at Thomas, still buckled up.
“Is this the romantic part?” I ask sarcastically.
“If you find this romantic, maybe you need some couples therapy, not me.” He snaps the door shut again.
“Now I’m being picked on by a man who thinks murder and chasing therapists is a hobby.”
“Chasing you wasn’t a part of the hobby, but I have to say… It wasn't bad.” He pulls me away from the car and towards the lines of trees. I trip on my own feet.
“You’re just leaving him in there?” I ask in a panic, looking over my shoulder.
“He’s not going anywhere.” Soren walks through lines of bushy firs. The scent of pine fills the air. “Where’s Norwegian spruces?” he mumbles.
Tonight is one confusing situation after the next. The corpse kissing was shocking, but the hand-in-hand Christmas tree shopping takes the prize for disorientation. It’s so normal in an abnormal situation that it makes everything feel unreal. But it’s not fake; this is happening. A murderer is pulling me through rows of trees while his victim is growing cold in the car.
I don’t want to ask if he plans to kill me, but I wonder if that’s why we’re here. I look around at blue-green pine needles and watch soft snow collect on the limbs. This wouldn’t be the worst place to die. Obviously, I don’t want to, but I like to prepare mentally for the worst.
Soren Erikson is likely going to kill me tonight. No one is more desperate or dangerous than a man caught doing something bad.
My throat is growing smaller, my eyes stinging. He walks us deeper down rows of trees. The edge of the farm is up ahead. The forest is thick and dark, waiting like a monster to suck me in.
I’ll fight. Of course I will. But I also want to accept what might happen so that I don’t spend my last moments in blind anxiety, terrified of the darkness closing in.
We stop walking towards the forest, surprising me.
“This one is perfect,” Soren says. It’s the thickest Christmas tree I’ve ever seen, not a bald spot in sight. He looks at me for awhile. I feel the weight of his gaze burning into me. The violence that I know is brimming under his skin is so well hidden.
No one should look that normal and upbeat when, not even an hour ago, they murdered someone in a parking lot. And that’s not all the night has offered. This has been a shitshow for him. He was caught by me, lost me briefly, nearly got sussed out by a bartender, and had a police officer show up. He should be a nervous wreck.
He’s positively beaming, though, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet. It definitely wasn’t Christmas trees making him metaphorically wag his tail.
I wonder if his fingers and palms still sting from holding the garrote’s wooden handles—a physical aftertaste of the murder.
