“But”—he puts emphasis on the ‘t’ and leans forward onto his knees to hold my eyes with his—“that’s not the point. You took what wasmine.All the work and planning, all the watching. All for nothing. You took him literallya daybefore I was scheduled to have my time with Derek Prescott.”
“I’m not sorry.” The words are out before I can think to stop them, and a ghost of a smile crosses his lips. But honestly, I’mnot. He was an awful man, and he would’ve hurt me if I didn’t kill him.
“Yeah,” Larkin agrees. “You really aren’t. And I can’t decide if I like that about you, or it’s just something else I want to cut out with a knife.”
Shivers ripple through me at the casual threat, and my fingers tense around the bottle of water, still unopened, in my hand. The way he can so casually talk about violence is terrifying and unnatural. Even my friends in Ohio aren’t quite like this.
They aren’tmonsterslike him.
“Who did you kill instead?” I don’t know why I ask. I have no business wanting to know, but I can’t exactly stuff the words back in once they’re out.
“Nevin Florence,” he answers without hesitation. “Thirty-two. Lived alone in Portland, in a shitty apartment following a divorce from his wife. I did most of the same things, but I will admit, it was a little rushed. A little less satisfying.” His expression tells me he blames me for that, too, and I fight not to roll my eyes. This is ridiculous.
“So clearly my actions didn’t affect you very much—” He’s up before I finish, and before I can make a move, Larkin is over me, his hands on the arms of the recliner as he crowds into me, face close enough I can feel his breath on my lips.
“Watch your mouth, Tova,” he murmurs, his eyes never leaving mine. “Or I’ll cut out your tongue. Just because I haven’t killed you yet doesn’t mean I’ve decided I won’t. It just means”—he reaches out to grip my throat and yanks me straighter so his lips brush mine when he speaks—“I’m not done playing with you. I know where you live, where you work, who your roommate is. So don’t you dare forget that you’remineat any time. For any game I please.” He suddenly nips my lower lip, causing me to yelp and jerk backward, which only makes the pain worse.
Still, Larkin lets go with a laugh, standing up to drain his water bottle in front of me for me to watch.God,I shouldn’t enjoy looking at him this much. My eyes are drawn to his throat working to swallow the water, to the markings all across his torso, and to the designs that continue lower, hidden by his jeans.
I want to know how far they go.
But that’s not a very healthy thought, so I force myself to glare up at his face, keeping my body tense and ready to move if he comes at me again. “You should drink your water,” he informs me, crunching the bottle in his hand. “You look a little dehydrated, silly girl.” For a few seconds he just stares at me, observing, like he’s going to say something else. But he only shakes his head with a stupid little grin on his face, and turns to walk away with his jeans still slung so low on his hips that I can’t look at anything else before he disappears into the bathroom and closes the door behind him.
The moment I hear the shower, I’m on my feet. I grab my shoes and yank them on before locating my phone that must have gone skidding across the floor in our ‘struggle.’
“Fuck this,” I murmur, my chest feeling tight with fear. There’s no way I’ll be sticking around any longer. Not when his mood shifts between flirty and murderous so easily, and I’m never sure which I’ll get.
Hell, maybe there isn’t that much of a difference, now that I think about it. But I also don’t want to overstay my welcome. By the time I’ve closed his door behind me, I’m already calling an Uber and breathing a little too hard, my desperation and fear are pushing me to getoutof his apartment and this building as quickly as possible, before Larkin decides he’s had his fun, and that I don’t deserve to live anymore.
Chapter
Thirteen
Alan’s blood is warm, though it has no right to be.
Instead of pushing him off the cliff, I rip open the garbage bags to reveal his gasping, panicked face. Alan whines and begs. He squirms in his makeshift-straightjacket, trying to get free.
“Please, Sierra,” he whispers, his eyes wide and pleading. There’s blood on his neck where I stabbed him, and it continues to bubble and pool on his upper body before streaking down to the bags under him. “Please don’t kill me again.”
I feel like I’m drifting as I reach down to shove two fingers into the hole left by my scissors. Alan gasps, then cries out in pain as I shove my digits apart to widen the hole forcefully. Around my fingers I can feel his flesh tearing like paper, painfully making room for me to add another.
“Say you’re sorry,” I whisper. I can’t look away from him, not even as blood spurts from the wounds and sprays onto my face, warm and wet. “Tell me you’re sorry. Maybe I’ll stop.”
He does.
Apologies pour from his lips like rain, and they’re accompanied by sobs as I continue to tear open the woundsin his neck with my hands, until I can see the bone and meat beneath. It’s not enough, though.
It’s never good enough. No matter what he says or what I find, I just keep tearing into him while he begs.
“I can’t find it,” I whisper finally, covered in blood up to my elbows as I lift my eyes to him. “I can’t find anything, Alan.”
He sits up, and suddenly it’s me that’s ripped open. My neck and chest and ribs are all splayed out between us while he looks at me with pity in his eyes, his wounds still bleeding though he must be all bled out by now.
“I don’t think you have it to find, Sierra.” Somehow he reaches an arm out of the garbage bag, and he presses it between my ribs, like he’s feeling for something. “I don’t think there’s anything here at all.”
My eyes snap open, and I stare up at my ceiling as pots and pans clatter around in the kitchen, signaling a full-scale production by Esme this morning. A sigh leaves me, and I roll onto my stomach, pressing my face into my pillow. “Ridiculous,” I grumble, able to recall the dream with impressive lucidity, even as it starts blurring around the edges.
It’s a variation of the dream I’ve been having all week, and I’m not impressed by it whatsoever. Though it feels different from how I usually dream of what I’ve done. It feels…stronger,in a way I don’t understand. Every time I wake up, I have to check my hands for blood, and I flinch at the sound of my real name in my ears. Not that it’s plausible, since Alan only knew me as Tova.
