My own voice doesn't speak to me, which is just as well since my head is full with the rest of them.
“Tell me about your brother.”
I say it before I've really even thought about it. She told me how they were taken, but nothing more about their relationship. I know they used to watch horror movies together, the same as she and I have done, but I can't imagine she's using me as a stand-in for her brother. Not when I've been fucking her religiously since I took her out of the box she was sent to me in.
Her eyes round with shock and a little bit of horror, like she can't believe I'd go there. But she told me about his existence the first night we consciously shared a bed, so I figured it was a fair game topic.
“You said he was always there for you.” I explain. “Mine was too, when we were young.”
“You have a brother?” She asks, ignoring the question still as she looks around like he may materialize.
“Had.” I correct. “He died.”
She stares at me like she's trying to decide whether to believe that. “What happened to him?”
I think about the answer for a moment before I give it to her.
“I killed him.”
24
Amber
Killed him? His ownbrother? Jesus, this man is deranged. And yet, I have no compunction to run. I sit and drain the rest of my wine, appreciating the way that the alcohol snakes through my veins, making this conversation so much easier.
“Why?”
“We were best friends, but everyone knew he was the good kid. I envied him for that.” His lips are quirked just an infinitesimal amount, but there's more sadness than joy to the memory. “He was the favorite... everyone's favorite. Mother's and father's, even Charlotte's. Certainly mine.”
I decide to ignore the fact that he referred to his parents as Mother and Father.
Yep, definitely a serial killer.
“Charlotte?” I ask.
“My sister.” He says it with an air of dismissiveness, like he doesn't want to go any further on the mention of her. I stare at him, wondering how someone with a mother and a sister can treat women the way he does, using them like a toy. But then I realize he's likely a sociopath, only capable of caring for certain people… Dex, in particular. “She was always the real favorite. The world stopped the day she was born, and when he died, she didn't have to fight for that spot anymore.”
“So, you killed him because you were jealous?”
That's sociopathic behavior, right? I am almost relieved at the idea that the man who bought me is a sociopath, because it's better than if he were a complete psychopath, right? He's capable of some emotions, capable of blending in.These last few days, he's even seemed mostly normal. If I passed him on the street, I wouldn't look twice at him.
I mean, that's a lie. I would look twice, just because he's gorgeous, but I would never suspect he was a monster, a killer.
“What?” His eyes flick to mine, and suddenly I notice the topaz in them. “God, no. I never would have hurt him. He was my best friend. He made life bearable.”
“But you just said—”
“It was an accident. We were playing superheroes one day, and we felt invincible. You don't think about what can go wrong when you're a kid. Father had some friends over that evening, and they were in his study. We were supposed to stay outside and play without bothering them, but we decided they were the bad guys, and it was our responsibility to get rid of them before they could destroy the city. We especially weren't allowed in his study, so we had to sneak upstairs to spy on them. We couldn't hear anything through the door, so I suggested we climb on the roof and stand outside the window, where we could get them with our laser beams.”
I swallow, sensing the direction he's headed with this story. Just a couple of kids being kids, and it ended with his brother dead. That's not murder; it's a tragedy.
“When we got upstairs, we could hear Charlotte crying. Conrad was always a good brother to her, so he tried knocking on her door to see what was wrong, but she just kept crying, and the door wouldn't open. I don't know why he was so bothered by it. She cried all the time, but he was scared something was wrong with her, so we climbed onto the roof. But instead of dropping onto the balcony outside Father’s study, he wanted to check on Charlotte first.”
Cal looks like he’s in agony as he recounts the story, and I feel a bubble of pain trap itself in my chest. It doesn’t ease when I try to rub it away.
“I was mad at him about it... choosing her the way everyone else did. Father's study had a balcony, but the rest of the rooms only had a little ledge outside the window. We'd climbed off the roof to the balcony a hundred times, though it always made Mother scream at us when she found out, but we'd never climbedto any of the rooms. I held his hand as he climbed down, making sure he wouldn't lose his balance.”
“He yelled, but I didn't hear whatever it was. And when he started to beat on her window, my grip on him started to slip. I screamed for him to give me his other hand so I could pull him up before he fell, but I don't think he heard me. He kept smacking the window, kept slipping until I couldn't hold on any longer. I was sliding over the side myself, with nothing to hold on to, and my hands were sweaty. I thought he'd fall as soon as his fingers passed through mine, but he didn't. He caught himself. I can still see his white knuckles holding tight to the top of her window.” He shivers a little. “I turned to run to get my father, to get someone to help. I'd just turned around when I heard him scream, and then a moment later, it was cut short. By the time I turned back to look over the roof, he was already on the ground... dead on impact.”
