KILL HIM.
What the hell?
The idea of killing Valdemar Montresor isn’t new to me. I’ve had many a daydream of sticking a knife into him, glorying in the justice I would serve. But it’s always been fanciful thinking, as I never thought I would even meet the man, let alone be given an opportunity to push a blade into his stomach and gut him like he deserves.
But here I am with a free pass, albeit one that would require getting a weapon past security, which seems doubtful. But it appears as if I’m not the only one who wants him dead.
What would become of me if I did deal out the retribution my brother so deserves? What would that make me? A monster? A murderer? Where does the line end where murder would be justified? And if I do kill him, won’t that make me just like him?
Valdemar’s words whisper through my head.
“Do you think you would be able to get your hands dirty?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
There areno fancy words for this, no way to dress this up as something it isn’t.
Valdemar Montresor is a murderer.
And I’d like to say that he appears like any other man when he walks into the visitors’ wing in his plain white tee and grey sweatpants.
But he is far from average.
There’s an aura to him, an atmosphere that shrouds him in
The cursor blinks at me. I’m unable to finish this sentence. I’m not lying when I write these words—I would never lie when writing a report. Dress up the truth—absolutely. Embellish things to satisfy the reader—of course. But lying is not on my agenda. The last thing I want to do is humanise Valdemar Montresor. There are crazy people in this world—vulnerable, impressionable people—who look up to guys like him, and worse, there are others who are happy to turn a blind eye to the bad things he’s done. They see his antihero image as something to be revered and admired.
I just see a killer.
Powering down my laptop, I glance at the clock. It’s one in the morning, and there’s no rush to write my piece on Valdemar,as I’m still not sure whether I’m going to publish it. He said I couldn’t report our interviews, but there’s no harm in having a backup plan. So, I’m documenting our conversations before I forget everything he’s told me.
I’ve made notes and scribbled down some of the more important things he’s disclosed, but I feel we’ve only scratched the surface. There’s more to Valdemar Montresor than meets the eye, but I have no doubt that whatever he tells me, my opinion of him will never change. How can it?
The note I received is tucked in my bag, reminding me I’m not the only one who wants him dead.
After brushing my teeth and replacing my loungewear with an old T-shirt, I climb into my double bed knowing that the next few hours are going to tick by with me staring at the ceiling. But as I lie down, a strange heaviness pulls at the back of my head, as if my pillow has hands that are ready to embrace me.
My body feels as though it’s been moulded into the mattress, my limbs relaxing, weightlessness surrounding me.
Maybe it’s the exhaustion of the past few weeks finally catching up with me. Maybe it’s the heaviness of the thoughts lodged in my brain—Valdemar, Jupiter, Jacinta, seeing Ed’s ghost, the note—all of it having burrowed so deep, I feel like I’m being pulled under.
There’s no time to panic over this surreal sensation as my eyelids give in and slumber takes hold.
Clutching the iron railing of the balcony, I take in the night sky, which is a wash of inky blue dotted with diamanté stars, the air fresh and ripe with the flavours of the night. Dense trees surround the grounds, which are beautifully manicured with a gigantic maze in the middle, its pathways swallowed up in thick foliage guarding the centre. It’s as if I’m standing on a cliff edge, looking down upon the shrunken ground below.
I feel intoxicated, my body swaying slightly, my head floating. The fitted silver dress I’m wearing isn’t one I recognise, and neither are the heeled sandals, but I feel good in them—powerful, even.
The balcony is abuzz with people, none of whom I know, and they don’t appear to be paying me any attention, lost in their own world of espresso martinis and hummed conversation. The dress code is formal, men in sharp suits and women in glitzy dresses, all of them black.
Glancing up, I see that the balcony is attached to an old building with wrought-iron railings, trailing ivy weaving its way up the side of the ancient stone, and gargoyles scowling above the glass doors that open into a grand room.
I return to the view, recognising the Ragged Mountains off in the distance, holding me in their clasp like two cupped hands.
Someone arrives behind me, the smell of cedarwood and bergamot adding to the night-time bouquet.
He’s male, I’m sure, as the heat from his body and the powerful fragrance sing masculinity.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been this close to a man.
