I gaze at him quizzically. “Then why the whole charade? Why leave the notes and the gifts?”
Jeremy chortles. “Ha. Yeah. Your dad insisted on the notes when he chose me to be your ‘shepherd.’”
This doesn’t make any sense. John would want a true disciple to carry on his work. He’s always been convinced that he was doing God’s will. Jeremy doesn’t even seem to believe in God.
Staring blankly at Jeremy, I struggle to comprehend. “I don’t understand.”
Jeremy rolls his eyes. “John wanted an apprentice so that he could feel important, and I needed another method.”
I don’t like where this is going…
“Method?”
“Of killing,” Jeremy answers in a tone that says I should’ve understood. “The police were getting too close to catching me in Albany.”
My face flushes as a tingle races across my skin. “You’re the Ripper of Albany.”
“I don’t like labels,” he bites.
There’s something I still don’t understand…
“Why?”
Throwing his hands up, he scoffs. “Do I need a reason?”
I dramatically tilt my head and patronize, “When someone kills, they usually have a reason.”
Jeremy’s fists clench as his breathing turns sharp. “What’re you looking for? Want to hear about how my mom beat me?” He changes his voice as if he’s talking to a child. “Poor little Jeremy with bruises and welts.” Jeremy jumps excitedly yet sarcastically. “Ooo! Or do you want to hear about how I was bullied in school?”
“I get it. Classic environment to create a psychopath.” I smile at him disingenuously in a way that ensures he notices.
Jeremy smirks as he checks that all his tools are in working order. “Is that an official diagnosis, doctor?”
Heat simmers under my skin as I make a controlled effort to regulate my breathing, and my knife cuts through a few more fibers.
“How’s this for a diagnosis?” I hiss, “You’re fucking insane!”
Jeremy sets his gun on the table, exchanging it for the box cutter. He approaches, using the tip of the box cutter to draw invisible patterns on my arm. “Now, now. That’s no way to speak to your host.”
My jaw clenches. “If you’re going to kill me, get it over with.”
Another couple of fibers severed.
My palm gets nicked, and blood pools in my hand.
“Tsk tsk. I thought you’d put up more of a fight. What a disappointment you must be to Daddy Dearest,” Jeremy criticizes.
“I wear that as a badge of honor,” I snark back.
“We’ll see,” he challenges. Without warning, Jeremy slices the box cutter down the length of my thigh.
The scream that unleashes from my soul scratches my throat as it echoes in the empty room. The pain causes me to pant. Blood seeps from my wound, dampening the fabric of my pants.
“Perfect,” Jeremy coos. The man is practically salivating.
He’s getting off on this. He likes seeing me in pain.
“I can’t wait to see how far I can push you,” he claims as he brushes the back of his hand down my cheek.
