The bubble of curiosity around me pops, and fear reminds me I’m in the presence of a murderer. I back away from him, gripping the desk chair with one hand. “You killed them.” My voice shakes, but I’m well past trying to hide my fear from him.
“I killed more than your little fuck toys. I’ve killed every woman that looked like you, that had your eyes, for ten years.” He steps into me with two massive strides, his hand lifting and thumbing over my cheekbone.
“Why?”
“Because you’re like me.”
The implication has rage unfurling inside my chest, burning to be set free. “No! I’m not!”
“You are, pretty poison. You left me there for dead. You killed me and went on with your life like I never existed. I’ve never met an equal before.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Why? It’s what you are. Poison in my blood, in my psyche. You’ve rewired me entirely with one encounter.”
He speaks about me as if I have any power in this situation. As if I commandhim, instead of the other way around.
“I looked for you,” I admit.
What’s the harm? He’s going to kill me anyhow.
My chest loosens, and some of the tension winding through me releases as the admission unburdens me.
I’ve been holding my feelings and nightmares inside for so long. Who better to tell than him?
He’s silent.
“I called every hospital twice. I read every newspaper page and listened to as many radio talk shows as I could. I went back there…” I swallow as he leans closer, his looming presence thickening the air between us.
It seems that my admission has intrigued him. “What would you have done if you found me?”
“I—” I swallow, choosing my words carefully. “I don’t know. I needed to know you were alive.”
“Guilt is a heavy burden. Too bad you’ve suffered yours for no reason.”
I might be crazy, but his tone of voice implied my guilt… disgusted him.
He truly thinks we’re alike. My searching for him, going to look for him, and my guilt prove otherwise.
Reminding myself I need to stay alive long enough for Allison to find me, I keep any details that could prove that I’m nothing like him to myself.
If the thing keeping me alive is that he sees a kindred spirit in me, I need to play along. As much as I can, anyhow.
“Why haven’t you killed me?”
He turns away from me, shoves a massive hand into his hair, and tugs. It’s like he’s unraveling right before my eyes.
I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.
The silence in the room is nearly deafening, and I wish he would answer. The buzzing of hard drives and equipment is all I can hear over his heavy breathing.
Turning back, he grips my throat in his hand, not squeezing, only holding.
I get the impression I’m the most precious thing in the world to him, and it scares me.
“I like the sounds you make,” he says, and my eyes widen.
When he drugs and touches me against my will?
