On the small bedside table is a plate filled with strawberries.
SIXTEEN
The diner isn’t as packed as it usually is. There are a couple of booths that are occupied with people, but in total, there’s less than ten customers tonight. The lights are dim, and the ambience gives off a homey feeling.
I’m sitting at the booth that’s the furthest away from the entrance, my fingers tapping against the dark, wooden desk impatiently. The booth is made of a deep, maroon leather, with a couple of spots where the leather has ripped – showing just how old this place is.
It’s a popular spot for families, or younger people to hang out at. Kaya chose this diner specifically because she has access to security cameras in case anything goes wrong, and she’s been here a couple of times. She told me all the ins, and outs, where tosit, how to angle my body so the cameras aren’t pointing directly at my face.
The rain is getting heavier. It’s been like this for the past couple of days, yet tonight, it seems a little different. My eyes are glued on the glass window on my left, little rain droplets slowly sliding down onto the pavement.
The hoodie I’m wearing is the same one I brought with me in the little backpack when I left. It still smells like Arlo, it’s like a part of him is with me, right now. Having his scent all over me provides me with a sense of safety that I desperately need right now. The hood is sitting over my head, hiding my face from the view. The tea is still hot, the ceramic tea cup fitting nicely in my hand. I make a mental note to take it with me when I leave, just in case agent Arnault gets any ideas.
There’s a big grandfather clock close to me, and when my eyes flick to the side, I notice that it’s almost time for agent Arnault to appear. Although he hasn’t officially confirmed his arrival, I know he won’t pass out on the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity. He’s been looking for The Death Angel for years now, and I have the opportunity to deliver it to him on a silver platter.
The small bell above the entrance door rings, the sound carrying throughout the diner. The music is playing softly in the background, and people’s chatter is filling out the silence nicely. I don’t have to look back to know that it’s Arnault — after all, the clock just ticked nine o’clock, and he’s not the kind of man who would come late to such an important meeting. The moment he enters the establishment, the air shifts, and for some reason, I don’t feel threatened.
My back straightens a little when I feel his presence behind me. He’s standing there, in utter and complete silence for what seems an eternity. However, I don’t look back. In my mind, itwould be as though I’m admitting to defeat before this entire conversation even began. He steps closer, then slides into the seat across from me. Slowly, and ever so slightly, I lift my head up. He’s wearing casual clothes — a pair of jeans and a sweater, though I know he has a gun tucked underneath the thick wool. He’s no fool, and he’d never come unarmed.
His eyes skim my face the moment I take my hood down, staring right into his eyes. His own widen ever so slightly, as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. His gaze is roaming my face a couple of times, not missing a single inch.
“Arnault,” I greet, taking a small sip of the tea. The scent of chamomile with mint is soothing my nerves, and I’m on the right track. My voice is calm, steady, and void of any emotions that would be deemed unnecessary to the situation.
“So it truly is you,” he muses, lifting a brow. “Care to share how you managed to survive the prison massacre?”
Just as the question falls from his lips, a waitress approaches us. He orders a beverage without moving his eyes from me, and the waitress takes notes on the small notepad, a smile on her face. The moment her footsteps fade into the background, I lean back, folding my arms in front of my chest.
“That’s a secret I’ll never tell,” I smirk. “But that’s not why I wanted to see you.”
He hums. “I’m aware. Why did you wish to see me so desperately, Ms. Hawke?”
I glance around, ensuring no one’s paying attention to us. And no one is. People are too busy having their dinners, chatting and laughing, to notice a girl dressed head to toe in all black, or the man that looks like he doesn’t want to be here. The waitress returns, putting his coffee in front of him. The steam coming outof the cup hits his face, and he doesn’t flinch, not even a little bit. Before the waitress can leave, he pays for both our drinks in cash, leaving her a nice tip, making her smile widen even more.
“A couple of reasons,” I respond, keeping my voice lower just in case. “How much do you know about me?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “You killed your parents in cold blood and landed yourself a life in prison.”
I nod. “Correct. But do you know why I did that?”
He lifts an amused brow. “What do you mean?”
“It’s not like I woke up one morning and decided it was the perfect weather to commit double murder,” I chuckle. “Do you know why I killed my parents?”
“Elighten me, Ms. Hawke,” the amusement lingers in his eyes as he leans in, his hands resting on the table between us. His eyes don’t move from mine, and although I have a couple of ways I could go about this, I know only one will give me the desired effect. With a soft chuckle, I mimic his movements, leaning in, minimizing the possibility of others eavesdropping. My main focus is Arnault, my eyes glued on him. I see every imperfection on his face, every time his eyes close, every flutter of his lashes.
“My parents were drug addicts. At one point, they ran out of money and weren’t able to keep up with their addiction. Since I was an unwanted child, something my mother would tell me daily, she decided to sell me.”
His brows crease, and the slightest parting of his lips is telling me I have his full attention.
“Sell you?” His voice drips with disbelief, though he tries to keep it hidden. “What do you mean, she decided to sell you?”
“I mean, in return for allowing Paul Simmons to rape me time and time again from the moment I turned fifteen, to the day I killed them, he would give them money for drugs.”
Arnault’s entire face drops, the amusement faltering from his features completely. He sits in stunned silence, and the look of pure horror laces through his expression, his brows creasing further, and a small vein pops on his forehead.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” I say, pulling back and taking a sip of my tea. “I could go into detail of each and every single time that man has violated me, if you’d like.”
