“There’s no need for that,” his response comes immediately. “How come you didn’t use that in court? I’d imagine you finally snapped and killed your mother and step-father for that reason.”
I nod, humming behind the rim of the ceramic cup. “I did. But the moment I provided evidence, such as images of the events happening, which were taken by my mother, they disappeared. Back then, Paul had a lot more power than he does now, and he was able to buy the judge.”
“Jesus,” Arnault breathes out. He’s silent for a moment, skimming my sitting position, his gaze almost too scrutinizing. But I’m used to that. I’m used to seeing the pity, mixed with disbelief on people’s faces.
It’s one of the reasons I’ve stopped telling my story. Not many people believed me, and those who did had nothing but pity to offer. Somehow, being pitied feels worse than not being believed. I don’t want their pity. I survived. I survived horrors that not many people could even comprehend. I managed to stay alive, and now, I’m going to finish what Paul started.
“I’ve brought those images with me, if you want to see them.”
“No,” he frowns. “However, as terrible and as awful this story is, it’s not an explanation as to why you wanted to see me.”
“Ah,” I click my tongue against the roof of my tongue, lowering the cup back on the table. “That was merely an introduction for this story, so you’d understand everything. I’ve just given you context, if you will.”
He nods. “Go on.”
“I’m going to kill Paul Simmons.”
For once, his face remains unchanged. He only blinks, taking another taste of his coffee. Silence falls around us, and I’m waiting for him to speak, though it takes him a while to formulate something that resembles a decently structured sentence.
“Of course you are,” he drawls out, and it’s not quite the response I expected. “How do you plan to do that?”
“Another thing I cannot tell you, however,” I lower my voice. “I come offering a bargain.”
“I’m intrigued,” he raises a brow. “I’m listening.”
“I know you’ve been looking for The Death Angel.”
His entire body freezes briefly. He’s taken aback by my knowledge of the topic, but he quickly recovers. He clears his throat, stapling his fingers together. His face is blank, expressionless as he stares right into my eyes. “How would you know that?”
“I have my sources. And I can offer her to you on a silver platter.”
Frowning again he exclaims, “What?!”
“Tell me, Agent Arnault,” I smirk a little. “Do you believe in doppelgangers?”
He blinks. “No.”
“That’s unfortunate, because The Death Angel is mine.”
He frowns. “Elaborate.”
“After I survived the prison massacre, I had a little help leaving that godforsaken place, and I found myself in this small town called Long Grove. It’s in Illinois.”
He snorts. “Let me guess, you were helped by the De Santis family?”
“Correct. And imagine my surprise when I was given a new name, yet the face remained the same.”
“You got lucky, then.”
“I’m afraid luck has nothing to do with it,” I chuckle. “But let’s say so. I took the name of Amy Marshall. Although she’s a few years older than me, no one in Long Grove noticed. After all, we look freakishly alike.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it.”
The file with everything on Amy Marshall and Death Angel is sitting right next to me. So, I pull it out, planting the thick item on the table. His eyes dip down to it when I open, and the first thing he sees are two images.
I take them out, placing them right in front of him. On the left, it’s an image of Amy when she was in Long Grove. On the right is an image of myself, looking just like Amy did on the left.
“Damn,” he breathes out, taking both images in his hands, inspecting them thoroughly. I give him a couple of moments toprocess it all, watching as his eyes soak in the sight in front of him. “She’sThe Death Angel?”
