“So you killed them, using no particular MO, and left their bodies to be discovered in a public place.”
“Precisely. Such careless mutilation was not my style. But I couldn’t resist taking their hearts.”
“That’s why you moved everything to the storage unit,” she suggested. “I suppose even a serial killer has to do housekeeping from time to time.”
He smiled. “Yes. There were things I needed to get in order. It was unfortunate that two lives had to be sacrificed as a result.”
Unfortunate, yes. Sarah wondered if this man, this being, even had a heart. “Is the number 666 indicative of how you feel about yourself?” That was certainly no coincidence.
He laughed softly. “Don’t doubt my understanding of who and what I am, Sarah. Though I have tried to be a good father and husband, deep down I have always fully comprehended what I am. I chose that code as a sort of irony. So many worry about the devil taking their souls and holding them prisoner in hell. Isn’t that what I’ve done?”
She could see the irony, yes.
“After twenty years,” she redirected, “what awakened the demon?” Two decades of meticulous control, and then the man who planned every detail so carefully suddenly gets sloppy? No way.
“The first temptation came in the form of that whore on West Street.”
“Matilda’s mother?” Sarah tensed. Was this what Matilda had been talking about?
“A few years ago she attempted to seduce me in a public place and then blackmail me.” He made a disparaging sound. “It didn’t work, ofcourse.” His gaze locked with Sarah’s. “She has no idea how close she came to being a victim of someone besides herself.”
“But you resisted,” Sarah suggested.
“For the child’s sake.” Jerald shook his head. “In hindsight, perhaps the child would have been better off if I had acted on the impulse.”
Sarah studied him a long moment. “If that was a few years ago, why kill again now? Who pissed you off this time?”
“I believe we’ve reached the end of constructive conversation, Sarah.”
His expression closed as surely as if he’d pulled the blinds or locked a door.
“You’re afraid to talk about it,” she challenged. “Afraid I’ll figure out the truth.”
He leaned forward as far as his constraints would allow. “I know what you’re afraid of, Sarah Newton.”
Tension stiffened her. “How would you know anything about me?”
“I know everything about you. From your humble, gruesome childhood to your boring college days and everything in between and after. Most information about one’s life, every little secret, is easily attained with the proper incentive.”
Fury roared through her. “You’re right,” she agreed. “I do believe we’ve reached the end of constructive conversation.” She pushed up from her chair and started for the door.
“Don’t worry, Sarah.”
She paused, looked back at him. “What would I be worried about?”
“You’re not a killer.”
“That’s right,” she tossed back. “I’m not. But you are.”
“Exactly my point. There’s one thing a natural-born killer knows, and that’s another killer.”
“I appreciate your vote of confidence.” She reached for the door.
“You think about it often.”
Enough. But some tiny little seed of doubt wouldn’t let her walk away without hearing him out. No ... wait. Something he’d said bobbed to the surface.
... one with the misfortune of being born to parents who kill, could, in fact, become a killer simply by virtue of DNA.
