He’s been sending me messages to come home while warning me not to defy him, and each time I did it anyway, there was a consequence. But what’s even more sickening is how he’s doing it—by playing fucking twisted, mind games, sending me warnings that I couldn’t possibly understand unless I disobeyed, all the while purposely misleading me.
I had no goddamn idea who the pink barrette belonged to until after I didn’t heed Lionel’s first request. Then, not only did I not heed it, he saw my transfer papers to London and knew I was actively tryingto escape him. So he trashed my dorm as punishment, and gave me a newspaper clipping lamenting about what a wonderful father he was, along with a bundle of black curly hair. Except, I thought it was Roxi’s, and he fucking knew I would assume it belonged to her.
But now, with the crime scene photo laid out before me, he’s showing me it was actually Margaret’s, who was the mother of the little boy who bullied me and broke my wrist. Lionel laid her hair next to the article as if it’s proof of him being a good father for killing my bully’s mother.
And how fucking ironic that is.
Regardless, I still refused him, so Jennifer Holbrook’s death was my next punishment.
He gave me these two specific photos not only to give me the answers I was missing—who the black hair belonged to, and why next to a newspaper article praising him as a father—but to show me how easy it is for him to fuck with me. Proven by him spreading Jennifer’s remains at the location pictured in the background of the photo Margaret took of us.
He didn’t even need to leave a note this time. We both know I’m well aware of what he wants. And the blonde hair he gifted is yet another warning. Especially because, unlike Margaret’s hair, he left the follicles attached to the strands this time, meaning he wanted Barry to be able to trace the DNA.
Which, in itself, is slightly terrifying.
All I know is it can’t be Mindy’s—she has dark brown hair, though it’s extremely unsettling that she’s been missing longer than Jennifer, yet no one has discovered her remains.
It’s intentional. But why?
She can’t possibly still be alive. Based on the autopsies of every known victim from both the Locksmith and copycat, they were all killed within two days of the dates they disappeared.
However, Mindy is different. Neither the Locksmith nor the copycat has killed anyone outside of California before. If Lionel were to publicly dispose of her remains, whether it’s in Colorado or California, it would be instantly tied back to her attendance at mine and Dread’s school. Obviously, that would make Lionel look really suspicious, which is likely why he created the dating profile, a fail-safe to lead people to believe I had something to do with her disappearance rather than him.
It’s still a risk and likely to make people question Lionel regardless,considering I’ve never been suspected of killing anyone before. So, why would I wait until now? If my only motivation is to make people think it was Lionel and connect him to the Locksmith, even if only to cast doubt on him and ruin his pretty reputation, why would I purposely model the fake profile to look like me taking after him?
Maybe Mindyisalive. Maybe he killed Jennifer as a punishment—but within the safety of Locksmith territory—so he could keep Mindy as a last resort. A warning he’ll ultimately follow through with should I push him far enough.
There’s only one way to find out, and the answer is in California.
Groaning, I prop my elbows on my desk and drop my head into my hands, an ache forming between my brows and throughout my neck and shoulders. All this stress and tension is taking a toll on my body. I’m only twenty-two, yet I’m beginning to feel like I’m in the body of an eighty-year-old.
The thought of returning to that house and living out the rest of my life under his roof makes me want to fucking die. With each passing day, I’m starting to wonder if I just should get it over with. As long as Lionel is alive and well, I will always have one foot in the grave. How I fall in is a matter of who says fuck it first—him or me.
A loud, quick rap on my door startles me out of my thoughts. I just barely bite back a scream, and earn a bonus of biting my damn tongue, too.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, my heart pounding a mile a second while my tongue pulses.
Exhaling heavily, I get to my feet and stomp toward the door. I’m pretty fucking sure I know who it is, and I’m already groaning again before even swinging the door open.
Yup.
Exactly who I thought it was.
“For the actual love of God, can you two please leave me alone?”
“No can do, sweet cheeks,” Rogue sings, his grin taking up half his stupid-ass face. He may be a beautiful specimen of a human being, but it does nothing but piss me off.
“And here I thought you guys were done torturing me,” I grumble.
He grins. “It’s a natural ability of mine.” He spreads his arms out to his sides. “Come on, it’s our last day together before your man comes home.”
My upper lip curls with distaste.
‘My man’left me sitting naked in an oven, covered in human remains—which is exactly why he’ll never be my man.
Istilldon’t feel clean.
Once I got home from the crematorium that night, I took the longest and hottest shower of my life, nearly scrubbing my skin raw to rid myself of the feeling of the ash coating my skin.
