She sighs. “I don’t like getting involved in your squabbles.”
“I’m not looking for support; I’m looking for a way to fix it. Help me...please.”
“Truthfully, I don’t think this is about you, Jacob.”Why does everybody seem to know something I don’t?“But honestly? You’ve known Katie for fifteen years, you’re telling me you don’tknow her well enough to know how to fix whatever it is that you’ve done to upset her?”
I pause, rubbing my hand over my beard, letting the scrape of it against my palm ground me. I need Katie on top form, not like this.
“I don’t like seeing her upset. I want to fight with her, not make her feel like shit.”
“I know you like fighting. It’s been fifteen years of foreplay, for God’s sake. Just get on with it. Make yourself vulnerable, and maybe you can stop fighting all the damn time, and you’ll know what’s going on in her damn life...Oh, I have to go. I’ve got another call coming in. But you’ll both be here on Saturday, won’t you? Alfie said he would call you.”
“He did. I’ll try to make sure we’re back on time.”
The bathroom door unlocks as I hang up, and I scoot back onto my side of the bed. She’s already in her pajamas. They’re silky and pink, and there’s a lace trim just begging to be tugged down. Her shoulders caved in as if she were trying not to puff her chest out. Her tits still look edible, so this meek stance she has going on is doing nothing to tame the swell of blood in my pants.
“I thought I’d have my own room. Otherwise, I would have worn something to cover up.”
“Katie . . . I . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel like shit. I’m an idiot.”
Her arms cling around her chest, coveringup the low cut of her strappy sleep top. It only pushes her boobs together more, but I’m not sure letting her know that is going to help her forgive me any quicker.
“It’s just one night. I’ll head to a store to grab a sleep shirt tomorrow.”
She slips under the covers as I rub my hand over my beard. She settles into the bed and starts scrolling on her phone as I stand like an idiot watching her.
Right. What would make her happy right now?
I must be able to think of something. I’ve known her for fifteen years.
And what can I do that I can get in butt-fuck nowhere Ohio?
Oh. Bingo.
“I’ll be back. Need to get some ice.”
“Okay,” she mutters.
I walk back toward the reception and spot the vending machine I’m looking for.
Chapter Eight
Katie
Thomas Vale sent me another letter. This time, telling me he’ll see me very soon. Ominous? Sure. Likely? No. He’s incarcerated for the rest of his life. Having gotten multiple life sentences for the murder of twenty-three women. He’s never getting out. I know this. And yet, his obsession with me is unnerving. And a man like him always seems otherworldly. God-like. As if he knows exactly what’s going to happen because he can see the future. Or perhaps he gives off such a powerful aura, it’s as if he can will it to be so.
I pull out the letter again; his sophisticated penmanship dances across the page. Even in biro, his lettering is beautiful. Despite the monster that lies beneath, Vale has a charm about him. A charisma that just sucks you into his orbit, like he’s the sun and we are all just spinning around him, waiting to feel something. But it’s not warmth he emits. Its sullen tentacles slowly wrapping around you until you can’t letgo. Until you’re so enraptured by the way he sees you that you can’t see your true self anymore.
Thomas Vale made me question everything about myself. My fifty hours spent interviewing him felt like I was on trial. He would assess me, his eyes carefully categorizing each item of clothing I wore, the way I did my hair, my nails, my makeup, my shoes. If he were pleased, he would give me a small nod and a smile. If not, he would barely look at me all session, giving me evasive answers and uninterested yawns.
I tailored myself to wear what I knew he would like. It’s not uncommon for psychologists to do this. But part of me felt like I was playing into his hands. Feeding his fantasy by preparing myself to become a willing participant. A willing victim. Any second, he could have jumped over the table, and it would have taken three grown men to pull him off me. There was only one stationed outside the door to the interview room we met in. Although he was cuffed and never made any outright threats to me, it sure felt like he was working me. Molding me into a perfect character witness for him. I gave him nothing during our sessions. No hint of what my professional opinion was, despite him asking me on numerous occasions.
The betrayal in his eyes at the trial as I took the stand and told the jury that it was, in my opinion, without doubt, that Thomas Vale was a violent, dangerous sociopath with narcissistictendencies. That he gets a rush from controlling and attempting to coerce others. He was a spider, luring in victims, playing with them until, when he got bored, he killed them in the most violent and horrific way. Slowly. Painfully. And if he were to be let out again, I had no doubt that he would kill again, perfecting his MO. Moving around so that he would be undetected this time.
It’s there that I saw him flip. The charismatic man who was hellbent on winning me over was gone. And I finally saw the real him. Dead eyes bored through me as if he were trying to commit me to memory. So that if he ever got out, he’d never forget my face, and he’d find me.
Aside from the fact that I have an obsessive serial killer who I literally helped put behind bars sending me creepy, threatening letters, I’m also on my period. And Jonesy made me feel like shit, and I was too tired and too anxious to have a retort back. So I’ve given him the silent treatment. Sure, I had a bit of cleavage showing, but my outfit was tame. Not that I care about what he thinks, anyway. But you know, I was glad to change into my baggy clothes. They’re my comfort clothes and, honestly, a bit of a crutch. I hate the looks and leers of people. Yes, I have big boobs. Move along, please.
I do feel kind of bad because he looks sort of devastated that I’m too tired to argue with him. What an ass.
