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After the viewing, the mourners quietly make their way to the burial site, a small cemetery just inside city limits. Umbrellas unfurl in unison as the clouds release a steady rain that drums over the white canopy stretched over the graveside. The legs of the fold-out chair I sit in sink into the soft earth.

I chose a seat near the back, not wanting to intrude on the people who truly cared. The ones who love him can’t fathom how someone could be so cruel and take his life. His mother sits in the front row, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. His father’s hand rests on her back, his own profile etched with sadness.

My gaze stays on the closed casket as conversations murmur around me. They speak of how he used to be such a good student when he was younger, and how he was a professional birthday rememberer.

I hear them, but not much registers. I’m already drowning in my own thoughts, in the weight of what I’d set in motion.

The air around me shifts as a man sits next to me. I don’t need to look to know who it is; his energy is telling enough. My shoulders slightly tense, and my eyes roll instinctively with annoyance as his scent fills my nose. My peripheral confirms it.

“Good afternoon, darling. I see you’re wearing the dress I bought you.” His tone is cocky, and his lips curl into an infuriating smile. The audacity of him showing up at the funeral of the man he’d killed. I keep my eyes straight, and my jaw clenched so tight it aches.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to say goodbye to my good friend, Hudson. We spent so much time chatting at the library; I figured it was only right.”

I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “If you were such a good friend, why don’t you go apologize to his family for your territorial outburst?”

“I would, but that wouldn’t be truthful. I’m not sorry.”

“Of course you’re not. Deranged rich boys like you don’t have a heart.”

I finally turn my head to look at him, and his look meets mine, steady and soft through the accusation.

“You’re wrong. I do have a heart, and you own it.”

I scoff, rolling my eyes again. I have to push myself to ignore that the words slip beneath my skin, sending a tingle that crawls down my spine, electric and unwanted. He’s smooth, I’ll give him that.

The pastor steps forward, beginning the service, and I face the front again. I try my hardest, but Preston is impossible to dismiss. Even when I’m not looking at him, I can feel him watching me, studying my profile.

Every muscle in my body goes rigid when Preston places his hand on my thigh, large and warm on my cold skin. It settles on me, indistinguishable from a brand. My insides buzz, my body reacting before my mind has time to catch up. His fingers flex slightly, not hard, but enough to make sure I’m aware.

Every time I feel his thumb rub a slow line across my skin, I want to stand up and yell, ‘This is the man right here; he did it!’ but I can’t cause a scene. I’m positive that’s why Preston chose to come, why he picked the seat next to me, because he knows I can’t do anything about it.

I think about whispering at him to stop touching me—to get away from me—but I know that if I acknowledge it, he wins.

Around us, people weep. Hudson’s mother lets out a broken sob that cuts through the sound of rain. His father leans his head on her shoulder. And here I am, fighting off the warmth in the pit of my stomach at the hands of their son’s killer.

I reach for Preston, grabbing the cuff of his suit, and throw his hand back into his lap. The sound of his hand slapping his lap is loud enough that the woman in front of us glances back at us. I force an apologetic smile. He doesn’t hesitate—his hand returns to my thigh as if nothing had happened. His grip is harder and unrelenting this time, turning my skin white under his fingers. He tightens even more as I try to pry his fingers away, but I have no success.

I want to slap him—no, I want to grab him by the throat and thrash him in front of everyone. But I also want to know how his hands would feel on the rest of my body. What they would have done if I’d allowed him to continue the other night.

I try to keep my focus on the closing prayer, listening to the pastor say how Hudson will now live in eternal peace. I hope that Preston never gets a taste of it.

16

Darling

The wet clothes I come home in after the burial get peeled off in my bedroom, and even with them off, the cold lingers in my bones. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror that sits in the corner of my room. My hair is plastered to my head, and mascara smudges beneath my eyes.

There’s a flush to my cheeks that has nothing to do with the grief I was surrounded by, but everything to do with the man who sat next to me at the funeral and the residual feeling of his hand on my leg. I sit on the edge of my bed, burying my face in my hands.

I feel sick.

I must be sick to have any sort of feeling besides murderous towards Preston. Shame and disgust twist deep within me. My mind buzzes like a tormented hornet in my skull. I need to get Preston out of there—I need to do something that would make him never want to be near me again.

I need to get my hands on Robert Grant. And maybe, once I got to him, these crazy, confusing feelings I’m having for Preston would magically subside as well.

I’ve been watching Robert on and off since I killed Ellie, learning his patterns just in case. Unlike his brother, but a lot like Ellie, he was very predictable. He goes to the same bar, eats at the same restaurants, and works all the same days; his routine is pretty tight. The only problem is that he’s always surrounded by people.