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But I don't ask or beg because if he were planning to kill me, he wouldn't tell me the truth about it anyway. I remember what Declan said back in the cell about how sociopaths could form a few limited bonds. Maybe they know they have to kill me but don't want me to see it coming. Maybe this is their twisted way of showing mercy.
With a blindfold, I wouldn't see it coming. Seven could just park the car somewhere, reach over and snap my neck. If he kills me, I hope he does it like that. Quick, where I don't see it coming.
“I can't believe I believed you. I believed you cared...” I say, needing to talk to get my mind off the dark fears consuming me.
“Shhh,” he says before I can start sobbing again. His hand strokes my knee, and I can't bring myself to pull away, and it isn't the fear. I hate myself right now for still wanting him to touch me.
“Don't feel bad,” he says. “There are women married for decades to serial killers, with children even. They never suspect. Without a real conscience, it's easy to hide, and normal people can't even fathom what goes on inside our minds. And you never really know anyone anyway. Everything you think you know about anyone you've ever met is just the parts they've shown you. You never really know anyone,” he says again. Does he really believe this? I'm not sure. Maybe it's true though.
We always have a skewed perspective of other people, even those closest to us. We make shorthand assumptions about their thoughts and feelings and motivations. We project ourselves onto them. We become disillusioned when we find out we were wrong about people.
My hands are clenched together in my lap. “I felt safe with you.”
“You were safe with me. You're still safe with me. Tell me, Kitten, if you needed surgery, would you prefer to have someone very empathetic or very sociopathic operate on you?”
What kind of question is this? “Someone empathetic, of course.”
He laughs. “No, you wouldn't. Very empathetic people are the type of people who break down into tears when a disaster happens on the other side of the world to random strangers they've never met. They hold candlelight vigils and pray and wring their hands. They see a starving African child on a television commercial and send money they probably could put to better use for their own family because they felt sad seeing a small sad-eyed hungry child. And they need to assuage their guilt at having a full belly. They are altruistic even to the point of neglecting their own needs or their family's needs. They have no strong loyalties because they love everyone with a shallow love that is really just their lack of emotional control.”
I let these words fall over me. I don't know if I should believe them, but they do sound true. I've known people like this. Every news story depresses them or makes them anxious. They get emotionally over-involved in the lives of strangers.
“It's not black or white, Kate. I guarantee you every top surgeon in the world is at least a bit sociopathic. You have to be able to shut your feelings off and just see a body in front of you so you can make clear-headed rational choices. You don't want someone who is too emotional or falls apart at every little thing or feels everybody else's emotions. Most politicians are sociopaths. Most CEOs are sociopaths. And yet the world still spins.”
“You didn't really feel anything for me. I didn't expect Declan to, but I thought you...”
“Obviously, I felt something, Kitten. He does, too.”
And that's all I'm going to get from him. I know this because he seems to become a wall. He turns on the radio to a classical music station, and we drive the rest of the way in silence.
Finally the car stops, he removes the blindfold from my eyes, and he gives me a folder with all my bank stuff, my purse, and a set of keys.
“Your car is in the parking garage. And you live on the top floor.” He winks at me. “It's where they typically keep the penthouse. Goodbye, Kate.”
I swallow back the tears. I'm never going to see this man again. I shouldn't want to see him again. And now that I know they were both bad, it seems stupid to deny I also felt something for Declan. Because one of them isn't the safe guilt-free choice anymore. They were both evil. And suddenly, in this moment, I’m flooded with my feelings for Declan, these soft feelings I've denied myself because it was so wrong.
I get out of the car, and before I close the door, I say, “Can I ask you one more question?”
“Ask,” he says.
“How do you know Declan?”
“My only friend since childhood. He was the one person I knew who was like me. Empty.”
These are the last words he says to me. I shut the car door and watch him drive away. I manage to get inside the building and onto the elevator, riding up to the penthouse before I break down into sobs again. I feel so lonely and so wrong in every way one can be wrong.
I feel... discarded. And I am. But at least I won't starve.
I'm surprised when the elevator doors open directly into the penthouse. I had to use a key in the elevator for this floor, but I still somehow expected a hallway. There are floor-to-ceiling windows, and the view is astounding.
I drop my purse, keys, and large bank envelope onto a chair next to the elevator. And then I freeze. Right in front of me, on a marble table, is a vase of fresh fragrant white roses. There’s a card in the flowers with my name on it.
My hand shakes as I pull out the card.
When you are ready to come home, call, and we will come get you.
There’s a phone number at the bottom.
They're still playing with me. They think I'm so addicted to what they turned me into that I will give up freedom and luxury to go back to them and live in a cell like some animal.
