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Crying.
I replay the tape over and over. Observing carefully the way the droplets splash against her cheeks.
I like her tears.
My mouth waters when they spill down her throat and onto her naked breasts. She feels so sorry for herself, this little beauty.
She doesn’t know the meaning of sorry yet.
My cock is uncomfortably hard and swollen when I retrieve the knife from my pocket. The flat edge presses into my thigh, and I imagine her cheek beneath my blade. I will see her tears again.
The tip of the blade digs into my flesh, and I twist until I am consumed by the pain. Crimson oozes from the wound, and I smear it over my bloody knuckles, shoving my hand into my briefs.
On the live feed, Bella steps from the bath, naked and wet with blotchy red skin from water that is too hot.
She does not reach for a towel. She does not move at all. Her eyes are on her reflection in the mirror.
Lifeless.
She does this often. Her lips are quiet, but I know her mind is loud.
She is picking herself apart the way the papers do. Wondering if she is beautiful, or if it is all an illusion. The overnight success with mediocre talent.
Some of the things they say about her are true.
She is beautiful. With pure, pale skin and ice blue eyes. Long raven hair that kisses the curve of her lower back. She is the most delicate thing I have ever seen, and she sings like an angel.
Mediocre, she could never be.
So clean and innocent and tender. The thoughts I have of her are so dark. The fixation blooms inside of me every time I watch her this way. She is a witch, and she has me under her spell.
This is not the way it should be.
She should be in my possession already. Every day that I wait, I risk losing my chance. I risk losing her to a force outside of my control.
An enemy of her father.
Anyone that ever knew Ray is being eliminated. One by one, I have watched them disappear in a series of car crashes and freak accidents. It’s only a matter of time before they come for Bella too.
I need to move soon. Before time and circumstance have the pleasure of taking what can only be mine.
The light inside of her will be snuffed out, with certainty. But only by my hands. Mine alone.
And yet, something holds me back.
Something makes me question everything I have planned so meticulously. When I watch her this way, I have doubts. I need only to draw on my memories to vanquish those doubts.
Visions of torture fill my thoughts and my heart. The rage consumes everything good and leaves only bitterness in its wake.
That bitterness coats my tongue when I watch Bella crawl into her bed and reach for a book on the nightstand. So soft and carefree.
She has never known hardship. She has never known hate.
But she will.
Crossing her delicate ankles, she pulls her knees to her chest and tries to read. It doesn’t last.
She is anxious. Fidgety. Distracted. And beneath her thin blue tee shirt, her nipples are hard. She discards her book and pulls the bed sheet up over her body. Frustration mounts when her hand slides down into her panties, into a place that I can’t see.
She closes her eyes and breathes softly while she touches herself. My bloody fist chokes my cock while I watch. I punish myself for wanting her this way. For the thirst that breeds inside of me every time I see her pretty face.
She touches herself uncertainly, never quite satisfied. I imagine tasting her, and then I hate myself for it. I imagine her bound beneath me, immobile and under my control. Squirming, crying. Hating me and wanting me.
I want to hurt her. I want to mark her. I want to witness her blood contaminated with the blackness of mine.
Her phone rings, and it is Luke. She doesn’t answer it.
Contempt surges inside of me, equal only to my viciousness. I want to rip his beating heart from his chest and force him to choke on it.
Isabella moans, soft and weak, and then releases herself with the tiniest of tremors in her body. Her eyes flicker open, and I zoom in on them.
I imagine my come dripping down her face and her throat. Marking her. Claiming her. Smearing my seed all over her body, mixing with the blood from my fingers.
The release is violent. My ears ring, and my lungs cease to function.
I am bloody and spent. But I wait until she is tucked into bed and her breath grows still before I move on to my next obsession.
I track his phone first. Luke is still at the hotel in the city. The bug planted in his phone allows me to hear everything he does. Every move he makes.
I take note of his transgressions. I take note of each and every one. And I bide my time.
He’s fucking Megan again. High, again. He fucks her for thirty minutes and can’t come. She asks if he wants another line and he tells her to piss off.
“Is this about Isabella?” she snarls.
There is a growl, followed by a soft whimpering noise. I envision him with his hand around her throat, threatening her.
“What did I tell you?”
“Don’t say her name,” she chokes out.
There’s a sputtering cough, and then the sound of the door opening.
“Do you love her?” she asks.
There is a pause before he answers.
“So what if I do, kitten?” he taunts.
“Luke.” Her voice is desperate.
“What does it matter?” he replies. “You’re the one I fuck every night. Aren’t you?”
CHAPTER FIVE
ART AGREES to speak with me while I’m back in Virginia.
The house that I grew up in is about an hour outside of Fairfax, which is where Art requests to meet. It’s at the same diner we’ve met at several times before, where the waitress knows him by name, and she doesn’t make a stink about us holding up the table for hours at a time.
I spend the afternoon with him. He feeds me pieces of information from the investigation and tries to make them sound promising. They don’t sound promising at all.
I still don’t believe what he’s telling me. Nevertheless, I continue to pursue my only hope. I plead with him to consider allowing me to contact Javi.
In the end, the result is the same.
I spend hours with him. Grilling him. Begging him. Wishing for any scrap of hope he could give me. It never comes. And eventually, he grows tired and unsympathetic.
He leaves me with the same line he always does. They will continue working on it.
The drive home is long and frustrating. I’m exhausted and I know I have to go back to Luke soon, but it’s the last thing I want to think about right now.
When I turn the knob on the front door, it’s unlocked. My palm hesitates on the handle, and I don’t remember leaving it that way. I rationalize. I can barely remember what day of the week it is, let alone basic safety precautions.
But when I step inside, I know. I know something isn’t right, even before I turn the corner and see the mess.
Someone has been in here. Someone has completely trashed the house in search of something. What, I don’t know.
My first instinct is to call the police. But then I think of Art.
This could be important. This could have something to do with my father’s disappearance.
I pull out the canister of pepper spray that I carry in my purse and walk through the house, checking to be sure whoever it is has gone.
When I’m certain that they are, I dial Art again. He answers with a sigh.
“Someone broke into the house,” I tell him. “I think they were looking for something.”
The other line is quiet for a minute, and then, “are you okay?”
“I’m fine. They aren’t here anymore.”
“You need to pack your things and leave, Isa. I will take care of it.”
“Do you think this could have something to do with…”
“I don’t know,” he tells me. ?
?I’m turning around now. I’ll be there soon, but don’t wait for me. Just pack your things and go back to the city.”
“Okay.”
“Let me know when you get there.”
He hangs up, and I do what he says. I pack. But I can’t leave like this. I can’t leave without checking to be sure that some of my father’s possessions are still alright.
There are things everywhere, strewn all over the floor. My books have been pulled from the shelves. The photos that remain on the wall are crooked, and the ones that aren’t have shattered to the floor.
Even the photo of my father.
My hands shake as I pick up the pieces and replace them one by one. It's a long process. I save the broken knick-knacks on the floor until last. But when I move to sweep them up, something odd catches my eye.
And because of who my father was, I know exactly what it is before reality has time to sink in.
A listening device.
An icy draft crawls down my spine and settles into my shaking hands.
Someone has been listening to me.
