So it was only fair I returned the favor.
The game Cleo and I are playing is long, but the prize will be worthy. She’s even more broken now than when I stumbled onto her at her brother’s funeral. You see, her father’s wrongdoing didn’t just claim Shelley’s life. It saw himself, his wife, and his only son take the same blackened path I plan for his two remaining offspring to eventually walk.
Cleo’s eyes are wet from the tears she shed when questioned about the death of her unborn child, the contents of her nose precariously pools in the crevices of her nostrils when the jury is shown photographic evidence of the fresh scar in her lower abdomen, and her hands shake when she’s forced to point to me when asked who ‘allegedly’ assaulted her.
Her frightened response is beautiful—utterly breathtaking.
And she is also mine.
Desperate to break the fog our eight weeks of absence has caused, I step into her line of sight, blockinghimfrom her view. The veins in her neck throb as her pulse quickens. She’s so pleased to have secured my devotion, she struggles to breathe.
Every ragged gasp she takes doubles the thickness of the blood in my veins.
I understand her struggle.
I feel her pain.
So I will once again save her from her nightmare.
“Is that correct?” I ask again, my voice raspier than earlier. Her sneaky glances do that to me. They make me unstable but in a way I can’t help but encourage.
The doctors say I have obsessive-compulsive tendencies driven by an unbalanced family environment. They don’t know what they’re talking about. I am not insane, mentally unstable, or psychotic. I am a man who knows what he wants, and I don’t stop hunting until I get it.
Upon spotting the faint bob of the DA’s head, Cleo mimics his movements. She doesn’t enjoy disappointing me, but our lengthy absence since my arrest in her home has jumbled her mind.
She’ll soon learn thatheis not the rule maker.
Heisn’t half the man I am.
I am the god who saved her from hell.
Heis the coward.
“So, if I am being accused of murder, who is the victim?” I turn to face the jurors. Half their expressions are as ashen as Cleo’s. The other half is a cross between confused and angry. “The DA stated many times that the charges brought forward are for grievous bodily harm, deprivation of liberty, assault, and murder one, but the victim’s identity has not been brought forward. How can that be?”
The jurors follow my gaze back to Cleo. She straightens in her chair the instant she spots my narrowed glare. I’m not overly angry at her, but some penance must be paid for the wrongs she’s committed. Even after being publicly humiliated in front of millions, she still ran back tohim.That’s why I had no choice but to react the way I did. Her inability to see how stupid he makes her look is why I did what I did. I am guilty of what I am accused. I pierced Cleo’s stomach with a knife, killing her unborn baby, but I am not a murderer.
Not a convicted one, anyway.
“Who is the victim, Cleo?”
Her throaty groan as she strives to hold in her tears rolls through me like liquid ecstasy. It’s heaven to my ears, the equivalent of an afternoon swim on a scorching hot day.
I stop relishing her nearly choked response when the DA shouts, “Objection, Your Honor! The accused is well aware of the victim’s identity. It’s been stated multiple times during preliminary hearings and is documented in the evidence we handed to him weeks ago.”
He stands from his chair, hopeful a bit of height will bolster his appeal.
He should sit the fuck down because height isn’t his only disadvantage. His failure to recognize my brilliance is another downfall. He is an amateur dabbling in a world where he doesn’t belong.
I am the master.
He is a mere pawn.
I return my focus to the judge, who’s glaring at me over his half-rimmed spectacles before speculating, “The opinions of a jury often change during cross-examination due to doubt being cast on the witness. I am not saying Ms. Garcia lied during her earlier testimony, but perhaps if her answers aren’t coerced by the DA, she will freely express herself.”
“What are you saying, Mr. Elias?” the judge asks while pushing his glasses back up his blackhead-covered nose. “Do you believe the witness has been coached to give false testimony?”
The worry in his voice hums through me. “Yes, Your Honor, that ispreciselywhat I am implying. But Ms. Garcia hasn’t merely been coached. She’s been brainwashed as well.”
