But I am worried he’ll leave before I can get a few answers.
While the logical side of my brain knows I should report everything that happens tonight, that I should probably lock myself in my room and call 911, I don’t have plans to do either. He may not know it, but he might have saved my life. If Steven hadn’t been murdered, who knows how bad things would have escalated.
I’m not sure how to play this. Should I tell him his first victim was my abuser? Or should I just keep that to myself and pretend like this never happened in the morning.
All of my musings go out the window whenSantaanswers my earlier question.
“I never liked that nickname, but I guess it could be worse. I mean, Santa is a giver, I take. Not really the same thing. But I am doing some good in the world by eliminating people that have been harming others.”
Where’s a hidden recording device when you need one? I can’t believe how readily he’s admitting all of this to me. Not to mention confirming some of the suspicions that he only kills people who deserve it. Several true crime enthusiasts believe he’s aDexterkind of killer.
“Now that you know my name, what–pray tell–is yours?” The deep timbre of his voice sends little pulses down my spine. It’s a little unfair that one of the most notorious serial killers is so hot. It’s the Ted Bundy effect. He’s so attractive that no one would ever thinkhe’s capable of such gruesome crimes. He can just flash a smile and no one will associate him with a cold-blooded killer.
Though, in my opinion, Ted Bundy wasn’t that attractive.
I must be sleep deprived, it is midnight, afterall. I need to get my train of thought back on track.
“Techanically, I don’t know your name,” I answer with a hand on my hip. My older sister gene is coming out. “I know your serial killer name. I don’t think it says Serial Killer Santa on your birth certificate.”
“Wow, ballsy of you to talk to a serial killer that way.” He makes a good point. But the humor in his voice leads me to believe he’s impressed, not offended. Call it intuition or naivety, but I don’t think he’s going to hurt me. “My name’s Cole. Now you tell me yours, beautiful?”
Beautiful?Wait. Wrong thing to focus on.
Should I give him my real name? If he’s clever enough to evade the police for five years, he’s probably more than capable of confirming my real name. So I answer honestly, “Noelle.”
“Ha,” he laughs shortly. “How can someone named Noelle hate Christmas?”
“Plenty of reasons.”
“Name one.”
I tsk like the teacher I am, “Sorry, Cole, we just got on a first name basis. You haven’t earned my tragic back story yet.”
For a moment, his eyes soften on me. Then his face lights up with mischief. I’ve seen that kind of look on kids who are about to pull a prank on another student. But on Cole, a fully grown man with a stubbled beard I want to feel between my legs, it’s downright sexy.
“First name basis, huh? What do I have to do to earn the tragic back story,Noelle.” God, I like the way he says my name. I like the sound of his voice.
“Why don’t you start by telling me why you’re in my apartment.”
With a shrug of his shoulders Cole replies, “Seems reasonable.”
Before continuing, he walks over to my couch and takes a seat, spreading his knees wide and extending a long arm across the back of the cushions.Make yourself at home, I guess.
“Well, as you know, I killed Frank, and I cut out his heart. I had planned to take it with me and find somewhere out of sight to stay until morning since there’s too much snow to drive in. But someone started trying to get into Frank’s apartment. So I couldn’t stay there in case whoever it is has a key or calls the police. I thought your apartment was vacant since the lights were off and you don’t even have a fucking christmas tree, but here we are. Clearly I was wrong.”
“Clearly.” I muse with narrowed eyes. How long is he going to complain about my lack of holiday decor? It’s already getting on my nerves.
“So, anyway, I need somewhere to crash until the snow plows clear the streets and I can go on my merry way.”
I shake my head as if that will jostle my thoughts into place. “So, you’re telling me all this because you want to spend the night on my couch until you can go home and repeat this all again next year?”
Nodding with a twinkle in his eye, Cole says, “Pretty much, yep.”
How am I supposed to answer that?
Sasha answers for me by prancing out of the little cubby in her cat tree and leaping into Cole’s lap. Figures that bitch would take to a freaking serial killer. It took her three weeks to come out from under the couch when I first got her. And another month until she even laid next to me on the couch. Now she’s acting like she’s the friendliest feline in the world.
Pointing a finger at the vixen, I say, “Sasha! Of course you’d take his side. Don’t forget who feeds you.”
