“Did you come to gloat?” I ask, tilting my head.
He glances at the bed behind me that’s bolted to the floor. “Are you sleeping well?”
“Why do you care?” I would fold my arms if I could.
“I never said I didn’t. You assumed,” he says.
Always so cryptic.
“Sit down,” he says, nodding at the bed.
“I’m not a dog, Detective Foley.”
He licks his lips. “Will it help if I say please?”
“Maybe.”
“Then will you please sit on the bed, Sunny?”
I narrow my eyes at him.
Why is he being so suspiciously nice? It’s unlike him, and I don’t trust it.
Sighing, I turn around and sit down, and he sits down on the chair that’s bolted to the floor right next to my door.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“I want to talk with you … about some things I found.”
“About me? Where? In my room? Did you enjoy the macabre collection of relics from the dead?” I muse.
He pulls out a bunch of papers from his pocket. “About your medical records.”
My throat suddenly clamps up.
How did he …?
“You didn’t tell your family what happened to you, did you?”
I swallow, but the dryness doesn’t go away.
“Someone gravely injured you,” he says.
My face begins to contort from the loss of control over my emotions, and I hate it.
“They took something from you that wasn’t theirs to take.”
“Stop,” I growl, not wanting to face it.
“You don’t want to talk about it because that’s the one thing that has been driving you since you started killing, hasn’t it?”
I hide my face behind my hair just so I don’t have to look him in the eyes and have him see right through me.
No.
Don’t get too close.
The blood is still fresh.
