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“Death,” she said, refusing to let her voice waiver. “Grave.”
“Cold,” he said. “Woods.”
“Death,” she said, but he shook his head like he disagreed. “Jonathan.”
“Loyal,” he said, but his voice wasn’t as robotic as it had been. “Lana.”
“Spirited,” she said with a smile that wasn’t forced. “Doctor.”
“God,” he responded, and she tilted her head.Interesting.“Love.”
“Heartbreak,” Zoe said, then wondered if she really believed that. Peter nodded like he agreed. “Murder.”
“Cleansing,” he said, then added: “It’s true.”
She nodded slowly, like she was considering it, but there was nothing cleansing about murder.
“Baby,” he said.
“Life,” she said.
He shook his head. “You’re wrong. Do you know how many babies die every day?”
“How many?” she asked, glad he was talking. Her strategy was working.
“Too many. What is the point of life, Zoe?”
“I don’t know, Peter... To love, to live it fully.”
He nodded. “Exactly. To live it fully. But we’re always afraid; afraid of hurting, afraid of dying, afraid of failing. But when you realize you can do things others can’t—you’re not afraid anymore. You know you’re powerful, an artist of life.”
“Are you a doctor or an artist?” Zoe asked.
The look in his eyes was chilling. “An artist.”
“And Jonathan? What is he?” Zoe asked, making sure she used the present tense, as Peter wasn’t yet aware of the fate of his brother.
“An apprentice,” Peter said.
Zoe shook her head. “You’re wrong. He isn’t your apprentice. He doesn’t have the stomach for it. He’s weak,” she said, pleased when she got a reaction from him. The more reactive he was, the easier it would be for him to make a mistake.
“You’re insulting my family,” he said.
“You killed my family,” she said.
He smirked. “Touché, Zoe, touché.”
“Why did you kill your mother?” she asked.
“Because she deserved it. She controlled us and made us believe our father had left because of us,” he said, shaking his head. “It was a lie. I tracked down my father five years ago. He’s married and lives in Denver now. He has a family of his own. My mother abused him. He told us he had to leave without us, or she would’ve killed us all. Mother of the year,” he said, his voice dripping in sarcasm.
“Is Jonathan his son too?” Zoe asked.
“Yes; his mother died in childbirth. See? Babies don’t equate to life, Zoe,” he said, condescending.
She nodded, keeping calm.
“How many women did you murder, Peter?” Zoe asked, now certain there were more.
