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I take a deep breath. “Well, the Perfectly Convenient girl is dead. She had to go because she started catching on to me being there for you instead of her. I think I asked one too many questions, and she seemed to like you. I couldn’t have her telling you anything before I was ready. The library girl is gone too. That was accidental. Well, not really. I accidentally went too far when we were fucking. She got angry and started yelling, but we were at her place and her neighbors are nosy. I had to shut her up quickly, and well…”
“Went too far?” he asks, as if killing her wasn’t bad enough.
“I didn’t rape her. Jesus. I’m not a monster.” I crack a grin at him and he shakes his head. “Too rough,” I add with a shrug. “Not everyone likes spankings, I guess.”
“She wasn’t submissive enough for you?” he bites.
I bypass that. “But I was using them to get your attention. I knew you were watching. I wanted you to be. I’d hope you’d confront me. I know a couple of your kills seemed to be justified. Two men in the suburbs of Seattle beat the living shit out of one of your friends, right? A girl. You were the vigilante hero when justice wasn’t served. I figured you had a soft spot for women. I lured you in.”
“I don’t have a soft spot for women.”
“No. Not all of them, huh?” I say with a wink.
“That one in particular was different. She was good to me. Nice. I didn’t know her well, but I knew her life wasn’t easy. Even with her own problems, she was always offering me help when she thought I was going through a hard time. She got drunk at a party. These guys didn’t just beat her. They raped her. They pissed on her. They stole from her.”
“I saw. They got off easy. Nobody believed they raped her.”
“Of course not. She was a drunk woman at a party. She was asking for it, right?” He shakes his head. “I made sure they paid for it.”
I give him a little clap. “And I commend you for it. I can see why the cops wouldn’t connect you with her. I found her name and the case, and because everyone is on social media these days, it was easy to find her. She’s been posting pictures and statuses for over a decade on Facebook. In all that time, you’re only halfway in one picture. Just this,” I say, gesturing to the side of my neck down to my collarbone. “You ducked out, but you have a very obvious scar,” I say, eyeing it. “When I saw that, and saw how they were killed, I knew it was you. The same person who killed Phillip Davis, Patrick Reeves, and Bernard and Giorgia Black.”
ChapterNine
If he’s shocked at how much I know, he doesn’t show it. Not even a flinch. But surprising to no one, he doesn’t touch on what I just said. He moves on.
“If you used those girls just to get to me, then what about prior?”
“What makes you think I have priors?”
“You’re good. Not the best, but you’re good. You slip into the skin of a shy, charming guy. You bring your victims to you. You lured me in by luring them in, and you don’t learn that overnight.” He shifts, scooting to the edge of the couch as he faces me. “I asked about you, too. Everybody gets a different version of you. Some say you’re nice, some say you’re rude. Somebody says you're from Maine, another person says you’re from Massachusetts. You’re keeping the truth to yourself and spinning lies to everyone else. The story you told me about your perfect family? It’s a lie. I knew it as soon as you said it.
“I’m not extremely tech savvy, but I know a little. I looked into Kaspian Loughton in both Maine and Massachusetts. Nothing comes up. No social media accounts either. To be honest, I didn’t expect to find anything. You’re a different person here than wherever you came from. You have to be. Just like me.”
I tilt my head from side to side. “Not bad. There’s been a few others. Didn’t kill them all though. I guess you can say I have an obsessive personality. Not to be confused with obsessive compulsive disorder, but did you know there’s actually a thing called obsessive love disorder?”
“And what is that? The need to be loved and praised every second of the day?”
“Well, who wouldn’t want that?” I reply with a smile. “But no, I want the ability to love and praise the person I’m with without being labeled a clingy psycho. Why is it so bad to want to know everything about someone? Why is it a bad thing to want to spend time with them? Why the fuck is it wrong to not want them hanging out and talking to other guys when they’re supposed to love me? I mean, really? What is wrong with people?”
My anger rises fast, so I take a breath and try to let it go.
He regards me for several seconds. “I’m going to assume there’s a story there. What happened? You fell in love, but she didn’t love you back?”
“She said she loved me,” I seethe. “She spoke the words over and over again. We were perfect together. I did everything for her. I worshiped the ground she walked on, and all she did was walk all over me. I had to read text messages to find out how she really felt. She was the best thing to happen to me until she became the worst. It’s not my fault, Ezra. She brought it on herself.”
He processes that and then says, “And the next one? Same thing? You keep thinking you foundthe onebut they treat you like shit?”
“Women are strange fucking creatures, man,” I say with a laugh. “I don’t know that they know what they want half the time. You get the ones saying they want a nice guy, and hey, I’m fucking nice. I’m here, taking your dog out to take a shit because you’re too sick to do it. I’m bringing you food and medicine while you’re curled up in bed. I remember your favorite book and find you a special edition. I don’t forget your favorite movie, and make sure it’s on when you come over. I put gas in your car before you have to go to work the next day, because I know you’re too fucking lazy to do it yourself. I do those things, but it’s too much. I’m too nice. Too considerate. So what? You want the bad boy, right? The guy who barely acknowledges you. The one who uses you. Guess what happens when I treat them like a fucking sex toy? Oh, I’m a walking red flag, but these chicks fuck the bad boy when they have the nice guy. How am I supposed to keep up?”
My chest heaves as I finish talking, my teeth clenched and anger at a tipping point. Ezra’s face remains impassive, unaffected by my roller coaster of emotions.
I force a laugh and shrug. “So, yeah. What’re you gonna do?”
“And men? You don’t do this with them?”
“It’s different than when I’m with women. I want to be there for a woman. I want to step up and be the protector and caretaker, as long as they can fucking deal with the way I do it, and don’t, you know, talk shit about me or cheat on me.” I shake my head as I blow out a frustrated breath. “With men, I want the opposite, but most men don’t know how to take care of anybody. Selfish, oblivious, and sometimes just plain stupid.” I pause and notice the way he’s looking at me. “Not me, of course,” I say with a twitch of my lips. “I’m not those things, Ezra.”
He lifts his chin, but I can see the thoughts behind his eyes. I’ve lifted the veil, and he’s finally seeing a glimpse at who I am. He thinks he knows me now. He doesn’t. Not truly, but do we ever really know anyone? Couples married for fifteen years have secrets. They have parts of them the other person doesn’t know about. They have desires and fantasies, hopes and dreams, frustrations and resentment, and they don’t reveal them. Only we know who we truly are at our core. Only we know what we’re capable of and what we want.
