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I killed the cook.
I know, I know, I shouldn’t have, but when Brianna stopped messaging me back, I lost it. Granted, it didn’t take much for me to lose it, but at least I was calm under pressure after it was said and done.
My uncle already knew. He’d made arrangements with the family, paid them off like he always did. Me losing it wasn’t a new occurrence, anyway. We’d both been through this time and time again.
He and Nicole were going to come home early, and as much as I’d tried to argue against it, I could tell by the sternness of his voice there would be no conversation about it. The earliest flight they could catch was Sunday. So, not too early, but still, it would cut into my time with Brianna.
I think my uncle was just happy I didn’t kill Brianna. He’d much rather me kill anyone else if it meant his new stepdaughter was still alive and kicking.
Not that he gave a shit about her. It was more so because she was mine. She was supposed to keep me occupied.
After I’d called Alistair and told him what happened, he’d asked me, “Where was Brianna during this?” I’d assumed he was far enough away from his new wife that she couldn’t hear what he was saying. Any normal person tended to freak out when murder was brought up.
At the time, I’d been standing in the kitchen, having just cleaned it all up. I’d broken the fucking can beneath the sink in my rage, so I had to toss that, too. The kitchen was spotless, though it did smell like bleach. The body had been taken to the pool house, where it sat behind a locked door, waiting for me to return.
“She wasn’t home,” I’d growled out, seething over it still. I’d been stupid to let her catch a ride with someone else. She was only doing it to avoid me, after our little confrontation in the pool house when I’d caught her snooping around. When I’d set a trap for her and waited for her to take the bait.
Alistair’s voice had been cold as he’d asked, “Wasn’t home? What do you mean, she wasn’t home? If she wasn’t with you, where was she? How can you be certain she didn’t see?”
I’d rolled my eyes at him, not like he could see me, but still. “The past few days, she’s been riding with someone else at school. She went over to her house. She’s been avoiding me—”
“Don’t let her avoid you,” Alistair had advised me. “Her riding with anyone else is done. You will not take no for an answer from her, do you understand me, Gareth? I’m not doing this because I wanted to pretend I was happy for the rest of my life. I did it for you, so you’d stay out of trouble and stop killing people.”
Okay, so he had to be somewhere where no one could hear him, otherwise he wouldn’t have said that last part so loudly.
Of course, my uncle was one to talk. Killing ran in the family.
“Why can’t you just get rid of Nicole there?” I’d asked in a huff. If he wanted to put me in a good mood, he’d tell me he’d be coming home alone, do it as a favor to me, so Brianna would have no one else in the world to rely on. No mother, no father, nobody but me.
And my uncle, but whatever.
“Gareth, you know how that would look,” Alistair had told me sternly. I’d imagined his cold, lifeless blue eyes digging into me as he said that part, like icicles piercing my skin. “I can’t get rid of her yet. Whatever you need to do to make this work between you and Brianna, do it. By the time I get home, I want you two to be inseparable.”
I’d laughed. “I don’t think that’s possible.”
“I don’t give a shit. Fix your fuckup. Tell her she can’t ignore you anymore, and if she tries… well, I’m sure you can use your imagination. Do what you need to do with her and the body. I’ll handle the rest when I get back.” And then he’d hung up.
My uncle was definitely not like my mother. Mother had been sweet and kind… and weak. I couldn’t remember my father, he’d died when I was young, but I was pretty sure he was weak, too. The only one that was on my level was Alistair.
After the phone call, I’d wandered to the pool house, locking myself away in it. I didn’t know when Brianna would get home, but I assumed she’d stay out late just to spite me—that was fine, because I had some work to do, anyway.
I went into the storage room of the pool house. The door was protected by a lock with a keypad. It was tucked around the corner of the kitchen area, so you didn’t immediately see it when you walked in. After I put in the code, it dinged and unlocked, and I walked inside. A chill swept over me as I walked in, my eyes on the body strung up in the center of the small space.
No bigger than six by six feet, it had been remodeled quite a few years ago. The lock added, along with insulated steel walls and a new door. The room had its own thermostat, just outside on the wall. I didn’t like turning it too cold yet; I liked getting all I could out of it, first, before cranking it up to keep the bodies from rotting.
The cook, the chef, Emily—whatever you wanted to call her—was strung up by her feet as if she was nothing more than a deer that had been hunted. Her clothes were off, revealing the naked body beneath. Her arms and hair hung, gravity pulling them down, along with her tits—too old for my taste.
She’d been more resilient than I’d thought. One whack on the back of the head wasn’t enough to take her out. She’d whirled on me, fought me… smacked me on the side of the head with a plate and shattered it against my temple. My head still rang a bit thanks to the bitch.
Things had gotten messier than I’d wanted in the kitchen; usually I preferred not to spill a drop of blood until I had them back here, strung up.
At least I got a new paint color.
A thick, red gash rested on her neck, blood oozing from the wound, down her face, where it dripped off, landing in the large, wide trough below. Made of galvanized steel, it was something I’d had made specifically for this purpose. It could hold every ounce of blood a body contained, and then some.
Similar gashes lined her wrists, so whatever blood was in her arms could also flow out and drip into the trough.
There was nothing more beautiful in this world than death itself. I admired death more than anything else; it came for everyone and everything sooner or later. There was no avoiding it. If I could paint with the abstract notion of death, I would.
