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Surprisingly, my fatal mistake didn’t come from murdering my father. It wasn’t even the bodies I had in my penthouse.
It was the police detective. I had slit the throat of Detective Sloan Laurent in the hall of Lyra’s apartment building, then quickly dragged her inside to store her in her closet.
The woman should’ve been dead. I normally make sure my victims are. I had been in such a rush to get Lyra back to my place, I hadn’t checked. The detective had survived; she lay bleeding out in Lyra’s closet but she managed to call 911.
She’sthe one that survived and helped piece together everything. If she hadn’t survived, I would’ve gotten away with it.
The name Kaden Raskova wouldn’t have gone down in Easton history as the deadliest serial killer in existence.
Such is life.
By the time she was well enough to speak and help authorities, I was long gone.
I had taken a private jet out of the country. Much like the jet I am flying in now as I set off to another discreet location.
I look around my luxury accommodations and sip more champagne.
The future is entirely up in the air. I could meet a karmic ending sometime soon (though I believe in no such thing). Authorities could find a way to track me down in another country and attempt to force me back to the States.
A more violent, murderous serial killer than me could decide I’m their next target. They could kill me just as easily as I have killed so many times.
But none of these things worry me. I have never lived my life plagued by normal human concerns. Death doesn’t scare me, even now.
Nothing does.
However, as I fold the newspaper, and lock eyes with the woman approaching, I can’t help letting the grin on my face spread.
Lyra matches me, like always, and returns my grin. She’s in a knitted sweater dress that hugs her body’s every female curve, with her rope-like braids hanging long down her back.
In the past, I may have preferred to live my life as a loner. A man on his own with no care or regard for any other human being on this planet. For the most part, I still feel that way.
Except for Lyra.
I’ve discovered that sometimes it is better to have a companion. Particularly when that companion is as brilliant and neurotic as you are.
She takes the seat next to mine. Her hand seeks me out, slipping her fingers between mine, and leaning over the armrest dividing us.
“Enjoying yourself?” I ask.
She hums in answer. “But I’ll enjoy myself more when we’re back on solid ground.”
“One more hour at most. Then we’ll be home. For the foreseeable future.”
“I saw what you were reading. They have my photo on the front page.”
“You’re famous.”
“For all the wrong reasons.”
“That makes two of us,” I say, unfurling the paper in my lap. “You’re dead to the world, little lamb. I’m a murderer to the world. It’s the way things had to be so we can start over. You understand why.”
She nods and gives my hand a squeeze. “But I wish you didn’t have to. What if they track you down?”
“Where we’re going, it’s unlikely,” I answer. “No extradition treaty. We’ll be living in a remote enough area. In the uneventful chance they do, so what? No one lasts forever. We will be no different.”
“I love your realism.”
“It’s necessary… so we can make the most of every day we have. Your hand is healing up nicely.”
