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“You were five. I was twelve,” he says. “You were so scared and unsure. I heard them talking about you. They said they had to take you away from your parents. That your mom was crying as you were driven away.”
“I don’t remember that.”
She stares at him. For the first time she realizes his manner is strange; he’s quiet, reserved, his shoulders hunched. This isn’t the demeanor she expected. The man Griffin had described from their police profile was a gleeful, sadistic murderer, ready and eager to kill. This man seems defeated. As beaten as she feels, even though she’s the one tied to the chair.
“You were only there for a month,” he continues quietly. “But I knew you were special. You showed me.”
“What did I do?” Jess whispers.
“You held your hand over a flame. I watched your skin turn black and pucker. I watched the blisters form. But you didn’t even flinch. You watched it and you smiled.” He holds up his hand to her. On his palm is a scar, the skin tight and red. “You told me to try it. I did it for as long as I could. It was agony. But in the end I couldn’t stand the pain. And you laughed at me.”
Jess shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t understand then. I didn’t realize I was damaged.”
His eye widen in surprise. “Damaged? You’re not damaged.” He frowns, his forehead furrowing, jaw clenched. “You have something none of us have,” he says, his voice getting louder now. “Something better. I knew that then. Especially when your parents came to collect you.” He laughs suddenly, slightly hysterical. “They came to collect you, Jess! Nobody’s parents came to collect them from that place! Nobody’s!”
“No. No. It’s just a medical condition. It’s nothing.”
She sees his face cloud. In a quick movement he grabs her hand, turning it over, pinning her fingers flat as he reaches forward with the penknife. He jams the blade into the middle of her palm.
Jess feels it go through the flesh, hit against bone, sever tendons. It sticks in the wood of the handle of the chair, and she sees warm blood start to flow. She cries out in alarm.
“You are special, Jess,” he says. “Don’t ever deny it.”
“You’re crazy,” she cries. She tries to pull her hand away, but the penknife is stuck. Blood drips from the chair, pooling on the floor. She’s shaking now. From the cold, the fear, the shock.
The man smiles, but it looks forced, no more than a grimace. “Perhaps,” he says. “Perhaps that’s true. Because all I ever wanted was to be noticed. I wanted to be somebody.” As he talks, he seems to be gaining strength. The previous weariness has faded; he sits up straighter, pulling his body taut. “I was insignificant. Everyone forgot me. My mother. Foster parents. You.”
He stands in front of her, looking at her from under lowered brows. She doesn’t dare move. To Jess it looks as if he’s wrestling with something, an internal battle between anger and acceptance. Her eyes scan the room again. She can see trees outside the window. It’s raining, dark.
Then he turns, walking to the table behind him and picking up a large knife. It’s huge, with a serrated blade on one side, straight and sharp on the other, and she can’t take her eyes from it.
“At least you won’t suffer,” he says, almost to himself. He crouches in front of her, the knife in his hand, tip pointing toward her body. “You won’t experience the agony like the others. I still hear their screams, you know.” He looks up, and she sees a flicker of humanity flash in his eyes. “Their pleading, their cries. But there was nothing I could do.”
Jess stares at him. She won’t ask, she won’t. But her brain goes there, starting to imagine what he’s planning, what he might do to her. She feels her heart racing, panic confusing her thoughts.
“And that other girl, what she went through before she died …” He screws his eyes shut tight, shaking his head slowly.
“What other girl?” Jess stutters, horrified, but he doesn’t reply. “What do you want from me?” she cries. Snot and tears run down her face. “I’ll do anything, please. Just let me go.”
“I can’t do that. I’m sorry, Jess, I just can’t. You have a part to play in all of this. Otherwise, it’ll never end. It’ll never be over.”
And then his head snaps up, as if remembering what he’s there to do. He stands, goes back to the table and picks something up. It’s a gun, small and black, and he puts the knife down for a moment so he can pull back the slider. It cocks with a metallic snap.
“It’s time,” he says.
She notices his voice has changed. He sounds resolute, certain now. The effect chills her to the bone.
“Please just let me go,” she whispers.
He stays silent. Pointing the gun at her head, he pulls the penknife from the arm of the chair, out of her hand, then uses it to cut the cable ties around her ankles. She looks at the hunting knife, still left on the table. She looks at the door on the far side of the room.
He follows her gaze as he folds the penknife away, putting it in his pocket. “Try anything,” he says. “And I’ll shoot your kneecaps off. Pain or no pain, you won’t be walking anywhere.”
She doesn’t move.
“Understand?” he asks.
She knows she needs to seem cooperative. If they’re going outside, she’ll run then. It’s her best chance. It’s her only chance. He’s waiting for her response and she stares at him, her eyes cold. She nods.
