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I leave the den and take myself to the next room—the dining room. There is no sense of urgency to my steps. Just a slow stroll as I take in the damage I’ve caused.Seeing the broken glass crunch under my feet from the broken picture frames that once sat on the small piano in the corner of the room makes me smile. I walk toward it and sit down. I place my fingers on the keys and start to play, my fingers flying over the ivories until I’m finished and the last note rings out, muffled by the sounds of the fire roaring.
I turn to the table behind me, my eyes finding the woman tied to the chair at the head of the table with a gag in her mouth. Her eyes are frantic and wild as she tries to will her body to move, desperately wanting to escape the ties keeping her in place. She looks at me with utter terror as I stand and walk toward her, humming the tune I was playing.
I love when they realize they’re at my mercy.
I skim my fingers over the drink cabinet, opening the door to look inside. Irish whiskey,gin, and white rum sit at the front, the obvious liquors of choice. I pick up the full bottle of vodka from the bottom shelf and grab a glass from the top before walking over to the woman, who flinches away from me as I remove her gag.
I pour a glass and take a sip before pressing it to her lips. She pleads with me to let her go, and as she does, I take advantage of her open mouth and pour the vodka inside until she is spluttering. She spits at me in anger now that bargaining isn’t working. I grin, and when she starts crying, I know it does nothing to reassure her.
I tip the vodka bottle and pour it over her head, ignoring her screams as I douse her hair and face in alcohol. Once I’m done,I leave the empty bottle on the table and reach into my pocket, pulling out a music box and a matchbook that I picked up from a hotel on my travels. I didn’t realize they still made these, so naturally, I had to take one with me. I’m glad I did because matches are much more reliable than a lighter.
I place the music box on the table and open it up, smiling when the tune begins to play. I listen for a moment before I take a match from the book and strike it. It sparks as I hold it out for her, a relieved sigh slipping through my lips when she starts screaming. I was wondering if she was ever going to get back to that. The screaming is important. It’s my favorite part.
I toss the match on top of her hair and laugh joyously when it ignites immediately.
I shoot up and gasp, finding myself on the kitchen floor with a carton of broken eggs beside me. My heart thunders out of control as vomit rushes up the back of my throat. I don’t even make it to my feet. I roll over and puke up the horror I just witnessed, purging it from my body between my sobs.
I’m shaking so hard my teeth hurt. I try to stand up, but I feel emotionally drained. I stay where I am, staring at nothing, trying to will my heart to calm down as my brain separates what’s real from what’s not. But that’s the kicker. It’s all fucking real. I just watched someone die in the most brutal way, and I was utterly helpless to do anything about it. Worse, I think I was starting to feel what the killer was. As I watched, I felt excitement and a dark craving to make her pay.
I lean over and puke again, tears streaming from my eyes. Once I’m sure I’m finished, I get to my hands and knees and crawl away. I make it to the bottom of the stairs before I stop and collapse into tears, my insides feeling like they’ve been torn apart.
How can anyone live with this inside their head and go on pretending everything is normal?
I have no idea where Valen is, and I didn’t think to bring my cell phone down with me, so I need to pull it together. I take a couple of deep breaths and wipe my face with my sleeve before I crawl up the stairs, not trusting my legs to hold me up.
Once I reach the top, I use the wall for support and climb to my feet. On shaky legs, I head to the bedroom. I unbutton the shirt I stole from Valen’s closet and slip it off as I shuffle into the bathroom and turn on the shower. I make it as hot as I can stand and climb in.
The tears begin to fall again as my mind flashes back to the woman’s face and the almost manic need I had to hurt her. Grabbing the shower gel, I soap up my hands and start washing, scrubbing my body until my skin feels raw.
Once the water runs cold, I climb out and wrap myself in a towel. I brush my teeth, and my mind spins in every direction. I avoid looking in the mirror, knowing I’ll see bloodshot eyes and pale skin. I walk back into the bedroom and, this time, steal a pair of sweatpants that are way too big—I have to roll up the legs and pull the drawstring tight in the waist—and a huge sweatshirt that hits mid-thigh. I probably look like a kid playing dress-up, but right now, I need the comfort.
I have to go downstairs to clean up, but I need a few minutes to get myself together before I do. I grab my bag from the chair in the corner and pull my laptop out before turning it on.
My phone is beside the bed, so I grab it and see a message from Valen.Had to head into the office for a couple of hours. Make yourself at home.TheWi-Fi password is Eidolon. Call me if you need me.
I rub my hands over my face, feeling oddly put out that he didn’t wake me up to tell me he was leaving. I was making us breakfast, for goodness sake, figuring he’d gone for a run.
My stomach turns at the thought of food, so I focus back on the laptop. I typeLullaby Killerinto the search engine andwatch as dozens of articles pop up, the most recent ones about me. I scroll through the pages until I can put the victims’ faces and names together. I pause when I see the woman from my vision.
Elenore Houseman. She was forty-four years old at the time of her death. She worked as a nurse at Briarwood House for seven years before she was killed.
I blow out a deep, steadying breath. It’s strange to take comfort from the fact that she’s dead. Considering she’s not being tortured eases the guilt a little.
My fear recedes as I scroll through the rest of the photos. I see the man from my first vision. Of course, I’ve already seen his picture. Nathan recognized him immediately from the police sketch, but once his identity was confirmed, he never told me much else about him.
I look at his face now and frown, seeing a coldness in his eyes that I didn’t pick up in my vision. My focus was centered on what was happening, so it makes me wonder if I missed anything else.
Bobby Jones. Fifty-eight years old. He worked as a psychiatrist at Briarwood House for twenty years before suddenly quitting. He was victim number three and the one that cracked the case for the police.
He doesn’t look like a psychiatrist. I know that sounds ridiculous, but it’s true. There is nothing approachable about the man. Even in my vision of him, I got the distinct impression that he was only there because the killer had offered him an incentive of some kind.
I pause at that thought. He was expecting me to give him something. Well, not me, but the killer. That’s why he was out there waiting. But what did the killer offer him?
I scan through what the internet has dug up. When I don’t find what I’m looking for, I realize the police must have held back bits of information that only the killer would know.
Moving back to the information about Elenore, I scroll through the cause of death and swallow. She burned alive. I knew, of course, but a part of me wasn’t ready to have it confirmed.
I close the laptop and pull my knees to my chest. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I’m living in fucking limbo until I either get my memories back or this asshole kills me. The crushing weight of failure sits heavy on my shoulders. I want to give in to the overwhelming urge to breakdown so fucking bad. But it’s a dark path to go down, drowning in my despair. One I might not be able to pull myself out of.
