Page 34 of One Rule

“You found something?” I ask instead, shifting the attention away from Lionel’s call.

“I think I did.”

“But?”

“I need more time before making any type of accusation.”

“Okay.” Stepping closer to her, I hand over her late-night snack and then lean down to lay a kiss at the edge of her mouth. Close, but still not what we both need. “Finish up and head home. Ligo will take you back.”

“My car’s here.” A little breathy. A little flushed. “There’s no need—”

“Ligo will take you home, please don’t argue with me on this.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you.”

I was gone a few minutes later. Her brother’s urgency didn’t sit well with me, and after giving her guard strict instructions to stay stationed outside her building until I got back, I got in my car. Isaac got in the passenger side, always loyal, and we were on our way to Central Florida within minutes.

Everything that was happening kept replaying in my head as I got on the Turnpike.

The idea that my rebel could be hurt physically or emotionally stands against everything I am as her man. No matter what, I’ll protect her, and I think it’s time things change between us.

And I’ll start by making sure she’s always within my reach.

Chapter12

Liliana

The sudden knock on the front door pulls my attention away from the true-crime docu-series I started watching a few hours ago. I’ve been sucked into a vortex, unable to pull my attention away from the hot mess on the screen, the newest retelling of a serial killer's journey from the ’70s through the early ’90s in the US.

This time they’ve made it into more of a show format, going through each of the main events—murders—he committed through his Midwest trail of horror. So far, each one is more gruesome than the last and I’m questioning my sanity for watching this.

It’s scary how you never truly know a person. Not really.

Pressing pause on the remote, I tilt my head in the direction of the entrance while taking a quick sip of my coffee. It’s laced with a tiny smidge of bourbon, a scent I associate with Micah—one that’s embedded into the clothes I wore two days ago when we spent most of the night at Royce Cruise Lines—at least until he disappeared without much of an explanation.

A phone call and he was out the door, only pausing long enough to demand I let a man named Ligo drive me home.

Once again, I find myself missing him, and I bring the sweatshirt I’d worn Friday night up to my face. It fills me with a piece of him, smells so good, and I can’t help the little moan that slips past my lips. “I’m weak when it comes to him. Look at what I did to my coffee.”

This yearning is a dangerous thing, and because of it, I’ve created a bit of sacrilege with my caffeinated drink today just to get a tiny taste of him. To have the scent of bourbon, light as it is, fill my nose and compliment the real thing that still clings to my clothes.

I’m surrounding myself with him.

Almost feels like I’m nesting like they do in those romance books I love to read.

Pushing those thoughts from my mind, I tilt my head while listening for more noise, yet silence follows the previous interruption. For a few seconds, I look at the screen. It’s the episode where he claims the life of his third victim, and I’m left staring into the eyes of the killer whose hand is raised with a weapon held above the next victim's head.

Nothing. Not another sound.

And it’s moments like these, while I watch something that makes me a little jumpy, that I wish my mother had a front door surveillance system. At the very least, a peephole camera, since the woman was gone faster than I blinked.Then again, everyone in the family has been radio silent for days now.

“Mother trucker!” I scream then, jumping when the killer finally swings the weapon in his hand and the blow cracks the victim’s skull wide open, blood and other matter squirting out. Another blow and the murderer groans in pleasure, sexualizing the moment as everything around them turns crimson red. The sight brings a story I heard on the news to mind for some reason and I swallow hard, eyes shifting toward the door and back again.

A man killed his neighbor over a game of cards inside the home’s garage, both had been drinking, and the latter in a fit of rage, beat his friend’s head in with a hammer. Because monsters have always blended in seamlessly within their society. And the more shows like this give us an insight into how the mind of a killer thinks, I’m a firm believer that they never truly hid, but we’re just unobservant.

Because we don’t see past what’s in front of us. Too consumed by a false reality.

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