Page 121 of Freeing My Alpha

Nibbling my lip, I pull up a fresh tab. Yasmine just gave me an idea.

scientific studies on killer psychology

These results are much better—well, as in, these articles at least take the horrific situation seriously. Otherwise, the subject matter is just as revolting.

But something sticks out to me as important in our search: serial killers often prey on strangers, but most homicides are committed against victims the killer knows. “Homicide” yields more specific search results; perpetrator motives, profiles, and killing methods vary from serial killing.

I don’t feel good about any of it, but I’m relieved I’m making progress, settling into a numb focus.

After 30 minutes of my face remaining neutral, Yasmine stretches her arms. “I’m gonna use the bathroom. Be back in a minute.”

“Okay,” I mutter, already buried in a new search.

The more I read about singular killings, the more familiar the perpetrators sound: a lack of guilt for victims, seeing victims as objects, a need to assert power, an inability to see right from wrong, and seeing themselves as exempt from certain social or moral rules. Most often, perpetrators target significant others.

There’s no way Mom or Lilian killed our dads. Lilian may be heartless toward Noah now, but she sounded warmer before Ritchie’s death. Mom refused to ever touch a gun, let alone shoot the man whose loss killed her from pure heartbreak. I’m well-aware of what domestic violence looks like, and Noah seems well-versed too. Unless our parents hid aspects of their relationships from us, I haven’t seen signs in either couple.

That doesn’t rule out our closest friends and family of past and present: Yasmine, Dave, the Elders, Amy, Kira, or Steven.

My gut curdles at the last one. I’m tempted to rationalize the thought away; although Steven was abusive in multiple ways, he never seemed capable of murder.

But he didn’t seem capable of breaking in and assaulting me, either.

I shuffle in my seat. It’s nowhere near the first time I’ve thought about how Steven had the physical power to kill me the day he broke in. He didn’t kill me, of course, but he could’ve. He still could. Present-tense. Jenny and I have discussed how this uncertainty might remain extra uncomfortable for life.

But he didn’t do this, right?

As I scroll back through my notes on killer psychology, chunks of Noah’s list about Steven appear in my mind.

lack of morals around how to treat others: highly objectifying.

manipulative, word-twister

demands power, control, and dominance—especially over women***

***fixated on beliefs to the point of violence→proof of potential to hurt others

Oh, God. No, Steven couldn’t have. Could he? Is this just an intrusive thought?

He was into hunting like my dad. The way Noah phrased our dads’ shooting makes me sick; their unusually massive wolf forms would be a high-value kill. A hunter like Steven would never pass up the chance to brag about it.

But is he vicious enough to discover he shot my dad, ditch his body, then come back home to reassure me through my worst grief?

With how Steven treated me shortly afterwards, I don’t feel confident that the answer is “no.”

“Oh, God,” I say out loud this time. Gripping the table, I can’t stop myself from shaking in fear.

But it’s worse than that. I can’t stop my stomach from lurching.

As my eyes bulge, I cup my hand around my mouth. Am I going to throw up? Scents heighten by the second, adding a nauseating chill down my spine with how powerful everyone’s food and drinks smell—stinging mustard, sharp meat, and roasted coffee colliding. My stomach lurches again, this time leaving me mere seconds to act. Oh, God. I am about to throw up.

My eyes land on the bathroom, the lock’s OCCUPIED sign shining hot red. The trash can has a rocking lid that I’d dirty, and the door is too far to run for. I won’t make it in time no matter what, and this cute little coffee shop is packed—stuffed with people having a nice, pleasant drink or sandwich.

I’m going to soil it all.

With my surge of rampant OCD harm fears, it happens. I open my bag frantically, dumping my wallet, keys, and makeup onto the booth cushion, just in time to lift the empty bag to my mouth and spill the contents of my stomach. Stifling any noise the best I can, I shake in my seat, quietly doubling over. It’s only a flash second, but as I come up for a deep breath, it feels like I’ve been subjecting the whole coffee shop to a disgusting, warped version of reality for an hour. I’m mortified, glancing around the room.

Everyone’s eyes are glued to their laptops or friends, laughing, chatting, or typing away with their headphones in.

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