Page 69 of Remy

She’s a fucking mortician, dickhead.

She stares at the first picture, her lips slightly parted, her shock hidden.

“Is this another warning?” she asks softly, slowly turning over the top photo of a battered and deceased female to display a similar one beneath. “A far more graphic display of what’s to come if I don’t follow your rules?”

“No. This isn’t my handiwork.”

Her shoulders relax. A little too much for my liking.

The fact she thinks I’m capable of achieving a crime resulting in those pictures isn’t a welcomed news flash.

She turns another page and another. Photo upon photo of raped, bruised, and beaten women. “Tell me what I’m looking at.”

“This is the legacy left behind by the man you harbor guilt toward.” I snatch the food bag off the table, forcing myself not to become fixated on whatever relief the knowledge might bring, and scrounge inside for another burrito. “This was his favorite pastime.”

She doesn’t react, only continues to turn to the next photo, then the next.

“He was a murderer like me.” I itch to touch her. Soothe her. Instead I keep scrounging around in the bag, my fingers brushing over more burritos I no longer have the stomach to eat. “But one thing we didn’t have in common was our treatment of the opposite sex. I never hurt women, Ollie. Except, evidently, the one seated before me.”

Her attention raises to mine for brief moments of confusion. Those big, beautiful eyes peer back at me in bewilderment.

“I may scare you,” I mutter. “I may sicken and disgust. But you’re the only female I’ve inflicted that upon. I’m a monster to men, pyro. To those who deserve my punishment.”

She continues staring for silent moments, anticipation for her reply grasping my balls in a vise grip until she returns her attention to the photos.

I quit the pretense of searching for food and dump the bag, circling the table to stop at her side. “This guy doesn’t deserve your guilt.” I tap the image of the deceased woman covered in ligature marks, the damage most prominent between her thighs. “He’d done this to more women than you could imagine.”

“Is that why you targeted him?”

I wish I could give her the answer she wants. The sweet, virtuous response that would make me seem like a better man.

“No. But it’s reason enough for you not to spare him a second thought. You didn’t kill him, Ollie. I did. That groan was nothing more than an inopportune coincidence.”

Her gaze meets mine. “How did you do it?”

I’ve risked enough from verbalizing guilt, yet I’m still drawn to give her more. Give her everything. “Lethal overdose—a far quicker death than he deserved.”

Thoughts race behind those dreamy eyes, her quiet musing getting to me. I want to know what she’s thinking. What she’s feeling.

She returns her attention to the photos, her expression pained as she stares at a full-face image of a blonde girl in her early twenties, her pale eyes lifeless, lips parted, skin bruised.

“I know her.” She traces a finger over the victim’s jaw, her chin. “I think her name was Jasmin Taylor. She was one of my decedents a few years back. What he did to her was…”

“Nothing more than a game to him.”

“I can see that.” She swallows.

“Do you still feel guilty?”

“Definitely not as much as I did a few minutes ago.” She closes the folder and squares her shoulders. “Are all the men you kill like him?”

I’m tempted to lie. To tell her each and every one is a woman-torturing rapist, and I’m performing some sort of worldly Robin Hood-type duty she could excuse.

But that’s not me. Not the world I live in.

I can’t allow myself to indulge in the fantasy of her approval. To imagine a recreated moment where she grants my hands another trip along her perfect thighs to those heavenly panties.

She’s a fucking virgin, for God’s sake.

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