Page 34 of Little Puppet

“No. I mean, while it’s thrilling and all, I think I’dmuch rather go out with a moan on my lips. Fuck me until the end, don’t let me see it coming.”

At this, he startles and sits up rigidly in his chair. It’s like he doesn’t like the idea, which frightens me.

I know his full name and where he lives; it wouldn’t be hard to find out where he works. He can’t let me go. So, if he doesn’t kill me, what else would he do with me?

I can’t be his puppet forever.

Even though I know the thought to be accurate, my stomach flips at the idea of being here for the rest of my life.

“I haven’t thought about it yet,” he admits, returning to his food, but this time just pushing it around with his fork.

“What? But it’s tomorrow.”

“I’m aware it’s tomorrow.” His tone leaves me no room to respond, so I shift in my chair and shove chicken into my mouth as I consider a new approach.

“Where did you go after your parents’ murder?” I ask him for small talk, even if it’s dark.

“Going to analyze me, puppet?”

I sigh. “No. Just trying to know you better.”

“I was bounced around through the foster care system until a couple in Duhhaven adopted me. The man was a doctor, and his wife was a nurse. They raised me from the age of twelve on.”

“Raised? They’re dead?”

He nods. “He died of old age, and she mournedherself to death. Died nearly a year to the day after. It was awful to watch.”

“I bet it was. I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

The way that I’m connecting with a serial killer is worrying me. Because seeing him as anything more than what he is is insane. Right?

My inner banter isn’t helping my appetite, and now I’m pushing my food around on the plate.

“Is your father dead?” he asks me, batting the ball back on my side of the court.

“Why would you ask that?”

“Well, I got into your car the day after the crash. The only missed calls you had were from your mother.”

I nod. “I don’t know my father. She would never tell me who he was. Not even his name.”

Cain thinks about that for a moment and sits back. “I wonder why.”

His curiosity over a problem I’ve riddled over my entire life is endearing. Too much so.

I shrug. “I don’t know. Do you have anything a bit more…” I lift my glass and swirl my water around, hoping he’ll find some alcohol he has squirreled away somewhere for me to have.

For a captive, I think I’ve behaved well enough to earn some. After all, he had whiskey the other night.

He smirks, tossing his napkin onto the table as he moves into the living room. I hear keys rattle and a lock being turned. It’s likely the cabinet beside the front door.I tried to open it the first time I perused this place and couldn’t gain entrance.

He returns with a bottle of fancy red wine with French writing on the label and grabs me a glass from the kitchen. Filling it halfway, he then sits and recorks the wine.

I close my eyes as the first sip warms my belly. “Mm, thank you.”

“You’re most welcome,” he answers, and it’s that moment when I see through the facade of the killer I’ve been living with and get a glimpse at the man he hides behind all year.

“Did you always want to become a surgeon?” I ask, wine warming my belly on contact. I go back to eating now that my nerves are steadier.

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