Page 105 of All The Pretty Little Lies

"I needed to see," I finally admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "To understand."

Alex nods slowly, as if he expected this answer. He moves past me, his shoulder brushing mine, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. He stands over Natasha, studying her with a clinical detachment that both impresses and unsettles me.

"Understanding is dangerous in our world, Vesper," he says, his fingers ghosting over the edge of the metal table. "It leads to hesitation. And hesitation..." He trails off, leaving the consequences unspoken but painfully clear.

I watch him, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches. There's more here than just a warning there, I realize. There's experience speaking, hard-won and bitter.

"Have you ever felt it?" I ask, surprising myself with my boldness. "That guilt? That connection to someone you're supposed to hate?"

Alex turns to me, and for a moment, I see a flash of something raw and vulnerable in his eyes. It's gone in an instant, replaced by his usual guarded expression.

Alex's eyes bore into mine, a storm of emotions swirling in their depths. For a moment, I think he might not answer, might retreat behind the walls he's so carefully constructed. But then he speaks, his voice low and rough with remembered pain.

"My mother," he says, the words hanging heavy in the air between us.

I feel my brow furrow in confusion. "Your mother?" I repeat, trying to make sense of this unexpected revelation.

Alex nods, his gaze drifting back to Natasha's unconscious form. "I feel guilty," he continues, "because I didn't kill her sooner."

My breath catches in my throat. The basement suddenly feels colder, the shadows deeper. I search Alex's face, looking for any sign that this is some sort of sick joke, but find only grim resolve.

"I don't understand," I whisper, my voice sounding small and lost in the vastness of this terrible confession.

Alex turns back to me, his eyes now burning with an intensity that makes me want to step back. But I hold my ground, drawn in by the raw honesty of this moment.

"My mother," he says, each word deliberate and heavy, "was the Butcher of Selfoss."

The name hits me like a physical blow. I've heard whispers of the Butcher, a serial killer whose brutality shocked even the hardened members of our world. But to hear Alex claim such a monster as his mother...

"Her body count would shock you, Vesper," Alex continues, his voice eerily calm. "Men, women, children, no one was safe from her artistic endeavors."

I feel bile rising in my throat, but I force it down. "How..." I begin, but the words fail me.

Alex's laugh is bitter, devoid of any humor. "How did I not know? Oh, I knew. I always knew." He runs a hand through his hair, a rare display of agitation. "She was training me. Grooming me to follow in her footsteps."

The horror of what he's saying washes over me in waves. I think of my own childhood, of the subtle and not-so-subtle ways my family prepared me for this life. But this is something else entirely.

"I thought that's how you were supposed to love," Alex says, his voice barely above a whisper now. "To hurt, to create beauty from pain. It took me years to understand how wrong it all was."

I reach out, my hand hovering just above his arm, unsure if touch would be welcome at this moment. "Alex, I'm so sorry," I breathe, the words feeling woefully inadequate.

He looks at me then, really looks at me, and I see the scared little boy hiding behind the hardened exterior. "I was fifteen when I finally put an end to it," he says. "Fifteen years old, and I had to kill my own mother to stop the monster she'd become. Before she had a chance to make me in her image. "

I feel my breath catch in my throat as the full weight of Alex's revelation settles over me. I look at him, really look at him, and see him anew. The precise, calculated movements.The unflinching gaze when faced with violence. The meticulous attention to detail in his ‘playroom.’

"That's why," I whisper, my voice barely audible over Natasha's labored breathing. "That's why you know how to do the things you do."

Alex's eyes meet mine, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before it's quickly masked. "What do you mean?"

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. "What you did to Ivanov." The memory of that night flashes through my mind, the clinical precision with which Alex had extracted information, the way he'd wielded pain like an artist's brush. "She trained you to be a weapon, didn't she? The finger of God to wipe the Earth clean of those she deemed unworthy."

A mirthless chuckle escapes Alex's lips. "Finger of God," he repeats, shaking his head. "That's poetic, Vesper. But no, I was to be her masterpiece. Her magnum opus."

He moves away from Natasha's prone form, pacing the small space like a caged animal. The dim light catches the planes of his face, casting sharp shadows that make him look almost skeletal.

"You've seen my work, Vesper," he continues, his voice low and intense. "The precision. The control. But what you don't see is the struggle. Every. Single. Time."

I watch him, transfixed, as he runs a hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled. It's such a human gesture, at odds with the monster he's describing.

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