Page 33 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

“Caldwell,” I clip. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Have you read the newspaper?” he asks.

No pleasantries, forever blunt and straight to the point.

“Can’t say I have. Haven’t found the time with how busy I’ve been pacing a hole through Lyra’s floorboards.”

I hear him scoff as I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder, dressing while I listen to him speak.

“They named our copycat”—the tone in his voice lets me know I’m not going to like it—“the Imitator.”

My eyes roll, even though I’m the only person here to notice. “How painfully unoriginal.”

Serial killers have a plethora of differences from age to gender, motivation, and technique. But there are a select few traits we all share. Our ego, lack of remorse, and need for control.

Being one myself, I know for a fact this moniker has done nothing but inflate his already-boosted self-image. Naming a killer makes us real, which does nothing but inflict fear on those we prey on. Fear that is feasted upon and used as fuel for our next kill.

However, being named and compared to another is insulting, at least it would be for me. But apparently, this person cutting up body parts has no issue with his lack of creativity.

“According to this, the FBI is certain it’s a guy and has set a mandatory curfew for all residents.”

“Those lovely agents are also certain it’s me. Let’s not count out a woman yet.” I slide my arm into the black button-down, a cold smirk on my face. “Or do, considering you are also inclined to believe it’s me.”

My voice holds nothing but the bitter remains of our last conversation. The distrust and lack of faith had left a sour taste in the back of my throat that had yet to go away.

“Thatcher—”

He pauses, and I let him.

It’s the first time we’ve spoken since I came back and he’d given me a busted lip. Which might be the longest we’ve ever gone without vocal communication since we were children.

If he wants to be skeptical of me, so be it. I’m not going to beg him for his trust.

“When we were thirteen, I busted the windows out of every single one of Dorian’s cars.”

My lips twitch at the memory. It had been broad daylight, and I told him it was a terrible idea, that he would get caught, but he was hell-bent, riled up from the events prior that night and uncaring of the consequence.

“I recall being unable to step foot on the Caldwell property for at least six months after.”

“Because you took the blame. You didn’t ask me; you just copped to it and let my parents believe the worst about you.”

“Yes, but everyone already did that, Alistair,” I point out. “What were two more people on the list?”

“They were going to send me away if they found out it was me.”

Yes, yes they were.

Throw him into some military or boarding school from hell and forget all about the son they’d created as spare parts for their heir.

“I’m not sure what this has to do with anything.” I swallow, fumbling with the buttons on my shirt.

He sighs, probably just as uncomfortable with this conversation as I am.

I don’t blame him, nor can I hold a grudge for the words that were exchanged between the two of us, not when I’m unsure of how I would have reacted in his place.

“Listen, I don’t know what it is you do in your basement or why you fucking want to do everything alone.” There is a pause of silence before he continues. “But I get it. I get you. Why you do it, these things you’ve always done. For Rook and Silas too. I get it.”

I’m not sure when my motivations became so transparent to those around me, but it’s starting to irritate me. I don’t want to talk about why I do things or chose to protect him from his parents.

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