Page 45 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

They are painting a picture, one that can depict over half of the population, yet there is only one image that is in everyone’s mind right now.

Thatcher Pierson.

“This is so fucking stupid,” Sage mumbles under her breath.

I nod in agreement.

While there are some here in hopes of learning how to stay safe, most, if not all, are sitting around like vultures, waiting for a crumb to feast on, patiently biding time until these federal agents admit Thatcher is their one and only suspect.

“Yes, you in the white blouse.”

“So,” she hums, “you’re totally sure it’s a man?”

“Yes, we’ve determined through our profile that the killer is a man,” Odette continues, scanning the crowd with a watchful eye before pausing on me. “He will be incredibly manipulative, able to blend in and lure women with little struggle. He will be well-dressed, attractive, and highly intelligent. A true psychopath.”

She holds my gaze, unmoving, as if she wants me to hear these words. For them to scare me.

I fight the urge to scream.

To stand up and shout until she understands that it can’t be him.

That most everything she said may be true, but the last part isn’t.

Thatcher isn’t a psychopath.

It’s strange to think, and I can imagine it would turn a few heads if I said it out loud, but I know it’s the truth. In lieu of his urges to kill and cold demeanor, he wasn’t born a psychopath.

I believe he was conditioned by one.

Crafted, sculpted, and set by a man obsessed with his own legacy, so much that he wanted it to continue far after his arrest, his death even. Henry abused Thatcher into believing he was incapable of feeling and caring for others at a young age.

He was tormented and degraded anytime a spark of emotion showed. You can only handle so much before your brain does what it needs to survive. So Thatcher shut it off and started killing every good that came his way until one day, he convinced himself he didn’t feel at all.

But beneath all of that, beneath the man, there is a boy who had dreams. Who felt and stood a chance if not for his father. I wish I could have seen him before the world turned him so cold.

He’s still a killer and quite possibly is a malignant narcissist, but Thatcher isn’t a psychopath. He’s just a child who was raised to become one.

Last night, I saw it.

I saw what he looks like when he cares, when he allows himself to feel, and just how painful that is for him because he doesn’t understand it. When you are raised by a wolf, all you know is bared teeth and feral hunger. Softness, kindness, emotion, it’s all a foreign concept.

It’s like waking up one morning and learning the sky has been green the whole time. Everyone else knew it, but you’d been left in the dark.

In my hallway, underneath all the anger, there was just a man so terrified of himself, of what he’s capable of, that he’d rather deny me than hurt me. That’s him putting someone other than himself first, puttingmefirst.

Thatcher doesn’t want to leave me empty, and I don’t want to leave him lonely.

“Ladies, please watch out for one another.” I blink, hearing Conner’s voice echo across the room. “If anyone hears or sees anything concerning, please let me know, and I’ll be happy to put you in connection with these detectives. My door is always open.”

Conner smiles warmly before Odette and Gerrick give their closing remarks. Which takes another fifteen minutes before we are dismissed. I pull my backpack onto my shoulders.

“Alistair wants to meet up and talk about what happened with Easton,” Briar says, staring down at her phone. “Do you guys have time before your next class?”

“Yeah, I’ve got an hour.” I stand up from my seat.

“Lyra,” Sage mutters beside me, brushing a few hairs behind her ear, “I’m not asking you to lie, so don’t think I am, but can we please leave out any mention of what Easton said regarding me?”

My eyebrows pull together. “Why? What’s wrong?”

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