Page 35 of Cruel Cravings

His body was scarred. Though most of it was covered, the parts of him that I could see, like his wrists and his neck, bore hideous, fleshy marks that would never fade, no matter how much time had passed. Is that what his face looked like? Is that why he wore the mask?

“I’m Jael, but you must already know that,” I say. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even move, yet even sitting still, even chained, his presence is anything but diminished. He’s as intimidating as ever, his hulking figure making the metal chains look almost flimsy.

But this ismymoment, and I’ll be damned if I let him gain the upper hand.

“You’ve been following me for a long time. Haven’t you?”

He lets his silence speak for him. Behind the slits of his monstrous minotaur mask, his dark green eyes track me, unblinking and aggravatingly calm. That calmness—that composure—makes my stomach churn with anger.

He’s not afraid in the slightest.

I might as well be a gnat circling his head. I’m no real threat and his defiant silence and composure is letting me know.

“You deserve this,” I blurt out, voice sharper than I intend. “You know that, right? After everything you’ve put me through.”

Still nothing.

My fists clench at my sides, and I force a smile. “I think I deserve your name. Tell me who you are.”

He had no wallet on him. No cell phone. Not even any cards or cash, like such things were beneath him. Monsters like him have no use for such things.

The tension between us thickens as more silence answers me. The air is charged with something I can’t define. His stillness, his silence, isn’t submission; it’s exactly the opposite. He’s been sedated, he’s been chained up and taken captive, yet it’s still as if he’s the one in control. The energy radiating from him is unbearable.

His gaze is unblinking, more dissection after he’s spent years watching me. Observing every second of my life.

“I knew you were following me,” I continue, pacing again. “From the motel, for sure—but it started before that. Way, way before that. You were in the hospital with me, right?”

My voice rises as I speak, the haunting memories clawing to the surface.

“At night, when everyone was asleep, you’d show up. In the corner… or in the closet… or by the window… or… or under the bed.” I pause to draw in a breath to calm myself down, but it fails. I’m tumbling down a narrow hole of memories. “I’d scream so loud I’d wake up all the nurses. I begged them to do something. But you were never there. Poof. Gone. Like a bad dream. You made me look like I was insane.”

I whirl back around to face him, but his expression—or what I can make out of it—is unmoved. His eyes remain locked on mine, the mask like staring into the face of a hideous monster.

“Do you have any idea what that was like? What it’s like to have everybody think you’re crazy as hell? To have no one believe you? Answer me!”

Nothing.

Not even a flinch. Not even a blink of his eyes.

My pulse quickens, anger boiling to the surface. How can he be so calm? How can he sit there, shackled and unapologetic after everything he’s done to me?

“You ruined my life. You made me feel like I was losing my mind. Like I was less than human. And now…” I gesture to him, chained to the chair. “Now it’s my turn. Things are going to be different. Things are going to go my way.”

I laugh, a brittle noise that doesn’t sound like myself. I’m manic, unable to slow myself down even if I wanted to. Stepping closer to him, I lean forward and look him in the eye. “You didn’t think I’d figure it out, did you? You didn’t think I’d lure you here. You walked right into it.”

For a moment, I savor the words. The power they carry.

But when seconds go by and he’s still calm and unresponsive, I grit my teeth.

“You’re so quiet,” I snap. “Do you think that’s going to help you? How about I remove this mask and force you to show yourself?”

I almost do it. My fingers flex, curling inward then stretching out as I resist the urge. At least for now. Instead, I stalk toward the wall and motion to the collage of newspapers I’ve created. All headlines about the Cleaver. Photos of his victims. Article clippings. Maps. Timelines.

“Explain this!” I shout at him. “You’ve been playing games with me from the start, right? Tormenting me. You must’ve targeted her. And now my sister’s gone. That can’t be a coincidence. Say something!”

His silence is deafening. It’s its own form of torture.

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