Page 71 of Degrading Her

One of our hunters was posted in the trees. I parked on the opposite side of him, pretending like Fiona and I were lovers, only here to make love in the wilderness. The water sloshed on the rocky shore. I found binoculars in the trunk and shifted them into focus on the cabin’s window.

A dim figure hunched over a glowing screen. Roth was planning something.

A car drove around the lake, then parked on the side.Someone—a woman, maybe, slightly longer hair—parked, then entered the cabin.

She pulled the curtains, and then it was too hard to see. I put the device back into the trunk, and Fiona stared at me.

“What are we doing here?” she asked. Her voice was confused, like she wanted answers, but already knew the truth.

Those words hung in the air between us.We.Whatever this was,wewere doing it.Together.

“Hunting,” I said.

She stiffened, like she finally understood.

I pictured her kneeling like my mother had, waiting to die next to the pond. Fiona’s luminescent chestnut hair would cover her face like she was shy, hiding behind it. The metal of the barrel cold on her skin. Her hands tied behind her back.

One twitch of my finger, and Fiona would be gone. A hole in her head surrounded by deep red cushioned flesh.

One flick of my finger, and this wouldn’t matter.

One roll of the dice.

I had kept her alive because murder wasn’t my obsession. Control was. Controlling Fiona meant exercising my power, proving to myself that all people were the same: all you had to do was find their one desire, and they’d kneel before you.

But Fiona wouldn’t break.

The stars glowed above us, like a backdrop to Fiona’s beauty. Her brown eyes were dark, reflecting me. Did she understand what I was capable of? That I could have killed her sister? That I could have killed my own brother? Did she know that I trulyhadkilled my father?

What was stopping me from killing her? Was it chance? This lack of control over my emotions?

Was it because I had fallen for her?

“You know I love you, right?” I said in a quiet voice. Her shoulders stiffened, and I turned away, wishing I didn’t love her. Wishing that I could picture her dead in a ditch and be okay with that stillness. That I could put a bullet in her head and not question my instincts. Because if she were still a stranger, I could put her in the incinerator and never have to bother with these weaknesses again.

I couldn’t accept that fate anymore. But when it came to her, perhaps I never had.

“Sawyer,” she whispered, “I?—”

“Forget it,” I said. I didn’t need to hear those words back. But admitting it made it real. And what was there to say? I couldn’t change how I felt. I climbed back into the car and Fiona stood still, her arms wrapped around herself, gazing up at the sparkling sky, those stars shining on her face. Like the whole world stopped to watch her.

I wanted to never forget that moment.

I sighed when she moved, knowing that it was over. She joined me in the passenger seat, and we drove back in silence to her apartment. It took longer than I expected; I kept slowing down unintentionally. My mind kept wandering off, picturing Fiona on her knees, begging for her life. Fiona tied up against the hay rack, her intestines ripped open, spilling on the floor. Fiona with a gun up to her head, staring into the camera lens as I pulled the trigger.

The light was on in her apartment. I studied it, trying to see if anyone was in the shadows. She opened the car door, and I did too.

“You don’t have to,” she said. I wanted to make sure that she got home safe.

As we walked up to her floor, rounding the corner on the stairs, my eyes narrowed in on her open door. Myfingers wrapped around my gun. Something wasn’t right. Her jaw dropped, and I shoved her behind me.

Picture frames had been ripped from the wall. Her new computer lay in two pieces on the floor. The fridge was left open, milk and orange juice spilled across the counter. Her bed torn apart. Making sure she stayed behind me, I checked each space of the apartment—the closet, the bathroom, the shower, even under her sink—anywhere someone might hide. Once I was positive the house was clear, I faced her. We needed to get out of there.

“What the hell?” she whispered, her voice near tears. It made me want to strangle whoever had done this to her.

“Any idea who did this?” I asked calmly.

Her eyes widened. She clicked through her phone and found an email, showing it to me.

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