Page 10 of Wicked Riddles & Bitter Heartbeats

He takes the phone from his ear and does something on it before putting it back in his pocket.

“You have, like, a clean up team or something?” I ask carefully.

“Something like that.”

“You do this often?”

He smirks, keeping his focus forward. “You could say that.”

There’s more silence as we walk for another thirty minutes. My calves are burning, and I’m getting a cramp in my side. I don’t usually do this much walking. The night is quiet in this area, so when he speaks out of nowhere, it startles me.

“Why aren’t you scared?” he asks.

I answer as honestly as I can. “I think it’s something in my blood.”

“Brain chemistry, more likely.”

I huff out a laugh, hugging myself. It’s late into the night and cold. It’s my favorite time of year, but when it’s in the fifties, a sweater is nice. A few more steps and something is thrown over my shoulders. It’s the sweatshirt he was wearing. It smells masculine, and I’m pretty sure it’s covered in blood, but that’s okay. It doesn’t bother me. And it’s dried by now, so…

“My father went on a murder spree eight years ago. It was all over the news,” I say conversationally.

“What was his name?” he asks.

“Victor Spencer.”

He takes a moment to think about it as if he’s searching his brain for information, then he nods.

“Eight years, two months, three weeks, three days. He killed eleven people in the basement of his home, after holding them hostage for months. This happened over a course of fifteen years.”

Wow, that’s… impressive and slightly disturbing, in an endearing sort of way. Is he obsessed with my father or killers in general?

“You got a thing for killers?” I ask carefully.

He shrugs. “Just have a good memory.”

“Apparently,” I mutter.

“So you think you’re okay with death because your father was a killer?” he asks, seeming more at ease, maybe intrigued, now that he knows we have something in common. It’s why I’ve been interested in him since I saw him inside my house. I felt a connection.

“Yes.”

“It’s more complicated than that, actually.” He runs his hand over his head, spearing his long fingers through his messy, dark hair. “Especially with the diagnosis he received.”

“Oh—really?” I ask.

I’ve never looked into it before and never went to therapy like the court said I should. I felt fine about the whole thing, other than being shocked that my father was gone, and I was going to live with my uncle—which was the worst time of my life.

My father’s love was never questioned. He did nothing to hurt me. What’s to go to therapy about? He was a father making things right for his daughter. At least, in his head that’s what he was doing. He just wanted the world to be a safe place for me. Considering his first victim was taken when I was only three months old, it makes sense. Some say it was my mother’s death that threw him over the edge, but I just think it was his blinding love for me. A father’s need to protect. Which is why I never told him about Uncle Frank, still to this day.

“There are genetic factors he could have passed down to you. Aggression, impulse control, emotional instability. Though, from what I’ve seen of you so far, I’d say you didn’t inherit any of them. Maybe some emotional issues, but not in the same way as he has them.”

I frown, tucking my arms into the sweatshirt sleeves and pulling it closed.

“Then in what way?”

I’ve never had anyone to talk to about this, and even though I just met this man, I’m okay having this conversation with him. He’s smart and seems to know a lot about things I’ve always wondered about.

“In the way you’re attracted to aggressive people,” he says simply.

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