Page 78 of Splintered Memories
“My grandfather raised you like you were his own son,” I said, repeating the words that had been told to me growing up.
Amos let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “As his own? Is that why he refused to give me the Hawthorn name?” He shook his head. “That man never saw me as his son. No, all the glory was saved for Tristan. And what did he do to deserve that? He wasborn.”
I grimaced at the bitterness rolling off him. “You turned yourself into a monster because you were jealous? What the hell is wrong with you?” I wasn’t sure I really wanted the answer to that question.
A vein pulsed in Amos’s forehead. He leaned closer, and I forced myself not to flinch away this time. “As for me, I was born a monster,” he whispered. “But I could control myself when I wanted to. I’ve always had…urges. It was apparent pretty quickly that I wasn’t normal, but I didn’t care. I only cared about not going to prison for the rest of my life. But even that fear waned eventually.” A grin flickered on his mouth. “If I couldn’t have the Hawthorn name, I might as well make one of my own. Infamy comes in many forms, and Shadow Stalker is mine.”
I clenched my teeth, my breaths ragged. “You killed all those women for fame?” I didn’t know why it surprised me. Nothing about him should surprise me anymore.
He scoffed. “No. I killed them because I like it. The fame is just…a perk. It’s so strange how people become obsessed with monsters, isn’t it?”
I shook my head, overwhelmed with horror. “Why are you doing this to us?” I whispered. “If you wanted us dead, why wait until now?”
Amos drew back. “Because you were becoming a problem.” He glared at me. “I thought your little podcast was cute at first, but you were unrelenting. I had planned to estrange you from your father, but killing you suits me best right now. Those potentially problematic videos will stop, and I already managed to get rid of all that paperwork you had on me.”
I blanched. “You did set the fire.”
He rolled his eyes. “Of course I did. You think that idiot Cohen could’ve done that without getting caught? No, definitely not. All I had to do was surveil the house and study the cameras. Jake here knew the code to the security system, and he willingly gave it to me when I asked.” He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “You two can be too trusting sometimes.”
I was going to throw up. I squeezed my eyes shut and turned my head away.
“Leave her alone.” The rasping voice of my brother met my ears.
My eyes snapped open, and I focused on him. He sat up on the mattress, his eyes narrowed on Amos. I had never seen pure hate like that in his eyes before.
Amos sighed. “Careful, Jake,” he warned without looking in his direction. “You don’t want to see your sister hurt, do you?”
Jake’s nostrils flared. “Don’t touch her, you piece of garbage!”
Amos’s mouth widened in a chilling, manic grin. His eyes never left me as he addressed my brother.
“Oh, Jake,” he said. “I will do with her whatever the hell I want to.”
Then, he moved. He was so fast I didn’t see where he pulled the knife from before he had held it against my throat.
Jake froze, eyes widening in horror.
My heart jolted. The blade was surprisingly warm against my skin. That smile on Amos’s face twisted. I couldn’t believe I had once loved the man holding a knife to my throat.
“So, Emy-Su,” he whispered against my skin. “Do you have any last words for your brother?”
31
August
Tristanstraightenedhistieas we approached the front door of the house. He smoothed down his dress shirt, taking a deep breath.
“I’ll do the talking this time.” He glanced back at me.
I nodded. The former sheriff didn’t know me well. He had a relationship with Tristan. If we were going to get anywhere, it was more likely with him than me at this point.
Tristan rang the doorbell.
We waited. The house was fairly large and in an expensive cul-de-sac. All the lawns around us were freshly manicured, the sidewalks clean and tidy. Looking at it from the outside, I’d never guess the kind of filth that lived inside this house.
We waited for so long I almost asked Tristan to ring the doorbell again, when the door finally creaked open.
A pair of dark eyes narrowed on us from a gap in the door. Alex Cohen did not look good. His skin was colorless, his facial hair overgrown and his eyes bloodshot. A large bandage was taped to his forehead, layers of gauze that were saturated in dried blood.
