Page 57 of Web of Lies
I curl my fingers around the doorknob, twist the lock, and push the door open. The hallway is bathed in darkness; not asingle light illuminates the penthouse. Maybe Kyle has gone to bed.
As I take a step forward, my toe stubs against something, and the sound of crumbling plastic echoes through the quiet air. My gaze drops to the bag of food containers, small snacks, and drinks piled on the ground. A loud meow follows, and Dumpster comes trotting toward me, her tail high, screaming at the top of her lungs.
"Shhh," I shush her, crouching down and brushing her fluffy fur. "We don't want to wake anyone, do we?" I lift her up into my arms, cradling her like an infant. Easing into it, she closes her eyes, a soft purr rumbling in her chest.
I pad down the hallway, my steps as light as a feather, as I tiptoe into the open living room. A cool breeze blows through the room, the curtains fluttering in the wind. My gaze falls on the floor-to-ceiling balcony door, which is wide open. The scent of a familiar mix of tobacco and cannabis floats through the air. My attention is drawn to Kyle, who is sitting outside on a chair with a glowing stick resembling a cigarette stuck between his lips while he presses his phone to his ear.
My gaze shifts from him to the living room, which has transformed into a complete mess overnight. Blankets, pillows, papers, and Dumpsters toys are scattered across every flat surface. The view mirrors the state of my brain right now. Everything is spread out, and not a single puzzle piece is in its designated place.
Step by step, I carefully navigate the landmines and approach the balcony door.
At the sound of my quiet footsteps, Kyle's head whips around, and he looks at me with wide, bloodshot eyes. "I'll call you back later," he says, ending the call and placing his phone down. "Can I do something for you?"
"Can we talk?"
"Sure," Kyle says, rising from the chair. He puts out his cigarette and grabs his phone. "Let's go inside, though. I don't have any direct neighbors, but who knows."
I nod and turn around, climbing over the mess on the floor and heading for the couch.
"Sorry about the mess," he says and bends down, scooping up a couple of pillows from the floor and tossing them onto the sofa. "I was trying to reorganize," he adds with a faint, humorless laugh, "but I kept getting distracted." His movements are too quick, like he's trying to keep his hands busy. And yet, all I can focus on is the way his jaw ticks when he avoids my eyes.
"Leave it," I mutter with a tired sigh, lowering myself onto the cushions of the sofa with Dumpster still in my arms. She shifts a little but quickly settles into my lap.
Kyle freezes for a beat, then lets the item in his hands drop with a dull thud before he crosses the room and sinks onto the sofa opposite me. The silence that follows is suffocating. It's not the kind that's comfortable, but awkward.
"What do you want to talk about?" His voice is low as he finally speaks.
"Everything." The word slips out harsher than I intended. "I want the full truth. From both of us."
His lips press into a thin line, then he gives the smallest nod. "Okay. Go ahead. Ask your questions. I'll answer everything truthfully this time."
I swallow hard, my hand gliding over Dumpster's fur in a slow, rhythmic motion. "I don't even know where to start. Because… do I even know you?"
"You do," he says, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "I'm still the man you got to know, with all his quirks. My job is simply more complicated than I let on."
"Really?" My voice is flat with skepticism.
"Yes." His eyes search mine. "Everything remains the same: my likes and dislikes, my interests. Nothing about that was ever a lie."
My head bobs in a slow nod. "Why?" I finally ask, my gaze dropping to Dumpster as she shifts in my lap. "Why do you do this?"
"Like I mentioned yesterday," he says with a sigh, folding his hands. "My mom is a cannibal. I started because of her."
"Of your own accord?" I look back up at him, my brows knitting together.
"No." His jaw clenches, and for a moment, he hesitates, his eyes flicking across my face. "I took after my dad."
"He was the original Butcher?" The question tastes bitter on my tongue.
"Yes." The admission comes without hesitation.
I hum in response. My mind races, the chaotic puzzle I've been trying to solve suddenly shifting, pieces clicking into place. The bloody threads connecting Kyle, his mother, his father, and the Butcher form a picture.
"For how long have you been doing it?"
"Eight years on my own."
I swallow the knot crawling up my throat. "How many people know that you're the Butcher?"
