Page 83 of Worse Than Wicked
“I’m not sure I’d call them that,” I say. “Baron’s not the passionate type.”
“What type is he?” she asks, popping a cracker into her mouth.
“He’s smart,” I say. “Brilliant, even. And methodical. He’s careful. I know you wouldn’t think that after the motel, but he would have scrubbed every inch of it so clean no one would ever suspect a thing. I guess he’s a monster. But he’s my monster.”
She nods. “Sounds like a good one to have on your side.”
“I’m not sure he’s on anyone’s side but his own,” I say. “But we’ll see.”
“He treats you okay?” she asks. “Because you said he’s a monster, and I told you I kill monsters. Do you need me to take him out?”
“No,” I say. “I’ve got it handled.”
“And the other one?” she asks, like she’s already forgotten his name. “The drug addict?”
“Don’t call him that,” I say, bristling. “He’s mine too.”
“Yikes,” she says. “Do either of them suspect?”
“They both know,” I say. “We’re a family.”
“Ah, okay,” she says, nodding. “Look at you, being all trendy and progressive with your relationships. Wouldn’t have predicted that.”
“Why?” I ask, not sure if that was an insult.
She shrugs and tears open a honey bun with her teeth. “Oh, I just figured you’d grow up to be more… Traditional. But hey, I’m not judging. Good for you. You deserve as many partners as you want.”
I’m still not sure if I should be offended, but I know she can’t be monitoring any cameras, if she thinks all that. I’m not sure how she knows about Duke’s drug habit, but the rest of it makes sense—why the killing stopped, why she didn’t go after the twins.
“So, you found me online,” I say slowly, picking at the food while she plows through it like she hasn’t eaten in days. “You knew about my dates, and you got rid of them?”
“I thought you must have figured out it was me,” she says. “But I guess I didn’t know it was you until I saw you go in to meet one of them. Then you led me to more, so I thought you were working with me, leading me to them on purpose. You really weren’t?”
“I was leadingsomeoneto them,” I say, pleased that I could surprise her in some way. “I just thought it was someone else.”
“Ah,” she says, nodding. “I wondered why the Maine killing was so different. I thought you must have finally snapped and done one in before I got there. I didn’t know about the boyfriend.”
“Boyfriends.”
“Are they both serial killers?”
“I wouldn’t call either of them that.”
“I don’t know,” she says. “The body count says otherwise.”
“I mean… Don’t serial killers have to have a technique? An M.O. that makes it a pattern?”
She shrugs. “I’m not sure, really. I can’t say I’m an expert. I do have a favorite style. Even got a tattoo to prove it.”
“That seems risky,” I say. “Couldn’t they use that as evidence?”
“I don’t plan on being caught again.”
“You were caught?” I ask, my heart lurching at the thought of what they’d do to her.
“Once,” she says, opening a package of cheese. “Once was all it took. But you know that.”
I don’t know what to make of her. She’s exactly the same, but she’s a serial killer. In some way, I think she always was, even before she had the body count to prove it. There’s something in her that’s different from even Baron. He may have killed a few men, but the title doesn’t seem to fit him like it does her. I don’t know what it says about me, that the one person I chose to befriend as a child turned out to be a mass murderer. It probably explains why I was so drawn to Baron.
