Page 14 of Bound to a Killer
But instead, emotionless gray eyes bore into me with cold indifference.
Bile rises again, bitter in my throat. Somehow, the emptiness in his expression strikes my nerves deeper than fury ever could.
The absence of feeling means he’s in control. It also means I have nothing to hold onto, nothing to provoke or twist in myfavor. It doesn’t just mean I’m screwed. It means I’m finished. This is the final nail in the coffin. No way out.
So many questions cut through my panic.
How long has he been following me?
Am I the reason Kelsey’s mom is hanging dead inside?
Am I to blame?
Will he hurt me next?
Terrible regret assails me as I recount the moment we first bumped into one another, although now I wonder if that was evenhisfirst time seeing me.
“Please don’t,” I begin to plead, the words sounding small as they scrape past my quivering lips. He leans into me, my back bowing, arms stretching across the car’s sides to keep me from falling.
“Get the fuck inside,” he grits, gripping my arm and hoisting me up before shoving me inside the passenger seat, slamming the door and circling around to the driver’s seat.
My lashes clump together from excessive moisture, partially obscuring my view. I cringe in my seat when I hear him settle beside me behind the wheel.
Then all the doors lock. My fingers tense in my lap. Acid burns cavities in my throat. Claustrophobia manifests until my chest tightens and my vision dims. I feel like I might black out. Maybe then I’ll wake up from this nightmare and find myself back in Kelsey’s room, where it’s warm and safe. Ignorant to the atrocity downstairs. I should have never left her room.
When he leans over the console, my shoulders jerk, instinct forcing me to press back into the seat as far as the padded cushion allows. Since disappearing into it isn’t possible, I revert to squeezing my eyes shut and bracing myself, a thin whimper slipping out of me. Seconds later, I hear the click of a seatbelt as he buckles me in. Then he retracts into his own seat, his body heat dissipating from my vicinity. I breathe out a shaky breath, but the relief doesn’t last long.
The engine hums to life, and despite its gentleness, I jolt. Things are escalating. I’m not dreaming. He pulls out of the curb and drives us away. Panic skyrockets in my chest. It feels like my heart might implode at any moment. I feel useless, anxiously peering through the window and watching the houses in the neighborhood blur past us like falling dominoes, fading into the distance, into nothing but tiny blobs.
My limbs lock in place. Everything’s set in motion now.
Maybe I should’ve fought back while we were still inside, but I couldn’t live with the devastation it would’ve caused. It’s not enough that Mrs. Shaw’s blood is on my hands; I couldn’t add two more to that.
What would a couple of high school girls do against a lethal man with an iron grip and death glimmering in his eyes? If they were smart, they’d call the cops before anything else, but I’m no fool to think they’d show up in time to save any of us. Fact is, I’m doomed. Even now, I know it as I choke back broken tears of surrender. It’s over for me.
It feels like there aren’t any right choices to make. I’m reduced to a badly scripted character in a horror film who’s making all of the wrong decisions while we shout at her through the TV screen. But things change once the unthinkable happens. None of the hypotheticals matter then.
Against all odds, I latch onto hope that I'll somehow find a way out of this. Even if that hope is minuscule.
He hasn’t killed me yet.
Whatever the reason, maybe I can use it to my advantage. He knows me. Not well, but hopefully well enough to see me as human. If the reason I’m still alive is because he feels even a sliver of regret, then I’m not a lost cause. Guilt is a powerful emotion, maybe only second to fear. And I can do a lot with guilt. He might not be showing it outright, but his actions tell a different story.
Anxiety gnaws at my insides as we keep driving into theempty void. I dig my fingers into the sides of my thighs and look away, choosing to hyperfocus on the indents my nails leave behind instead.
“Where are you taking me?” I muster up what little bravery I have and glance over at him. He doesn’t answer, his eyes fixed on the road. His features, once familiar, now look menacing beneath the dark shadows.
There are fewer streetlights wherever we are and next to nothing else. No houses, no shops, no signs of life. I can’t remember when I stopped recognizing the route, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s taking me somewhere secluded. Unease coils tight in my gut. This isn’t good.
“Did you plan this?” My voice cracks.
“Stop talking.”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat, casting him out of my sight, but just because I avoid looking doesn’t mean he’s not still there.
Whatever happened to adrenaline-induced super strength or something else useful, like photographic memory, so I can trace back where we came from? Nothing is working in my favor. There has to be something else I can do. This can’t be how it ends for me.
“Quit squirming,” he snaps.
