Page 136 of Cain
“You really want to know who did this?” she says quietly, almost like a whisper. I nod, my heart pounding. “He did.”
“He who?” My eyes widen.
“Mr. Manson.”
I freeze. “What?”
“He did it. He grabbed me, held me down, and said it was to teach me a lesson.”
My breathing becomes louder and more forced. Did he really do it? But why? I know him; he’s not like this. He kills, he tortures, but that’s not his style.
Even as she speaks, something’s off. Her tone is just a little too even, her eyes a little too dry. She’s trying to sound broken, but there’s no real crack in her voice.
She’s lying.
I don’t know why she’d say something so dark, but I know it’s not the truth.
“You need to be careful. He’s dangerous,” she says calmly.
I don’t object to her. I end the conversation with a sharp nod. She understands I don’t want to talk about it anymore, so she turns her back and exits my room.
He’s violent, vicious, and savage. But I don’t believe he’d do something like this. It doesn’t sit well with me.
I run into my closet and grab a pair of jeans and a black, cropped, long-sleeved knitted sweater.
I brush my hair and let it fall in natural waves over my shoulders.
My eyes fall on the rose-flavored lip gloss sitting at the edge of the sink. I pick it up, twist it open, and breathe in the scent that numbs my mind. Haunting, inescapable, obsessive. Just like him. This smell will always be his. I can’t help myself. I drag it across my lips, slow and careful, as if the act might hold him here a little longer.
All set. I give myself a final check in the mirror, then exit my room to find him in his office.
On the way there, nothing feels surprising or new. The mansion is quiet, wrapped in the familiar scent of soap and roses.
Inevitably, I pass Landon’s bedroom, and as if he hears my thoughts, the door opens, and he steps out. He freezes, just like me. There’s a flicker of surprise on his face, faint but discernible. He looks worn down, almost battered. A fresh scratch cuts across his cheekbone, red and swollen, like it came from a fight. I’m guessing he was in one, just like Cain. That would explain the blood and the dirt on their clothes last night. I guess I was too shaken to observe his face.
The silence between us is too awkward. Contrary to Eleanor, he was always creepy, but now he’s not. He seems regretful and normal.
He lets out a long breath through his nostrils. “Thank you,” he says quietly, pushing his hands in his pants pockets.
“For what?”
“Saving me last night.” His gaze drifts back to mine. He’s solemn and quiet, as if he actually means it. “If it weren’t for you, Cain would have killed me.”
“Violence is not the way to solve things.”
He studies me with a look that lingers too long. “You really believe that?” he murmurs. “That violence isn’t the answer?”
“I think … it shouldn’t have to be.”
He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe as a corner of his mouth lifts. “That’s not a yes.”
“I’ve seen what it does to people. That’s enough.”
He clicks his tongue like he’s disappointed. “Then what are you still doing here?”
“I …”
My voice catches before the rest can form. My eyes stay locked on his longer than they should, longer than is safe. I don’t know how to answer him. Not in a way that would make sense to someone like him.
