Page 78 of Shattered
“Stop lying to me. Admit that you hurt Rourke. You’re probably one of those monsters that he kills! You just want to save your own ass and turn him in to the police.” She was shaking now, barely able to stand. “What did you do to Rourke?”
I lifted both of my bandaged hands. “One of these I cut at the Dahlia District. You wrapped up my hand, remember?” She stared at me, her eyes widening into the abyss. “And the other, you carved your initial into my palm, so that I’d remember you every time I used it. Every time I open a door. Every time I strike a match. Every time I touch you.” She didn’t back down and my gaze darkened. “Every time I hold a cord around someone’s neck, I will sense it healing there and think of you, Melissa.”
She shook her head, her eyes watering in shock. “I don’t understand.”
I slammed my fist into the top of the car. “Well, that’s not my problem, is it?”
Recognition finally reared its head into her heart, her cheeks reddening. “You’re a hypocrite. You’re a fucking hypocrite.”
“A hypocrite?” I leaned down. “The truth was always there, Melissa.” I pointed around us. “If you think you can walk through your life pretending to be something you’re not, be my guest. But me? I will never apologize for what I did to them. For what I’ve done to you.” I forced a laugh. “I should have known you’d never be able to accept me.”
“What do you mean?” she stuttered.
“If you can’t accept your true self, how could you ever accept me?” I held my chin high. “I never once lied to you, Melissa. You were too stubborn to open your eyes and see it.”
Her eyes were glossy with confusion; the recognition slipping from her grasp once again.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
I spoke through my teeth: “If you still don’t know who I am, then you never did.”
I got in my car and slammed the door, racing down the street. In the rearview mirror, Melissa stood on the side of the road, watching me disappear into the night.
Who was more pathetic: the one who couldn’t come to grips with who and what I was, or the one who actually believed that she would understand in the first place? It was easier to turn Garrett into a predator than to accept that I had been involved in her life in more ways than she could count. That I had always been there. Watching her. Keeping tabs on her.
Eventually, once she found a way to accept what I had told her, she would realize that I never had good intentions. I had manipulated her. Studied her. Brainstormed ways to put the deaths on her, rather than leave each stolen life hanging by the strings on my back. She was never supposed to be anything more than a vague interest, some woman who had pinned a death on me. She wasn’t even a copy-cat killer or a sadistic admirer. She was a murderer who tried to frame another killer. A game I rightfully wanted to rematch. To show her what it was like to shift blame.
But intentions shift too. Once I realized that she didn’t deserve to lose that game, the interest was different. She was no longer the object to shift my blame onto, but someone I wanted to keep for myself. A selfish need. I had a depraved desire to see her. To hold her. To be with her.
Because what was more screwed up than a psychopath thinking he had found love?
None of that mattered. She couldn’t even look me in the eyes and see the man that wore the mask was the same one who invited her to a wedding, who wanted to introduce her to his adoptive father. The same man who murdered her roommate and would kill her supposed best friend, Jake, at the first chance he had.
None of this made sense. Not for Melissa, nor for me. But I had accepted it. I wasn’t going to force her to understand too.
Miles away from the gallery, I shifted to an easy pace, driving to my house in a gated community. A length of pines separated the neighborhood from the rest of the city. My father lived in the neighborhood too, in one of the few beachfront houses, which meant he was on the opposite side of the neighborhood. I preferred the forest that surrounded the other houses, knowing the wild predators that lurked in the trees were out there, waiting for someone, like me.
Patrick Cabot, my adoptive father, had always been good to me. But he knew that there was something wrong with me; watching your mother die did that to you. After he took custody, I spent my youth in and out of the finest mental health institutions. Finally, in adulthood, he thought giving me a sense of purpose by showing me how to invest would help channel my energy into something positive, but all it did was show me how easy it was to manipulate the system.
But it was time to move on. The house was paid for, but that didn’t mean I needed to keep living here. There were other cities where I could hunt monsters. Places where I could protect those who needed it. Places where Melissa didn’t exist.
I grabbed the door handle and ignored the pain that seared in my palm. She might not live in those cities, but I would never be able to forget her. I knew that. The way she held herself, the pain and emptiness behind those dark eyes, eyes that saw me, even with the mask. Eyes that reflected me back.
She wasn’t afraid of me. No. She had trusted me, but wouldn’t any longer.
Inside, the house was empty. I had hired an interior designer when I first bought it but kept the mood modern and bleak. I had always known I would need to move, and the idea of filling up an over-sized house with items I didn’t need, irritated me.
I checked my phone for the tracking device. Jake’s signal was in Cresting Heights, near the Dahlia District. I had been watching him since we talked at the police station; he had an RV parked in the woods. Perhaps he was staying near the Dahlia District, secretly going there for food.
If I killed him, there was a chance that I could end things with Melissa for good. Making sure that she never trusted me again.
But there were other matters to worry about. Like my own life. I had to go back to the way I was, a selfish bastard who didn’t care about being alone. Melissa was never meant to be part of the equation. Exacting revenge on her by killing her friend, wouldn’t help me like I needed it to.
Upstairs, after I put on disposable gloves, I opened up a chest with a hidden compartment. I found the torn cords linked together in an array of colors. Nylon was durable, and polyester was strong. There was even some natural, sisal rope. Polypropylene caused a nice burn when I wrung it around a neck. I liked switching it up, experiencing the different ways the monsters writhed in various cords. But in truth, my gloved hands only noticed the rising tension and fall of the body, down, down, and down.
I pulled one cord out of the mix, sprinkled with red dots. The night I had bashed in a man’s head with a crowbar. Because I couldn’t hurt Jake like I wanted.
If he ever touched Melissa again, there wouldn’t be a second thought.
And that was why I needed to leave. It wasn’t good for me.
It wasn’t good for Melissa.
