Page 90 of Shattered
CHAPTER 25
three weeks later
Rourke
After weeks of isolation, I found myself back at this house, to make sure she was all right. How was the tattoo healing? Was my circle a faint scar now? Would Melissa ask Dahlia for a loan to remove the tattoo, since it was inspired by me? Would the faint lines of the circular wound disappear within a year or two?
It had been weeks since I had last killed. Weeks since I had last seen Melissa. I hid in my house, waiting to be arrested. I wanted to give Melissa adequate time to go to the police. Go, just go, damn it, I would think at night, imagining the last time I saw her, running away from me. Go find Detective Foreman. End this turmoil. This destruction with no end. Turn me in. Show me that I could do the socially acceptable thing for once. Give me fuel to get through endless years in prison. To make it through that walk to the lethal injection chamber.
The blinds on her windows were slightly open, likely letting a small amount of light into her bedroom. If I closed my eyes, I could picture it all: the candle on her dresser, the wooden palette in her hand, her hair lazing down her back in red and black tendrils, a dash of blue paint on her cheeks. Her eyes wide, smiling as she took me in, always glad to see me. Whether it was with a mask or without, she had always been open to me.
I had never known anyone who saw me for what I was at my core. I had shown my adoptive father hints of my true self throughout my teenage years, and though he cared for me, he kept his distance, afraid that he would somehow make it worse. It was better to let the psychological institutions fail to correct me. And those psychiatrists, psychologists, therapists? They were all the same. The doctor to patient hierarchy was vast, but I was always the same specimen. A textbook example of a person on the spectrum of psychopathy. An object unlike them. A creature to analyze.
But Melissa had seen who I was and still thought of me as a person. As her equal.
It helped that she had killed someone before, I supposed.
She had my full name. With that and a few other details she knew, the police would have been able to track me easily. And at that point, I wouldn’t fight any charges or warrants. On the contrary, I’d invite them in. Let them search my house. Find my cords. As long as they left Melissa alone.
Had she not gone to the police because she was afraid of me?
A flicker of a shadow passed in front of the blinds, then disappeared. This was the first time I had ventured out in weeks. I didn’t even have my tools with me. I had only known that I needed to go to her, one last time.
I thought of the night before I truly revealed myself often, when we met at the gallery. She had been stunning in that black dress, the goosebumps erupting on her skin like texture in a piece of art, her acceptance of my jacket endearing. Her dark eyes haunted as she looked across the road, running to me, an attempt to make our goodbye longer. To not let it end yet.
It was hard to say goodbye to her. Even now.
I would hold onto that image of her. I would paint it in my own mind and enhance it with time. A dash of blue paint on her neck. Her cheeks dotted with faint red marks. One broken blood vessel in her eye. Press my cheek against her cold skin, my jacket hanging on her shoulders. Her sparkling eyes as she looked across the road.
But I needed to go. I couldn’t wait for her to turn me in any longer. It was time to leave.
As I started the car’s engine, my phone rang.Melissablinked on the screen. I wasn’t used to the interruptions anymore; I had kept the device off since the last night I saw her, only choosing to turn it on now after weeks had passed. I glanced up at the window, seeing darkness behind the blinds. I clicked decline. I shifted the gear into reverse, ready to pull out of the spot.
My phone pinged. I put the car into park again. A text from her:I can see you.
By the time I read it, she was out the front door and across the street, knocking on the window. I looked forward. I didn’t want to acknowledge her.
I should go. Let her live her life.
She banged louder, her fists thudding into the window. A neighbor yelled to her, and she yelled back, then continued clanging.
If nothing else, I could try to warn her one last time.
I unlocked the door. Her eyes fell to the door handle. Instead of opening my door, she ran around to the other side and slid into the passenger seat.
Suddenly, the music seemed loud. The discordant sounds didn’t make sense in the context. I slammed the dashboard, turning the music silent. She didn’t flinch.
“You came back,” she said. She made it seem so romantic.
“What did you think I was going to do,” I groaned, rather than asked.
“I honestly thought I would never see you again.” She shifted uncomfortably, then turned towards me. “You know, I found your address. But I couldn’t get past the gate. Not even on foot.”
She had looked me up; that was unexpected. It was almost a shame that we had the gate staffed at all hours.
“My community is private.”
“I learned that.”
