Page 16 of Obsession
“How are your interviews going so far?”
His beady eyes sparkle with interest, and something about the greedy curiosity sets me on edge. While I understand the world will salivate over Robbie’s story and, ultimately, his execution, it feels wrong to share his childhood.
There’s nothing I can do about the sinking stone in my stomach. No matter how intrusive it feels, I have to tell a dying man’s story.
He requested the interviews. No one is forcing him.
“They’re going well,” I answer, trying not to fidget. “I have three hours of recordings so far, but the weekly interviews will carry on until the month before his execution. I can’t rush this.”
He hums, twisting his mouth to the side. “You could write about Robbie Hammond in your weekly column. We could drip feed the audience little tidbits.”
“Tidbits?”
“Juicy snippets. Keep them coming back for more. Build up interest in the final product.”
His ruddy face watches me closely, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s hunting for weaknesses, wondering, like Elliot, why Robbie would request me.
Why not one of the other women at the office? A more experienced reporter. Why me?
“If that’s what you want,” I answer to appease him. “I have to check that Robbie is okay with it first.”
He ignores me, gesturing me away with a flippant wave of his meaty hand, and reaches for the paperwork. “That’s all. You can see yourself out.”
My annoyance soon transforms into relief as I step out into the main hall. I can’t wait until I’m out of here, away from James’s beady eyes and Elliot’s sickening remarks.
I come to a halt at the entrance to my cubicle. Elliot is rooting through the drawers.
He straightens when I clear my throat and place a hand on my cocked hip.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
With a simple shrug and zero remorse, he looks around my cubicle as though the place is beneath him. “Just curious, is all.”
“Curious about what? Or are you hoping to steal my research?”
Scoffing, he stalks up to me and puts his hands on the doorframe. I’m not stupid; he’s doing it to make me feel small. “If I wanted to take over this case, I could do so in a heartbeat, sweetheart.” His irksome smirk is back, causing me to stiffen. “There’s something intriguing about a plain woman like you, who somehow manages to catch the interest of a notorious serial killer behind bars. What is it about you?”
“I hate to break it to you,” I reply in a bored tone, arms crossed. “He didn’t know about me when he requested the interviews. He most likely saw photographs of us all in a newspaper and picked randomly.”
“On the contrary…” He lets his hands drop and inches closer, erasing the small space between us, and my skin prickles. “I’d bet my yearly salary he knew about you long before he agreed to interviews. And it makes me wonder who has the real story to tell.”
As he walks away, I watch his retreating back, unable to deny the truth behind his words. At least the part about Robbie. There’s every chance he knows more about me than he lets on.
But how?
“My guess is that it has something to do with your vegetative father.”
8
ROBBIE, AGE 12
Mom slept soundly in her bed, her greasy hair spread out over the pillow like a halo.
We both knew she was nothing but a monster.
But the bigger monster was me.
The abomination of a son she was molding me into.
