Page 23 of Obsession
Her sorrowful eyes flick up to mine. “It was hard not to. He tried so hard at school, but the world was against him.”
“Your hands were tied.”
“I was young. I had my own family. Like I said, Robbie wasn’t the only child struggling. I guess none of us truly understood what went on behind closed doors.” She winces again, leaning back in her chair. Gesturing to the biscuits, she says, “Have another one.”
“Thank you.”
“I blame myself.”
I pause with the biscuit halfway to my mouth.
“If only I would’ve done more. Took his recurrent absences seriously…the bruises.”
“You can’t change the past,” I remind her, though I know it’s pointless. We all blame ourselves for things that are out of our control.
“His clothes were always dirty,” she continues, lost in her own memories. “Why didn’t I do something?”
I reach across the table and take her trembling hand in mine. “None of this is your fault.”
“He’s months away from execution.”
“Rule number one: Don’t fall for the sob story,” I whisper shakily. “Robbie told me that. No matter what happened in his childhood, he knew what he was doing when he hurt those women. More importantly, Mrs. Ashton, he knew it was wrong.” My thumb strokes gently across the soft veins on the top of her hand while her eyes peer so deeply into mine that I swear she sees right through me. “He still killed those women. The pain his mother inflicted on him… He took that pain and unleashed it.You couldn’t have stopped it.” I squeeze her hand, pleading with her to listen to me. “None of it was your fault.”
“You care for him.” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
“I think I do,” I admit as tendrils of ache wrap around my heart. “Maybe somewhere along the line, I discarded his warning and let myself fall for his sob story.”
Her head shakes and pity clouds her eyes when she slides her hand from mine to cup my cheek. Her touch is gentle like I imagine a mother’s touch would feel. “Sweet young lady. You’ll get your heart broken.”
“With all due respect, Mrs. Ashton. Robbie Hammond isn’t the biggest wolf I’ve met. My heart broke long ago. Maybe for once, I want to lose myself in a nightmare of my own making, no matter how crazy it seems.”
Her soft hand slides down my chin. “Pain makes us feel alive. More so than pleasure at times.” She releases me, takes a sip of her coffee, and offers me a small smile. “Tell me, sweetheart. What’s he like now?”
Cutting the engine,I hold the steering wheel with both hands while staring at the derelict trailer Robbie Hammond used to call home.
Why hasn’t it been torn down? After all, they demolished the apartment building Jeffrey Dahmer used to live in. But Robbie Hammond’s trailer is still here, albeit abandoned.
A worn tire with weeds growing through the hubcap lies buried amongst the tufts of long grass lining the small home.
I scan the darkening clouds above as I push open the car door and step outside. It won’t be long before the skies open.
The trailer’s door hangs sideways, flapping in the wind. I’m not the first person to visit this place if the graffiti is anything to go by.
If I’m completely honest, I’m surprised the trailer hasn’t been burned to the ground by now.
The inside is not much better off. It has been ransacked, the floor littered with broken items. Shattered pieces of glass crunch beneath my rubber soles as I step deeper into the musty-smelling trailer. The windows are long gone, and the chairs that used to be neatly tucked into the table now lie sideways on the floor. I have to step over one to reach the small hallway that leads to the bedrooms, which are empty except for a stained mattress on the floor in the smaller room.
Was this Robbie’s room?
I retreat into the kitchen, where I stop to stare at the table. This is where Robbie killed that kitten and where his mother broke his fingers. My eyes skate to the small, upturned settee, where his mother beat him with a frying pan. I look over at the cupboards, trying to figure out which one he used to hide inside as a little kid before he grew too big to fit.
“Why am I here?” I whisper to the thick silence as a vagrant breeze causes the moth-eaten curtains to billow.
A shiver crawls up my spine. There’s no denying the evil lurking—a lingering residual energy that has the hairs at the back of my neck standing on edge.
I can’t even begin to imagine a younger version of Robbie living here. He warned me not to fall for the sob story, but as I take a step forward, pausing when I accidentally send something shooting across the floor, I can’t stop the twinge of sympathy.
Making my way over to the rusty object, I bend down and pick it up, turning the padlock over in my hand. I look over my shoulder at the cupboards.
