Page 4 of Obsession
“I know I look young,” I reply. “But is it so obvious I’m new?”
His lips twitch, and he shrugs. “Reporters usually come prepared.”
“I am prepared,” I argue.
He says nothing, but his winged brow irks me. Brushing imaginary lint off my black pants, I clear my throat again. “What made you decide to do interviews, Robbie? Why now?”
Why me?
I look up through my wispy lashes when he stays silent.
In a voice that’s as smooth as honey, he says, “I’m scheduled to die, ma’am. Do you have any idea what that’s like? To wake up every morning knowing the day is getting closer.”
A quick shake of my head is my answer.
Robbie observes me for a long moment, assessing me. There’s no oxygen in this room. “It makes you reevaluate a lot of things.”
“Like what?”
He eases back into his chair and crosses his arms. The action draws my eyes to the straining muscles. “I’m a monster, ma’am. Make no mistake. The things I’ve done…”
The words hang in the air. Dark and ominous. I cling to every one, every intake of breath, every slight ruffle of his prison outfit.
“The answer to your question is simple: I don’t know.” He leans forward across the table, and his scent wraps around me.
Out there, in the real world, men smell of cheap cologne, desperation, and fabric conditioner. This man,this killer,smells of soap, a hint of sweat, and something uniquely him. Something inherently masculine and untamed.
I try not to breathe him in, but it’s impossible when his scent thickens and darkens around me like a storm cloud.
“The victims’ families are out there. Families whose worlds were blown apart because of me. I owe it to them to tell the truth.Mytruth.” Then he’s gone, relaxing back into his chair, and my oxygen-starved lungs inhale greedily.
It dawns on me that I’m out of my depth, that it was foolish of me to think I had what it took to interview a man as notorious and intimidating as Robbie.
I can’t help but stare at his veiny hands and long fingers. Hands that have killed. Hands that have caused pain and suffering.
There’s a flutter between my legs.
A flutter that shouldn’t be there.
“Then tell me your truth, Robbie.” I flick my eyes up to his. “How did it all start? Tell me about your childhood. What were your parents like?”
2
ROBBIE, AGE 4
“All you ever fucking do is work. So where’s the money, Frank? Look around you. Why do we still live in this fucking dump of a trailer? There’s not even any food in the fridge. Why?”
I stared through the small gap in the cupboard door, where I was hiding, where I was always hiding when Mommy and Daddy fought.
Mommy, with her stringy brown hair and smudged mascara, had that scary look in her cold, gray eyes. The one she only had when she was about to hurt me. But she wouldn’t hurt Daddy. He was too big.
She poked him in the chest, a crazed look on her face. “Because you spend the money on alcohol and whores. That’s why!”
“Then why don’t you get a fucking job? Leave your bedroom for once instead of numbing yourself with prescription pills. What about Robbie?” My daddy looked around. “Where is he? I bet you don’t know.”
“Don’t!” Mommy hissed. “Don’t make me out to be the bad parent when you’re never home. When was the last time youspent any time with him? When was the last time you had dinner with us?”
The look on my daddy’s face turned incredulous. “You don’t cook family meals, so don’t give me that shit!”
