Page 12 of His

I knew that I couldn’t let her go. That much was certain. But I couldn’t kill her either.

I mean, Icould. Don’t get me wrong. I haven’t cared about another human since I can remember words. I remember –vividly remember—the sensation of looking up at my mother, the sun behind her hair.

Then—darkness—looking down at her body.

After that, there was no caring anymore. Only numbness.

I could kill this woman; the difficulty comes from all of the attendant complications. Her car, for one. Her cell phone. If she turned out to be a cop. Or even if not, whether she’d told a friend where she was going. Whether she had an accomplice waiting for her at the road. Even as I held the knife to her throat I was checking off all of the things I needed to do.

All of the complications that she had brought to my nice, simple, serene life.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I’m as peaceful as Siddhartha, ninety-nine percent of the time. It’s only that the shadow builds around the edges like dirt on a glass table. It builds and builds, creeping inward, until it reaches the heart, and then the choice is simple.

I have to destroy or be destroyed. And I’ve always chosen the former.

Interesting, since I don’t have much reason to live. But I figure that neither does anyone else. So who’s to say I should be the one to go? I have to admit I tilt the odds in my favor when I weigh my lives against those of my victims. It’s easy to look through public records. Easy to find the rich men who have settled their abuse cases with fines instead of jailtime. It’s so easy to pick out the men who, like me, are capable of hurting others.

They’ve all been men. I’ve never captured a woman. Or killed one.

She might be the first.

Kat

“Alright,” the man said. The pressure of the knife eased up off of my neck. “Let’s go inside.”

He let go of me and gestured down the wood-paneled hallway. I choked back my sobs and took a step forward. My leg gave out under me as pain shot upward from my ankle and I bent over, clutching my leg.

“Ahh,” I gasped. It was almost completely dark in the front hallway, and I couldn’t see the features of the man anymore. I didn’t know whether he would cut my throat right then and there if I spoke, but I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t walk. I could feel myself beginning to have a panic attack. My pills. Where were my pills?

“It—it hurts,” I whispered.

“To walk?”

“I rolled my ankle.” The man gave a deep sigh. The knife twirled in his hand.

“Wait! I can crawl,” I said quickly. “Please. I’ll crawl. I’ll—”

“Come on,” the man said, reaching out to me. He pulled me to my feet and put one arm around my waist, holding me up. “I really don’t have time for this.”

I leaned on him and limped down the hallway. All the while, he held me tight against his body. It was terrible to think about, but it had been a long time since anyone had been so close to me, and the way that his hand wrapped around my hip... well, I couldn’t help what my body decided to respond to. The pressure of his arm around me was thrilling, in the most terrifying kind of way. I bit my lip as a new wave of pain shot through my leg.

We reached the end of the front hallway and turned into the main living room. I gazed into the house, expecting to see gleaming rows of torture weapons. Knives littering the floor. A bathtub full of body parts.

Instead, I saw a living room right out of the center page of Home & Living magazine, a log cabin that any millionaire might have owned. A leather couch in front of a huge fireplace. Brass radiators on the walls. Plush velvety rugs on top of knotted pine flooring. And, through the open door to the kitchen, a table where a man lay, bloody and groaning.

Okay, maybe that scene wasn’t in Home & Living.

He stopped at the end of the hallway in front of a closet and slid open the pine door. Inside of what I’d thought was a coat closet stood a rack of computer screens, showing every possible angle of the house and the surrounding property. The road, the gate. Three of the screens had a red blinking icon at the top that saidWarning: Intruderin big block letters.

He frowned and pulled out what looked like a remote control. He opened up the back and tapped the remote. Four batteries fell out.

“Goddammit.” His voice was flat, but there was so much anger simmering under the surface that it might have been better had he yelled. He ripped open a fresh back of batteries with his teeth and replaced them, then tossed the remote control into the closet and slammed the door. Turning to me, I saw irritation written all over his face.

“Out of battery,” he said. “My audio alarm is out of battery. That’s why it didn’t go off for you. Great. Spring cleaning and I forgot to change the batteries.”

My mouth dropped open. That was it? If he’d changed a battery, I wouldn’t have witnessed a murder? Well, almost a murder, I reminded myself, as the man in the other room groaned again.

“If you let me go, I won’t say anything,” I said, my words rushing out in a flood of worry. “I didn’t see anything. I don’t know your name or who you are. I don’t even know who that guy is!”

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