Page 61 of Deeper

Rylan

Aria,

I’m not proud, but I’m not ashamed. I knew Callen was dangerous, but that side of him speaks to me in a way nothing ever has before.

I can still see the red when I close my eyes. The dark stains were glorified against pure white fabric. I’m a monster who has been let free. I crave more, needing to feed the darkest parts inside me.

You wouldn’t want this, but without you, my light has been put out. I’m sorry I continue to disappoint you, but I need this. I can’t stop. I won’t ask for your forgiveness but only your love. I ask that you love me unconditionally and without stipulations. Please…

I miss you. I love you almost as much as ice cream.

Rylan

This. Is. Me.

I can’t keep apologizing for things I’m not truly sorry for. I can keep begging for forgiveness until I’m blue in the face, but she knows the truth. She’s always been able to see exactly who I am. When we were younger, she saw past my darkness, always seeing the best in me. But I’m positive it’s hard—even for Aria—to find the good in what I took part in with Callen. The last thing I want is to disappoint her, but I can’t fight these morbid urges.

I don’t want to.

I can only hope she can see past my decisions and love me for who I’ve become.

Sick and twisted.

The news story drowns out my written words. I turn up the volume on the television, letting the darkness take over again.

A man was found today hanging from the carousel at Lighthouse Point Park. He was brutalized and tortured before his death. The number three was carved in his chest. Residents of the area are in a total panic. Reporters are speculating that the numbers insinuate there will be at least two more deaths, as if that weren’t painfully obvious.

Sharon Peterman, the bright and shiny news anchorwoman, told me all this with a plastic smile on her face.

Callen is the Murder by Numbers Killer, and I am his sick-in-the-head sexual deviant.

My dad died suddenly. My mom ended her own life carelessly.

Callen taking the lives of others should repulse and frighten me, but somehow, it makes me feel connected to him, to myself. Watching him kill doesn’t scare me. It intrigues me.

The news show’s music picks up, and Sharon presses her finger to her ear. Her professional bravado slips for a few long seconds. I sit up in my seat, my eyes unblinking, greedy for more information.

“We just got word that the man found this morning has been identified as Sebastian Rutherford, local entrepreneur and hero to many. Police arrived at his home in Maplefield not long ago, and I’m being told the scene isn’t pretty. We’re going to go live to Jim Russell now, who is outside Sebastian Rutherford’s home. Jim, are you there?”

The camera cuts to grieving neighbors and alarmed citizens of the town. Police come and go from the crime scene with serious looks plastered on their faces.

Then, something happens. The mood shifts. It goes from solemn and morose to chaotic. Police scramble into action. Onlookers’ whispers turn into a roaring buzz. Jim goes from sympathetic newscaster straight to investigative reporter.

The front door swings open, and two men help a woman out of the house. She’s wrapped in a blanket, and her face is turned into her shoulder, so the cameras can’t catch her face. I know it’s the woman from the parking lot yesterday. Reporters shove their way forward, and Jim is no different, but a wall of police officers stops their momentum.

Men and women push the line of the crime scene tape and scream questions at her.

“What’s your name?”

“Was Sebastian your lover?”

“Did Sebastian’s killer hit you?”

“Were you in the house last night?”

The police do their best to usher her away from the chaos, both to protect her but also to protect their case.

But the newshounds keep at it.

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