“Do you know what it’s like growing up being hated by your own mother?” he asks, looking over at me. Rolling his shoulders, his size appears to expand under the moonlight, the monster coming alive, taking the reins. My heart splinters, the shards cutting through bone, skin, deserting me.
“I didn’t have a mother. Willis killed her,” I spit out, hatred overwhelming my sense of fear.
“Well, he failed to kill mine.” His brow quirks. “He tried. If they hadn’t caught him right at that moment, she would have bled out and died, and little me already taking root would have died right along with her. Does that terrify you or make you feel alive?” He turns to me, a callous smile transforming his pretty face.
“Impregnating her without knowing?” I breathe.
“She was sixteen when she had me. The wounds barely healed, and the scars never would. They called me a miracle child. So much trauma, yet I stuck.”
“I’m sorry.” And I mean it. What a twisted way to enter this world.
“I believe you.” He smiles, pacing the floor between us before stopping in front of me. Taking a strand of my hair, he curls it around his fingers. “You were nothing like I expected, Liz. Damn, I thought after everything you’d witnessed, you’d be just as fucked up as me. Willis’s blood in your veins on top of the ordeal…”
“I’m nothing like him,” I grit out.
“Oh, I know. But you’re not exactly normal either, are you?”
“Is that what you are—normal?” I mock.
“Fuck no. What a boring waste of life that would be. The Abigail’s of the world disgust me.”
Abigail. Sorrow and shame marinate inside me. “Is that why you killed her?”
Moving away from me, an expression of satisfaction shining in his eyes, he says, “That and to see your reaction. Someone you knew but weren’t particularly friends with. Close enough to get a reaction, not close enough to cause you pain.”
Is that what he believes? That her dying because of me wouldn’t cause me pain? Seeing people lose their lives in gruesome ways, dredging up my mother’s murder, wouldn’t have a profound effect on me? “I’ve been in pain. It fucking destroyed me thinking that bastard came back and was killing people to torment me. Why the rose? How did you know about Marco Polo?”
Scoffing, he scrunches his nose like I insulted him. “You’re always scribbling Marco on any piece of paper in your vicinity. I knew it must be for a reason.” Tilting his head, he adds, “The rose—a prop to get under your skin.”
“Why now?”
Leaning against the dresser, ankles crossed like he doesn’t have a care in the world, his shoulder jerks up. “I’d been watching from afar for so long, it became a game for me, testing my restraint, an edge game that kept my adrenaline pumping and my fire burning like a fine wine I’d been saving for the right moment. I spent weeks watching, learning your routines, the people in your life.”
Glancing over at me, his lashes flutter. “You are so fragile, numb, lonely, like me, drifting through life almost asleep.”
Lies. I’m nothing like him. I will never be anything like him.
“There’s something missing inside you.” He moves toward me again, coming too close and tilting my chin with his fingers. I try to tug free, but be pinches the skin, making me wince. “It shows in your soft, muted, dark eyes. They have a smoky flare waiting to be ignited in a fiery passion. I can be the spark you’ve been missing all this time,” he breathes, his gaze dropping to my lips.
“Fuck you. I hate you,” I seethe, spitting in his face.
The backhand to my cheek causes pain to explode up my face, knocking me off my feet to the floor, inches from the puddle of vomit. My tooth pierces my lip. Copper liquid fills my mouth, dribbling to my chin.
“Dramatic much?” he snarls, rubbing the back of his arms over his face to wipe the saliva away.
“You’re as crazy as he is.”
Dropping to his haunches, he grabs my throat, making me squeal. Lifting me to my feet, he pins me to the back wall, my back smarting from the impact. “I’m not crazy,” he growls. Strong fingers grip hard, pushing against my windpipe. “I’m real fucking lucid.”
Releasing me with as much strength as he used to pin me, I stumble. He runs his hands through his hair as I slide down the wall, massaging my throat to alleviate the ache, each inhale burning like lava. “What now? You’re going to kill me? What’s your end game?” My voice is raw, broken. “How did you know I was his daughter? I didn’t even know.”
Tipping his face to the ceiling, he says, “I think you didn’t want to know is more accurate. It wasn’t hard to figure out. Once I started digging for information on him, it all came together pretty easily. Guess who was high school sweethearts?”
My mother?
“Your mama was from Hollywell, did you know that? Jack’s wasn’t.”
Jack’s wasn’t? Why did I not know that? I didn’t look into any of it, I just believed what I was told.
He moves to the bed, pulling out the box he stuffed under there when I first arrived. Taking the lid off, he empties the contents to the mattress. Images of me flutter to the duvet, followed by newspaper clippings like the ones I keep, files, books. My breathing stutters seeing his collection of my life splayed before me.
He picks up what looks like a yearbook and flips through it, grinning when he finds the page he wants. Tapping his finger on the image, he shoves it at my face. “Your mother—before the name change of course.” He goes back to his collection, swiping up a piece of paper. “Quick internet search on marriage and divorce records—and boom, your mother again.
