31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

Kayla

"Can I show you?" he asks.

My eyes go wide. Show me? What could he possibly want to show me?

"Please tell me you don't have a body part collection in here somewhere. Because that's a hard no. I can get over the obvious red flags like stalking and kidnapping, but body parts in a freezer or on a shelf or anywhere are not a red flag. They're a red fucking banner, and I'm not dealing with that."

Only after I'm finished with my little speech do I realize that if he does have a body part collection, I've mortally insulted him. But I guess I believe him when he says he'd never hurt me because I'm not afraid of his retaliation. I'm just worried about how I'll be able to deal with whatever he wants to show me.

He flashes me a grin, showing off his perfectly straight white teeth. I bet he wore braces as a kid. I bet he was super cute, even with braces. I can't imagine Ethan Bennett not being cute.

A cute serial killer. Wow. Perhaps I am the red flag here.

"No, Kayla," he says, still grinning. "No body parts. Not only is it disgusting, but it would be unwise to keep DNA samples of my victims where someone might find them."

Now I feel stupid again because what he says makes perfect sense. But how should I have known? I'm not an expert on killing people! I don't even watch crime dramas on TV. I'd be the type of criminal who gets caught minutes after committing the crime. It's a good thing I'm a law-abiding citizen. Except now, I apparently have a serial killer for a boyfriend.

I shake my head as if the simple motion would sort through the mess of thoughts whirling inside.

"What did you want to show me, then?" I ask, hoping it won't be something terrible. I like Ethan, and I desperately cling to the hope that underneath all those red flags, he's still a nice guy. But it all boils down to who he considers to be worse than an asshole who abuses his girlfriend. What did those people do that Ethan believes he had the right to kill them?

Does he have a delusional conviction that people who like pineapple on their pizza deserve to die? Is he secretly homophobic and murders gay people? I can't accept either of those options. But…

There are bad people in the world. Terrible people. Monsters.

Could it be that this is what Ethan meant? That he kills other killers? Or is it just my wishful thinking? And even if that's what he meant, would I be able to accept it?

He gets off the bed and rummages through a duffle bag before tossing leggings and a T-shirt in my direction. My favorite leggings. My favorite T-shirt. My go-to comfy stay-at-home clothes.

From what I can see of the duffle bag, it seems full of my clothes. He packed for me before kidnapping me. Creepy or thoughtful?

"Are you going to get dressed?" Ethan asks, amused. I turn to see him already wearing a pair of gray sweatpants. Honest to god, gray sweatpants. How am I supposed to resist him? Then he pulls a simple white T-shirt over his head, completing his "god of sex" look.

My mouth waters at the sight, and I blink slowly, trying to figure out what I was doing before he distracted me with his massive…um, sex appeal.

"Kayla?"

His chuckle breaks me out of my stupor, and I realize I'm still sitting on the bed, holding my clothes, very much naked. "Oh. Right." I swallow the saliva pooling in my mouth before I drool all over myself like the mentally-challenged slut I apparently am. But seriously, how can he be so sexy? He's a bad guy! It should be illegal for bad guys to be sexy.

I wipe the mess between my legs with the already wet sheet and quickly dress myself, aware of his gaze following my every move. Even though I know he's been watching me for weeks, it still makes me nervous, my insecurities bubbling up. What if he doesn't like what he sees?

I cast a wary look in his direction as I pull my leggings up, only to find out he does like what he sees. His cock is hardening again, the outline clearly visible against the damned sweatpants.

"Just for the record," Ethan says, "I let you get dressed because I want you to feel comfortable during the conversation we're about to have. If it were up to me, I'd have you walking around naked so I could watch your beautiful body whenever I want to. Don't even think about being shy or insecure around me. I've watched you for weeks, and I love every part of you, my precious little bunny."

I clear my throat, unsure how to respond. His words are both scary and encouraging, which is messing with my head. "You said you watched me, um…in the shower."

"Masturbate?" he suggests, grinning. "I have cameras all around your house, bunny. I've seen everything."

I knew that. I knew he had cameras at my house. Why did I never truly look for them? Why didn't I call someone to get rid of them? The POLICE, for example? Dammit. Do I even have a self-preservation instinct?

"That's creepy," I murmur as I finally get off the bed. He didn't give me socks or shoes, but the floor isn't too cold, so I'll go with it. For now.

I stretch and yawn, absently looking for a clock. "What time is it?" In the windowless basement, it's impossible to tell, but it feels like I slept through the night and well into the morning.

Ethan checks the phone he conjured up from somewhere. "Almost noon. Are you hungry?"

Noon, wow. I normally don't sleep that long, even on weekends, let alone on weekdays. And—"Oh my god, it's Thursday! Isn't it?" Fuck, I hope I haven't been out for days.

"It is," Ethan confirms.

"I'm supposed to be at work!"

It should be a good thought.

Michelle or someone else will notice my absence at work and try calling me. When no one will be able to reach me, and they find my house empty, they'll call the police. They'll look for me. Someone will find me and rescue me. A handsome FBI agent will kick the door in, arrest Ethan, and give my story a happy ending. Except… Do I really want that?

Ethan doesn't seem worried at all. "You called in sick this morning."

"I did?"

He flashes me a smile. "I have voice-altering software. I used it to emulate your voice and called in sick for you. No one will miss you today or tomorrow. After that, it's the weekend."

Voice-altering software sounds like something from a science fiction movie, but I don't doubt Ethan's words. If he says it works, it probably does, which means it's going to take at least four days before anyone notices me missing. Four days that can either be very pleasant or very scary.

"And…after the weekend?" I ask, unsure if I even want to hear the answer. But it's important to know if he plans to keep me locked up in his basement forever. I can put up with a lot of things, but that's not one of them. I'd go insane in less than a week.

"That depends," Ethan replies. To my displeasure, he doesn't continue, but I think I got the message. My freedom depends on how well I take his dark secrets.

I take in a deep breath to center myself. "Fine then. Show me what you've got, Mr. DarkAndDangerous."

"As you wish."

Instead of going up the stairs, he leads me to a corner where the dart target stands. "Are we going to play?" I joke, trying to hide my anxiety. "Because I should warn you, my aim is terrible."

"I'll teach you later," he says with another of his disarming smiles. "But now we're going to my secret room."

As if we're in some action movie, he touches something on the wall behind the dart target, and an entire section of the wall opens to reveal a sturdy metallic door. He taps on a small keyboard, then presses his thumb to it, and the door whooshes open like we're aboard a fucking spaceship.

"Wow. If you have this top-security James Bond room, why didn't you lock me up there?" At his incredulous look, I hastily add, "Not that I want you to. It just feels like something a kidnapper would do."

"Lock you up with all my weapons and electronics? That would hardly be smart."

Once again, I feel like an idiot. "Right. That would be stupid."

Ethan runs his hand through his perfectly messy hair, making it look even more perfect. "I didn't want to lock you up at all, Kayla. Were I sure you wouldn't try screaming for help, I'd let you wake up in the upstairs bedroom. But it's not exactly soundproof, and while my closest neighbor is almost deaf, she's not completely deaf. Nor is she stupid."

Screaming for help. Why didn't I try screaming for help? "God, I'm horrible at this."

"You're perfect. Come on, let me show you everything. I'll add your prints to the door control later."

"What? Why?" Didn't he just say this is where he keeps his weapons?

"I don't want there to be any secrets between us." He tugs on my hand, and I obediently follow him to a room that looks like some sort of security center.

Computer screens line an entire wall, most of them displaying parts of the town, like feeds from traffic or security cameras. Others show a lot of text and numbers I can't read from where I stand in the doorway. And of course, one shows my empty living room.

I shouldn't be surprised. But hearing about it and seeing it with my own eyes is something else. "Really?" I snicker, pointing at the screen. "Why do you watch my house even after you've kidnapped me?"

"To make sure no one broke in."

At first, I think he's just teasing me, but then I remember the dead cat in my trashed car. "Adams? I haven't seen him around."

"I haven't either, but he's not the type to give up." Ethan pulls me into a hug. "Don't worry. If he dares to come near you again, I'll kill him, rules be damned."

I shouldn't be pleased by his promise. He's talking about murder. I should be appalled. Terrified. Not grateful. And most definitely not aroused. I clear my throat. "Rules? There are rules for killing people?"

Laughter rumbles in his chest. "If you don't want to get caught, then yes, there are rules. I have a lot of my own rules, too, to make sure I don't become as bad as the people I kill."

The sliver of hope in my chest grows larger. The way Ethan talks about it, he can't be a deranged, psychotic sadist who murders innocent people, right? He's a good person. He must be. "Rules sound good," I agree. "Will you explain them to me?"

"Of course, bunny. But first, I want to show you the list."

The list. Wow. That's not ominous at all.

Ethan guides me to a comfy office chair in front of the wall of screens. When I sit down, he reaches around me to tap on the keyboard, so I'm constantly surrounded by his masculine scent. The scent I've been waking up to for the past two weeks. The scent I'm already addicted to.

I rub my two operational brain cells together to produce what I hope is an intelligent question. "You said you don't have any DNA samples here, but isn't a list of your victims just as dangerous? It would tie you to the murders just as well, wouldn't it?" And no, I'm not saying it because I'm worried he'll get arrested.

"I love your smart brain," he murmurs as he kisses the top of my head.

At his praise, my "smart brain" loses all of its remaining higher functions, reverting me to a giddy teenager who just got noticed by the hottest boy at school.

"You're absolutely right," Ethan continues. "That's why all computers in this room are programmed to irreversibly erase all the data when anyone but me tries to access them. This particular file is even more protected than the rest of the system. Don't worry, bunny. I don't plan on going to jail."

"Does anyone ever plan on going to jail, though? I mean—Oh. Wow." He opens the file and pictures scroll in front of my eyes. Dozens of them. Maybe over a hundred. Jesus fucking Christ. "Are these all the people you've…"

"Killed. Yes."

As if sensing I need some space, Ethan retreats a few steps away. It's a good thing, because I don't think I could handle him hovering over me right now, faced with the scope of his crimes.

So many people. How does one even kill so many people? He doesn't look much older than me, and I barely have time to regularly visit my hairdresser, let alone plan a murder every other week.

Ethan watches me as I scroll through the list, and I wonder what emotions are showing on my face. Shock, definitely, that's the prevalent one. Astonishment, maybe, because my stalker has definitely been a busy bee. To my surprise, I don't feel disgusted or afraid. Perhaps it will come later, but right now, I'm just staring at the pictures with my mouth agape, trying to make rhyme or reason out of what I see.

Though I spot an occasional woman, most of the victims pictured are men. Usually middle-aged, but there are some younger and a few older men thrown into the mix. Their skin color varies, too. Thank fuck. Then again, if Ethan went around murdering Black people, he'd hardly fall in love with me.

I scroll to the very bottom, being none the wiser. None of the people look even remotely familiar. None, except for the very last one. I've seen him before, haven't I?

It takes me a minute to remember and then everything clicks into place. It's the man from the news, the one who raped and killed several children. And found himself dead. Ugly dead, as Georgia described it.

It all makes sense now. Ethan said the people he killed were worse than Craig. And who is worse than a guy who abuses his girlfriend? Someone who abuses children.

I suck in a sharp breath as I take in the list's length again. "All of them?" I ask breathlessly. "All of them are like that guy?" I jab my finger to where the screen shows the last photograph. I don't remember the man's name and I'm glad about it. He shouldn't be remembered. He should be erased from history, just like Ethan erased him from existence.

"Yes," he whispers, watching me with an unreadable expression. "Most of them never killed, but they hurt children, in one way or another."

I don't need to know the details. After several years in CPS, I know all the ways children can be hurt. And Ethan does something CPS and the police often can't—he punishes those responsible. And not only that. "You saved the girl," I say, remembering what Georgia said. "The one this bastard took."

Ethan's expression darkens, his hands balling into fists. For a split second, I wonder if he's going to hurt me, then I realize his anger isn't aimed toward me. "It was my fault she was there in the first place. My fucking fault."

With a frustrated scream, he slams his fist into the nearest wall. The drywall cracks, chips flying in all directions, and Ethan's knuckles turn red as blood wells in his wounds. Having spent all his aggression, he sinks to his knees and hides his face in his hands. "That girl… My fault," he whispers, his shoulders twitching as if he was holding back sobs.

I cast a single glance at the door. It's still open, and something tells me the basement door won't be locked, either.

I could run. I'm closer to the door than Ethan is, and he's distracted. I could make it.

Except I already know I won't even try. Not because I'm afraid of a punishment for a failed escape, but because Ethan needs me. My kind and caring serial killer needs me, and I'm not about to abandon him.