31. I Only Wanna Be with You

31

I ONLY WANNA BE WITH YOU

DAISY

OVER A YEAR AND A HALF AGO ― January 20th, 1974

His hair is messy today, some strands clumped together with paint. He always pushes it out of his face when he works, so he tends to get dirty.

Just like his bedroom, his studio has a large window in the flat ceiling to let in natural light. So, naturally, I quietly sit on top of the roof with a joint in my hand, watching him.

He's a very private person, so he usually keeps the curtains closed, especially when it's dark outside. He doesn't like to be watched. Little does he know that I've been watching him for months.

I think I've truly lost my mind, because I'm here freezing my tits off in the middle of winter, stalking a man who doesn't even know I exist. I'm wrapped in a thick leather coat with faux fur at the wrists and collar, and I keep taking little sips of whisky from my flask to help warm me up.

There's a large sculpture in the middle of the room depicting a beautiful nude angel, her curves a stunning display of femininity. She's slumped over as if in pain, holding one of her wings. Lester shaped the stone so beautifully that it looks like it was sawed off with ragged edges. On her back is the other wing, still intact.

It's another one of his dark stories. No matter what he makes, there is always a meaning behind it, and it's usually something depraved or sad.

He didn't work on that today, though. No, today I've watched him sitting at his desk working on some type of mask. It looks like a classic painting, one that I recognize instantly. Saturn Devouring his Son by Francisco Goya. With its wide, scary eyes, brownish skin with the same rugged texture and the open mouth that creates a black hole.

I wonder what he's going to do with it. In all his art shows I've never once seen him expose a mask.

Leaning over the edge of the window, I try to get a better look as he walks toward a large mirror in the corner of the room, taking the mask with him. When he watches himself in the reflection, he puts it in front of his face. He views himself thoroughly, looking at every detail of his newly made artwork.

A sudden burst of realization makes me feel as if my skin is being pulled off by multiple pairs of hands, nails digging and scraping into my flesh until I bleed.

The way he looks―his tall physique, towering stance and confidence, the handcrafted mask…

No.

It can't be.

Taking another drag of my joint, I try to calm my erratic heart. I inhale deeply before I blow it out into the cold night air.

When Lester is done in front of the mirror, he takes his mask off, placing it back on his desk before turning and walking to the other side of the room. He opens the doors of a supply closet, and my eyes damn near bulge out of my eyes when I realize that he's disappearing inside of it.

What the hell? Where did he just go?

I think he pushed some sort of button to make the insides of the closet split in half to create a doorway.

Holy shit . That's some Narnia type of shit.

When he's all the way inside, the closet closes behind him.

I just stare at it in sheer shock until he comes back. He's in there for about fifteen minutes before he returns, and in those minutes, a terrifying realization has flooded my mind. One I do not dare to voice yet.

Because if he is who I'm thinking…

I swallow down my heavy gasps, forcing myself to calm the fuck down.

The closet opens again when he gets out, and I watch as he pulls on a little wooden mannequin meant as a tool for drawing bodies. That must be the handle to open the closet.

I'm fucking vibrating and shaking as I observe him, and it's not from the cold.

Who the fuck has a secret passageway inside their house? Certainly not someone who doesn't have something to hide.

I know without a sliver of a doubt that Lester Gilbert does.

And I think I know exactly what that is.

I haven't slept all night. I couldn't, not after what I've found out. Or at least what I think I have.

Mom called the school to tell them I'm sick and won't be coming in today. She believed me when I pretended to be ill and she won't be home today to check on me because she has a meeting with her publishing house in Charlotte. Dad won't be home, either, which all works in my favor. Both of them insisted to stay home and take care of me, but I convinced them not to.

When they've left, I shoot up out of bed and get dressed. I put my roller-skates on and grab a backpack, putting a pair of spare shoes inside before I leave the house.

I skate as fast as I can, my heart pounding in my throat. The houses on either side of the streets fade from the speed, falling away in a cluster of blurred shapes and colors.

Lester is at work at the university, so I'll have more than enough time to break into his house and look inside his closet.

Once I make it there, I'm panting and trying to catch my breath before I go in. I untie the green laces of my roller-skates and take them off, hiding them behind a large bush in his garden. I slip on my pair of penny loafers and head for the backdoor. I'm inside in a matter of minutes, always quick with breaking in with use of a bobby pin. Being the daughter of a mafia capo has its perks―Dad has taught me all sorts of skills.

Walking through the long hallway to the studio, I pass Luna―his cat that I've become well-acquainted with―on the way. I squat down and run my hands over her soft fur, petting her as she purrs happily. "Hi, sweetie. How are you today?"

A soft meow is her answer, and I smile. We stay like that for a while longer, until I leave her behind so we can both go on with our day.

Breaking through the locks of the studio is just as easy as his other entrances, and I allow myself a deep breath before I decide to hurry my ass up and get inside the hidden passage.

Just like I saw him do last night, I open the doors of the supply closet, then pull the little mannequin with some force. The insides of the closet split in half and I stare at it in awe.

"Fuck me sideways." I get in and make sure to close everything behind me in case Lester comes home early, before walking deeper into the hidden space. I search for a light switch and quickly find it. The space fills with bright light, giving me a clear view of everything around me.

I find myself in a narrow hallway, the walls covered with shiny wooden panels. There are even some more artworks on the walls, and telling by the texture and faded brownish color, they seem to have been made with blood.

Blood as a medium wouldn't even have crossed my mind had I not already had this gut feeling about who he is.

I tiptoe all the way to the end, finding myself inside a small room. The walls are a dark shade of red, similar to his Red Room. There is nothing here except for a large closet with glass doors at the back wall, displaying everything inside.

I fall to my knees on the floor and move a hand over my mouth to stifle my scream. The pieces of the puzzle lock together at once, all the edges matching up.

It's him.

Through the thin glass, multiple rows of masks are visible, exposed like art in a museum or an exhibition. I count nine of them and I recognize them all. Some are made after famous paintings, others just his own imagination. Every single one of them dark, depraved, and created for murder.

I have been following his case for even longer than I've known about Lester Gilbert. I've been obsessed with it; each year waiting for him to strike and create another masterpiece.

I can't believe it. This must be a dream.

Digging my nails into my bicep, I use so much force that I start to bleed. But I don't shake awake from a dream. I'm still here, being forced to accept reality.

Lester Gilbert is the Sculptor of Death.

My irreversible obsession has only ever known two men. One, the invincible, skillful killer who has claimed my admiration as his own. The other, the man I've fallen in love with―the man I want to love and fuck and be with.

And now, finding out that they're the same person?

Nothing will ever be the same.

It's fate.

If I was obsessed before, it was nothing compared to the dangerous creature I feel myself turn into now.

I should be terrified. I should run and never come back, force myself to get over this crush so I don't end up dead.

But I know everything there is to know about the Sculptor. And one thing that's always been evident in his staged murders is that he only kills the ones who deserve it. Despite my bad choices and disregard for my own safety, I am not a bad person. He will not kill me. Of that, I'm sure.

Unless… I become a threat. And a threat is exactly what I've become now that I know the truth.

It will not stop me, though.

I am going to haunt him.

And he is going to love me.