Chapter 2

It’s almost dark by the time I make it onto the highway.

Twenty-five minutes until I arrive home, and the minutes cannot go by fast enough.

My house is located in Upstate New York, an intentional choice on my part since it’s in a secluded area, with my nearest neighbor a few miles over.

From the moment I moved out of my parents’ house, I knew I wanted to move somewhere remote, where no one would bother me. My family knows the general location of the house, but they don’t have the address. No one does. By all intents and purposes, no one, not even the government knows who resides there. My mailing address is in the city, and I drop by a few times weekly to pick up my mail.

This is both for my peace of mind, since I don’t want anyone to drop by unannounced.

I hate guests.

But it’s also because at times, I might engage in some…questionable activities. And it wouldn’t do for my neighbors to hear people’s screams coming from my house, would it?

Or I used to, anyway. I’m supposed to turn a new leaf and all that, no?

When I turned eighteen, I got access to the trust fund my grandfather set, and I was able to buy the house with cash. It’s a five-bedroom Victorian house with a sprawling basement—or, better said, dungeon. It is, of course, my favorite place and why I bought the house in the first place.

Even better, the basement is split in two. A small section is directly underneath the house. But there’s another, secret section, of nearly three thousand feet that’s underneath the land, which ensures that even if by some stroke of misfortune the police got wind of my activities, that room is well hidden away. But of course I’m not one to trust that alone, so there’s a mechanism in place that should the police come with a warrant to search my place, the entire secret basement will explode at the touch of a button.

A scowl pulls at my lips.

I shouldn’t be thinking about my dungeon. Not when it hasn’t been used in one hundred and seventy-four days.

Soon-to-be one hundred and seventy-five days. An odd number.

I hate odd numbers.

I have purposefully kept myself from even going inside for fear I may give in to my urges and fall back into old habits.

See, I try to be a good boy. It just doesn’t always work.

And since my therapy isn’t going as well as I planned, maybe it’s time to reassess.

You may be wondering why I went to therapy since I crave murder so badly.

Even I wonder about that and whether it was a good idea to change in the first place. I was doing fine before. The only downside was that I was slowly getting out of control.

I was feeling myself slip and didn’t like what I was becoming.

From my first kill, I prided myself on being the picture of calm.

Murder was not a spur-of-the-moment thing. It was a methodical process. It was a puzzle to be worked out.

Who? When? Where? Why?

I had to find an answer to all those questions before I even made the first step. After that, it was all a matter of how. Every piece had to fit together. From the method, timing and precision of the kill to the disposal of the body. There was no room for error.

And I’ve been so successful at it for so long because I did everything by the book.

I chose my victims carefully so I had no connection to them; most usually by using a back door into the police’s database. It was always people who would not be missed, people society would be far better off without.

But it all changed two years ago.

Something set me off, making me go off my script and throw caution to the wind.

That’s not who I am. That’s not how I operate.

That failed incident has haunted me ever since.

And for a perfectionist, failure is inadmissible.

Somehow, that one faux pas has stained all my subsequent attempts, and despite trying to put it out of my mind, it has turned killing into something…I’m no longer confident in.

It pains me to admit to it. It’s even more painful because killing comes to me as naturally as breathing. And to wake up one day and realize I can no longer breathe as smoothly as before was akin to a death sentence.

My last attempt ended up with a botched kill. One that stained the walls of my basement—something I didn’t intend to do.

And that lack of intention is the problem.

How can I trust myself to toe that line of danger without confidence?

It’s better to abstain from it altogether than do a poor job.

For a while, I simply locked myself in my room, sequestering myself from the world even more. I knew that if I got out, I’d seek to quench my blood thirst, and in return, become even more disappointed in myself when my kill turned out anything less than perfect.

I went to such extreme lengths that I locked the door and flushed the key down the toilet.

Of course, that didn’t stop me from breaking the door—maybe I should think about replacing all doors in my house with steel ones, perhaps even titanium.

As soon as I was out, I was on the prowl once more.

When I made yet another mistake while stalking my would-be victim, I decided that if I cannot fix myself, perhaps someone else can.

But now I see that was a useless idea.

Mrs. Leonard didn’t understand. Meeting new people is not the solution. It’s a mere catalyst that would make me fall back into old habits.

I release a frustrated sigh as I bang my fist against the steering wheel.

Maybe I should just call in an anonymous tip at the police so they can lock me away. Maybe behave badly and they can put me into solitary. Then I will not kill, nor will I have to entertain other useless humans.

The idea is appealing.

Alas, I’m far too attached to my comforts to give them up. And though appearances might be deceiving, I do have a job in IT that I surprisingly enjoy—remotely, of course.

I continue to contemplate the sorry state of my life when something on the sidelines catches my attention. My brows go up as I slow down, keeping my gaze on the couple seemingly having a tiff by the side of the highway.

My focus is on the woman, though—if she can be called that. She’s a tidbit of a girl. Doubtful she’s taller than five-two. But it’s not her diminutive size that demands my attention. It’s the way she’s dressed in a shirt and a pair of jeans.

In this goddamn weather.

My eyes rake down her body.

She doesn’t even have proper shoes. She’s wearing a pair of slides. No socks. At this rate, she’ll get frostbite in no time.

A shudder goes down my back.

Who the hell goes out dressed like that?

I fucking hate the cold.

Yet there she is, brazenly standing in the cold, letting the icy snow slide down her body. White snowflakes have created a crown atop her dark hair.

Another tremor grips me, and I reach for the heat controller to make it warmer in the car.

The man is much older than her, and he’s dressed appropriately for the weather.

He’s no gentleman, that’s for sure.

He sees that little thing barely clothed and doesn’t even offer to give her his coat.

I shake my head in disapproval.

Even I would offer. If only to get her to stop looking so cold, which in turn makes me feel cold.

Self-serving?

Perhaps.

My car has come to a halt at this point. I’m so enraptured by what’s happening between the two that I absentmindedly must have stopped by the side of the road.

Now, seeing them up close, I realize they’re no couple. At least not based on the girl’s body language as she’s all but baring her teeth at him.

The man, on the other hand, continues to walk toward her and invade her personal space.

My jaw clenches.

Personal space is something that should not be invaded. Just thinking of someone trying to come that close to me gives me a headache—and the urge to drive off and lock myself in my house where no other soul lives.

Yet despite everything that would normally compel me to leave, I can’t find it in myself to do so.

The man takes another step toward her and she puts her hands up in a gesture for him to stop.

And as the wind blows her hair out of her face, I get my first glance at her features. She has big, doe-like eyes that are almost too big for her face. Her small nose and dainty lips make her look as if she’s all eyes.

Big, soulful eyes.

Big, terrified eyes.

I gulp down.

She’s slender, bordering on malnourished. Suddenly, the state of her clothes doesn’t seem so strange after all.

“Don’t be shy, dove.” The man’s lascivious voice reaches my ears—he’s not even trying to mask it.

“Go away,” the girl responds. She takes a step back, and her flimsy slippers do as their name implies—they slip. Her eyes widen and her mouth forms a big O as she falls to the ground.

I wince.

The ice is newly formed, but with recent temperatures, it’s hard as fuck.

That fall must have hurt.

A nasty grin appears on the man’s face as he approaches her. He knows he has her trapped, and he’s about to act on it.

I should drive off and mind my own business. I’m never one to get involved in things that don’t concern me. Hell, I’m not one to get involved with people, period.

Yet a strange impulse has me sliding down my window and poking my head out.

“Is there an issue here?” I ask in a hard, steady voice.

That’s enough to give the man pause as he turns to glare at me. His nostrils flare and his body tenses.

“No issues,” he mentions. Threading a hand through his slimy hair, he forces a smile on his face. “I’m just trying to get my daughter back home. She ran off without her clothes, as you can see,” he adds nervously.

I narrow my eyes at them.

He’s old enough to be her father now that I take a better look at them.

That should be my cue. She’s his problem, not mine.

But then the girl’s eyes meet mine. On the ground like that she looks even smaller. More frail.

She looks like a deer caught in the headlights. And for some reason, that one look from her gives me pause.

I tap my foot against the floor as my mind tries to make sense of what I’m seeing. If there’s anything I hate more than the cold—and the snow—it’s when things don’t make sense.

And though this man claims to be her father, there’s something off about the situation.

“Is that true, miss?” I address her.

“Of course it’s true,” the man interjects. He steps closer to my car. “It’s none of your business what happens with my daughter,” he adds ominously. He plants himself right by my window, his burly body covering my view of the girl. His hands are on his hips as he undoubtedly tries to intimidate me into dropping the matter.

Ah, but that makes me want to poke at it even more.

“Is that so?” I tilt my head to the side.

I stare right into his eyes, and though for a moment he returns the stare, he soon becomes flustered, fidgeting on his feet.

“What the fuck do you want?” he suddenly shouts, placing his meaty hands on my car door. My gaze drops to where his hands are touching my car, no doubt his sweat, odor, and bodily fluids getting onto my vehicle.

A twitch pulls at my lip.

“You better run, boy,” he starts. But before he can finish with his not so intimidating threat, I push the button for the window to slide up.

It catches him by surprise, and he doesn’t manage to pull his hands away before they’re caught between the window and the door.

He yelps in pain, shouting more obscenities.

“What the fuck is your deal? Let me go! I’m calling the cops. Fucking asshole. I’m going to?—”

I push the door open and slam it against him.

Another yelp of pain slips past his lips as he falls to his knees. His hands are still trapped in the window, and I shake my head at the pitiful sight.

He struggles, but he’s only hurting himself.

Leaving him to tear his fingers off if he dares, I make a beeline for the girl in the snow.

The cold wind brushes against my skin and briefly reminds me why I should not have gotten involved in this. Now I’m cold. And I get cranky when I’m cold.

But as I approach the girl, I forget all about my physiological needs.

“Are you all right?” I ask as I stop in front of her.

She plants her hands in the snow to help herself up. She wobbles on her feet, but I don’t offer to help. I don’t like to touch people unless I absolutely have to. Besides, her hands must be freezing, and they’d make me freeze too.

Slowly, she manages to get herself to her feet.

The man continues shouting in the background, threatening to call the police, but at this point, it’s just white noise.

“T-thank you,” the girl murmurs as she drops her gaze to the ground, almost as if she doesn’t dare meet my eyes again.

Odd.

“Is that man your father?”

She immediately shakes her head.

“Is he bothering you?”

She nods.

“I see.”

Taking my jacket off, I wrap it around my hand and turn back to the bemoaning man. I grab him by his slimy hair with my covered hand and slam his face against the car door, aiming with precision so I don’t break my window—that would be a pain in the ass.

“Agh!” he yells.

I slam his face again.

And again.

And again.

Blood pours down his face, and something drops to the ground. I assume it’s a tooth.

Good.

“She says you’re not her father.”

“Lying whore!”

I slam his face again.

My urges are right beneath the surface as I see the blood pool down. His features are contorted in pain, and glee erupts inside of me at the sight.

Ah, how I’ve missed this.

I slam his face again.

Another tooth falls.

I smile.

It’s dark, and I cannot see too well, but I assume it’s an incisor, maybe a canine.

Maybe next I can get a molar out of him. Then he’ll remember me whenever he tries to chew something.

Yet just as the darkness inside of me rises, my sense returns with a vengeance, stamping down on it.

This won’t work. I need to stop.

It’s too public. I’m basically assaulting a man in the middle of a highway.

I don’t do that—or at least, I didn’t.

Until now.

I release an annoyed sigh.

With great disappointment, I let go of the man and step back.

Glancing back, I note the girl is watching me with an odd look on her face.

She’s shivering. Her slight body is almost blue from the cold.

It’s not your business to care, my inner voice reminds me.

Yet I did stop my car. I did assault a stranger for her.

I might as well fulfill my Good Samaritan role to the end. God knows it might be the one and only time in my life I decide to do something noble instead.

Hurling the coat at the girl, I grind out a, “Cover yourself,” before I slide into the driver’s seat and lower the window.

The man crashes to the floor. The only sounds coming from his mouth are a few feeble moans. He curls into a fetal position and stays there.

Good.

The girl hasn’t moved from her spot.

She’s still staring at me with those big, soulful eyes of hers. My coat is now hanging around her shoulders, looking more like a robe considering how tiny she is.

The passenger door to the car unlocks with a loud beep.

She doesn’t move.

I look at her. She looks back.

And she doesn’t fucking move.

Goddamn, does this girl have no self-preservation? She’s going to freeze to death.

“What are you doing?” I call out.

My voice wakes her up from her reverie, and alertness enters her gaze.

“Get in,” I say as I push the door open.

She takes a step forward but then hesitates.

“Get the fuck in before the cops come,” I grind out.

Though there’s still indecision written all over her face, she comes forward and reluctantly slides inside the passenger seat. I close the door and turn the heat on to the maximum before I steer the car back on the highway, leaving that creep writhing on the floor behind us.

Silence ensues.

She says nothing. I say nothing.

I continue driving for half an hour, far past the location of my home.

I just keep driving. Aimlessly. Angrily.

My jaw clenches as I realize what I got myself into.

There’s a stranger in my car. A female.

I just beat a man close to his death in a very public place, and that shit might get back to me.

Fuck. I’ll need to scrub the CCTV on the highway and maybe replace my registration numbers. Who knows how much the creep will remember.

Goddamn it!

At some point, as I reach the outskirts of a small town, I stop the car to think.

I scrub my hands over my face in an attempt to calm myself and ignore the fact that there’s another person next to me.

Tooclose to me.

That’s a first. And I don’t think I like it.

But I took her with me, and now I need to do something about her. I suppose I could always throw her out somewhere and leave her on her own. Yet as soon as that thought crosses my mind, I scowl.

No, that wouldn’t do. I don’t kill women, and I don’t harm them.

I don’t save them either, yet here we are.

Fuck.

I bang my fist against my steering wheel.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

But as my mind races to figure out how to get myself out of this mess, the girl finally finds her voice.