Chapter 9
Prudence
I’m too tired to think, so I just go through the motions of my evening routine. A hot shower uncoils my tense muscles as I breathe in the humid, rose-scented air, relaxed and thoughtless.
There’s a man in my house. I hear him moving downstairs as I brush my teeth, and still, I feel completely at ease. Normally, any other person in the house unnerves me. My grandparents used to be the only people my pathologically introverted self could handle.
And now I’m fully on board with having a killer here. I always knew there was something wrong with me, I just never knew how wrong.
I drift off to sleep thinking about that moment when I first saw him: an intruder wearing a helmet, looking as if he’d walked out of a game. That image feels so vivid and real under my closed eyelids, as if I could reach out and touch him.
And then, I’m running. It’s pitch black. I can’t see where I am. My feet keep sticking in squelching mud no matter how much I strain to lift them. He’ll catch me if I don’t run faster.
My heart hammers with terror, but the mud sucks me in with every step. My legs tremble from effort, and I cry out, or maybe mumble, because my voice is stuck in my throat, and no one will save me, anyway.
He has a knife.
I try to scream for help, but only silence pours out of my open mouth. The air grows thick, thicker than water, and even when I manage to free my legs from the muck, I can’t run any longer. It’s like moving through a paralyzing, blinding soup. It floods my lungs with every breath.
There’s a voice behind me, cruel and mocking, and I try to breathe but can’t, and he’s closer, and it feels like I’ll die from terror, but no, he’ll kill me first, his hands are on me now…
“Baby, wake up. Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay. I’m here. It was just a nightmare.”
I sit up with a muffled scream, eyes wide open, mouth panting. It takes me a moment to orient myself. I’m in bed, the sheets are tangled around my legs, and my body is drenched in sweat. I breathe hard and fast. My lungs burn.
The small nightlight in the corner fills the room with a muted golden glow. It’s not pitch black anymore. I can see. I can move.
“You’re okay,” he says, his hand gently stroking my hair. “You’re safe. It was just a dream.”
I look at Rowley, who has one knee propped on the edge of my mattress as he leans over me, his face serious and filled with concern.
“It was a nightmare. You were chasing me with a knife,” I tell him, but it’s not an accusation. I think my brain is simply processing everything that happened yesterday, and that’s not his fault.
He freezes, not even his eyes moving. We stare at each other. The glow of my nightlight makes the contours of his face soft and dreamy. As my heart calms down, I realize I’m not scared anymore. Just… curious.
I’m in bed. His hand is still in my hair, and he towers over me. My face is turned up and open, and the air warms with a vague sort of possibility.
But the moment passes. His hand slides off my head, his knee off my bed. He kneels on the floor, and now he has to look up at me. His eyes are dark. I stare, confused and a bit appalled.
I know only one context in which a man kneels in front of a woman, and it’s clearly not it.
“What are you…?”
“I’ll always regret that I threatened you,” he says, voice quiet and strained with barely contained emotion. “I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me one day, and I promise to do whatever it takes to make it up to you. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Oh.”
I don’t know what else to say. I stare at him until I realize my mouth hangs open, so I close it. He doesn’t make a move to stand, watching me patiently. I sort of shrug. I have no idea what to do with his overkill apology.
No one has ever apologized to me so seriously, like it really mattered. It’s… not unpleasant, just unfamiliar.
“I mean… It’s not like you really hurt me…” I begin, but then shake my head as anger pulses in my gut. What am I saying? He broke into my house, ordered me around, and threatened to kill me.
I’m a people-pleaser of a horrific magnitude, but even I have limits. My voice is low with barely contained fury as I stare at the man who I was sure would murder me.
“You know what, you’re right. You should apologize. How dare you hold a knife to my throat? How dare you threaten me?”
He nods. “I had no right. You didn’t deserve any of it. I’m so, so sorry, Prudy. If you only let me, I’ll make it right.”
My anger subsides to a low burn, satisfied when he makes no excuses. I cock my head to the side. “How exactly do you want to fix it, though?”
Because I can’t imagine how a person could even try to undo what he did.
He smiles, eyes glowing with determination.
“I’ll take care of you in any and every way you need. I’ll cook for you, do your laundry, massage your shoulders when they hurt. I’ll be your servant, Prudy. And I’ll do it all with a smile on my face. You know why?”
I shake my head, bewildered. My cheeks are hot, and my stomach fills with a light, tingling flutter. He can’t be real, can he? This isn’t happening.
“Because I’ll enjoy every second of it,” he says with a pleased, triumphant smile. “I don’t care whether you believe in soulmates or not, because I believe for us both. You’re it, baby. You’re my destiny.”
I blink, taking him in. He sounds surreal. For the second time since I met him, I wonder if he’s a character from one of my games. Maybe I’ve really gone over the bend.
“And I did it again,” he says, shaking his head with regret.
“Look, I’m trying super hard to be careful, but it’s against my nature.
I always go all in once I have a goal. That means I will woo you with everything I’ve got: my best cooking, attentive sex, hourly displays of affection, doing all the chores, frequent love confessions, and whatever else I come up with. I can’t help it. That’s how I’m made.”
The fluttering in my belly intensifies as I stare at his expression. He seems exasperated, a bit earnest, and very determined.
I don’t dare believe him, yet my body feels light and fizzy, as if drunk on his words.
“Who was the person you killed?” I ask, because I desperately need reminding about who he is.
Rowley frowns, taken aback by the change of topic, but finally nods.
“That’s fair. Okay. I said I’d be honest, and if you want to know, I’ll tell you.”
I watch as he collects his thoughts. He’s still on the floor, sitting on his heels now. I suddenly wish he’d sit on my bed, but that’s a very dangerous direction.
“Gerard Fletcher worked as a contractor for one of the Big Pharma companies. He got wind of some falsified studies that led to ineffective but very expensive drugs being approved for sale. After his contract ended, the moron decided it would be a good idea to blackmail the company. He said he’d blow the whistle if they didn’t pay him fifty million dollars.
They preferred to pay me one puny million to get rid of the problem. ”
I try to digest this, and even though I do my best to focus on what matters—the murder—all I think about are the numbers.
He said he’s wealthy, but I never imagined he meant like this.
“Let me get this straight. You made one million dollars last night? And you say you’ve killed seventeen people altogether? Does that mean you’re a multi-millionaire?”
He shrugs, though his pleased expression betrays that he’s proud of himself.
“I mean, my rates used to be lower. I increased them as I gained my reputation. Until tonight, I was flawless and very discreet. Can I sit on your bed or lie down with you? It will be more comfortable. I promise I’ll keep my hands to myself. ”
Just like with the kiss before, I find myself nodding before my brain has a chance to weigh in.
Rowley shoots me a wide, quick grin and jumps to his feet.
The mattress dips as he urges me to lie down, too, and then he’s under my comforter, his jean-clad legs tangling with my bare ones as we face each other.
“Smells so good,” he says after taking a long, blissful breath. “This is nice. You can ask whatever you want, and I’ll tell you everything, no lies, no omissions. It feels great to get this stuff off my chest.”
Great. Yes. I have a bona fide serial killer in my bed and can ask him anything, yet all my brain can come up with is, “Can I see you naked again?”
“Um, okay,” I begin, forcing my frontal lobe to do some work. “So, uh. Right. Why did you become a killer?”
He smiles like he knows exactly what I’m thinking, his eyes crinkling pleasantly with male satisfaction. I guess my face is red. It feels hot, just like the rest of my body.
“Because of my father, actually. He taught me the ropes.”
My eyes widen, and I’m not thinking about naked body parts sliding together anymore. “What? Your father was a serial killer, too?”
“Nah.” Rowley grins, like it’s a private joke he loves to tell. “He operated the electric chair.”