Chapter 29
ELLIE
“Ithink it would be a good idea for you to see a therapist.”
I practically spit out my eggs—chewy and flavorless, though at least we know they weren’t laced with poison since we watched her make them—at Aria’s random declaration.
It’s been a few days since Doyle and Harvey were murdered, and we’ve been trying to go about our lives the best we can.
Kind of hard to do, considering we’re prisoners here.
I haven’t seen or spoken to Fischer in days. I have no idea where he is, and when I broached the subject with Aria the night before, she evasively answered, “Working.”
If that isn’t as ominous as fuck…
“Excuse me?” Zane stabs at his sausage link with more force than necessary. And when I say “stab,” I mean with a literal dagger. He doesn’t even bother to look at the fork and spoon we were provided, choosing instead to jab at his meal with the tip of his bedazzled dagger.
Sometimes, I imagine swiping the weapon from him and slicing at Aria’s throat with it. The only thing that stops me is the plethora of security guards she keeps in the house.
And the fact that the Paragons of Prosperity will reign supreme, even after she’s dead.
Calm yourself, Ellie. You can’t kill the bitch until we have a plan in place for taking down the organization once and for all.
Aria daintily dabs at her mouth with a napkin.
She’s been insisting on all of us having “family breakfasts” before she leaves for the day to do who knows what.
The four of us have been left alone for the most part—if you don’t count the armed guards manning all the doors and pacing the perimeter of the property.
Bitch doesn’t trust us, and I don’t even blame her. We’re all on tremendously short fuses, and one wrong word will send her—and everything she loves—into a fiery explosion. We’ve already torn this bungalow apart searching for clues or evidence. Of course, we came up empty-handed.
“You want me to see a therapist?” I repeat incredulously, wondering if the twisted bitch has lost whatever remained of her mind.
She’s the psychopathic murderer, and I’m the one who needs to see a shrink?
Fucking seriously?
I would laugh if I weren’t so stunned.
Aria feigns concern as she lowers her napkin to the table and folds her hands, the epitome of demure consideration.
“You lost two of the men you love,” she says, her lips tugging down in the corners.
Somehow, her frown looks…wrong, as if she’s mimicking what she has seen other people do.
Her eyes remain blank, not a hint of genuine emotion seeping through.
“Everything you’ve been through over this past year…
” She shakes her head slowly. “I can’t even imagine. ”
Dominic’s hand tightens around his butter knife, his glare firmly fixed on Aria’s face.
That glare seems to be a permanent feature on his face whenever he’s in the same room as her.
I imagine he’s remembering the moment she aimed that gun at his brother and father, splattering their brains across the office wall.
“Everything she’s been through has been because of you, you sick, twisted, psychopathic bitch,” he hisses.
Aria ignores him—as she always does. My guys insult her a lot, but she barely even reacts.
“This isn’t a suggestion, Ellie.” Aria resumes eating, her fork scraping against the plate with a clanking noise that rattles around in my skull. “You will begin seeing Dr. Peter Churchill. He’s a trusted ally of mine, and I really think he can help you.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “What’s your angle here? Do you honestly believe I’ll divulge all my deepest, darkest secrets to this Dr. Churchill?”
Aria heaves out a sigh, as if my arguments are inconveniencing her. “Is it so hard to believe that I want the best for my daughter?”
“Yes,” Beckett says, at the same time Zane snaps out, “Fuck, yes,” and Dominic deadpans, “You’re an evil bitch.”
Aria drops her fork, all pretenses of a “concerned mother” wiped from her face. She rests her forearms on the table and leans forward, spearing me with a look that makes my stomach curl in on itself.
When she speaks, her voice is harsh, matter-of-fact, concise, each word the equivalent of a whip slashing at my back. “The Paragons of Prosperity can’t be led by a depressed, hormonal teenager.” Instinctively, her gaze dips to my wrists, which are covered by my sweater.
An uneasy feeling arrows through me.
She…knows?
That I used to cut?
How the fuck did she figure that out?
I can’t remember a time I’ve ever shown her my scars—my skin nothing but mutilated flesh and wispy white and red lines.
Has she been stalking me?
Probably.
I don’t even know why I’m surprised.
“You will attend your appointments with the doctor,” Aria continues, that cold glare of hers turning my blood to sludge. “And you won’t complain.” A malevolent smile tugs at her lips. “You won’t like the consequences if you do.”
At this, I think of Harvey and Doyle.
The gun aimed right at Beckett’s head.
Her cold, cutting voice whispering, “I lied.”
She promised she wouldn’t hurt, rape, or sell my men, but if I disobey her, then she won’t hesitate to do exactly that. I can’t allow that to happen. I won’t.
And that’s how I find myself in a minuscule, nondescript office, watching exotic fish swim around in their tank.
I feel like those fish.
Trapped.
“Hybristophilia. Have you heard of it before?”
Fuck, his voice grates on me, slashing at my skin like the blunt edge of a blade. It isn’t sharp enough to cut, but it leaves behind an uncomfortable, tingling sensation that doesn’t dissipate no matter what I do.
“It’s a disorder where a person will feel romantic or sexual attraction to criminals, particularly serial killers.
” He watches me carefully, but if he’s expecting a reaction, he isn’t going to get one.
“Sometimes, these people believe they can change the killer. Others believe that it’s romantic to have someone go to the ends of the earth for them—even if that includes murder. ”
I stare at him blankly.
He leans forward so he can rest his arms on his thighs, a decidedly casual posture despite the cunning gleam in his eyes.
“Tell me, Ellie… Which category do you fall in? What made you fall in love with five deranged serial killers?”
I match his posture, allowing my mask to slip, for him to see the darkness in my eyes—a darkness that has been brewing steadily over the years, just waiting for an outlet.
“You want to know how I fell in love with a serial killer?” I whisper, my voice a soft caress that actually makes him shiver.
Five serial killers, technically.
But…semantics.
I feel my lips stretch into a macabre grin. Then I answer simply, “I became one too.”
That’s the first and only time I went to see Doc Pete.
Aria never broached the subject of therapy again.