Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
The diner isn’t as packed as it usually is. There are a couple of booths that are occupied with people, but in total, there’s less than ten customers tonight. The lights are dim, and the ambience gives off a homey feeling.
I’m sitting at the booth that’s the furthest away from the entrance, my fingers tapping against the dark, wooden desk impatiently. The booth is made of a deep, maroon leather, with a couple of spots where the leather has ripped – showing just how old this place is.
It’s a popular spot for families, or younger people to hang out at.
Kaya chose this diner specifically because she has access to security cameras in case anything goes wrong, and she’s been here a couple of times.
She told me all the ins, and outs, where to sit, how to angle my body so the cameras aren’t pointing directly at my face.
The rain is getting heavier. It’s been like this for the past couple of days, yet tonight, it seems a little different. My eyes are glued on the glass window on my left, little rain droplets slowly sliding down onto the pavement.
The hoodie I’m wearing is the same one I brought with me in the little backpack when I left.
It still smells like Arlo, it’s like a part of him is with me, right now.
Having his scent all over me provides me with a sense of safety that I desperately need right now.
The hood is sitting over my head, hiding my face from the view.
The tea is still hot, the ceramic tea cup fitting nicely in my hand.
I make a mental note to take it with me when I leave, just in case agent Arnault gets any ideas.
There’s a big grandfather clock close to me, and when my eyes flick to the side, I notice that it’s almost time for agent Arnault to appear.
Although he hasn’t officially confirmed his arrival, I know he won’t pass out on the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity.
He’s been looking for The Death Angel for years now, and I have the opportunity to deliver it to him on a silver platter.
The small bell above the entrance door rings, the sound carrying throughout the diner.
The music is playing softly in the background, and people’s chatter is filling out the silence nicely.
I don’t have to look back to know that it’s Arnault — after all, the clock just ticked nine o’clock, and he’s not the kind of man who would come late to such an important meeting.
The moment he enters the establishment, the air shifts, and for some reason, I don’t feel threatened.
My back straightens a little when I feel his presence behind me.
He’s standing there, in utter and complete silence for what seems an eternity.
However, I don’t look back. In my mind, it would be as though I’m admitting to defeat before this entire conversation even began.
He steps closer, then slides into the seat across from me.
Slowly, and ever so slightly, I lift my head up.
He’s wearing casual clothes — a pair of jeans and a sweater, though I know he has a gun tucked underneath the thick wool.
He’s no fool, and he’d never come unarmed.
His eyes skim my face the moment I take my hood down, staring right into his eyes. His own widen ever so slightly, as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. His gaze is roaming my face a couple of times, not missing a single inch.
“Arnault,” I greet, taking a small sip of the tea. The scent of chamomile with mint is soothing my nerves, and I’m on the right track. My voice is calm, steady, and void of any emotions that would be deemed unnecessary to the situation.
“So it truly is you,” he muses, lifting a brow. “Care to share how you managed to survive the prison massacre?”
Just as the question falls from his lips, a waitress approaches us. He orders a beverage without moving his eyes from me, and the waitress takes notes on the small notepad, a smile on her face. The moment her footsteps fade into the background, I lean back, folding my arms in front of my chest.
“That’s a secret I’ll never tell,” I smirk. “But that’s not why I wanted to see you.”
He hums. “I’m aware. Why did you wish to see me so desperately, Ms. Hawke?”
I glance around, ensuring no one’s paying attention to us.
And no one is. People are too busy having their dinners, chatting and laughing, to notice a girl dressed head to toe in all black, or the man that looks like he doesn’t want to be here.
The waitress returns, putting his coffee in front of him.
The steam coming out of the cup hits his face, and he doesn’t flinch, not even a little bit.
Before the waitress can leave, he pays for both our drinks in cash, leaving her a nice tip, making her smile widen even more.
“A couple of reasons,” I respond, keeping my voice lower just in case. “How much do you know about me?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “You killed your parents in cold blood and landed yourself a life in prison.”
I nod. “Correct. But do you know why I did that?”
He lifts an amused brow. “What do you mean?”
“It’s not like I woke up one morning and decided it was the perfect weather to commit double murder,” I chuckle. “Do you know why I killed my parents?”
“Elighten me, Ms. Hawke,” the amusement lingers in his eyes as he leans in, his hands resting on the table between us.
His eyes don’t move from mine, and although I have a couple of ways I could go about this, I know only one will give me the desired effect.
With a soft chuckle, I mimic his movements, leaning in, minimizing the possibility of others eavesdropping.
My main focus is Arnault, my eyes glued on him.
I see every imperfection on his face, every time his eyes close, every flutter of his lashes.
“My parents were drug addicts. At one point, they ran out of money and weren’t able to keep up with their addiction. Since I was an unwanted child, something my mother would tell me daily, she decided to sell me.”
His brows crease, and the slightest parting of his lips is telling me I have his full attention.
“Sell you?” His voice drips with disbelief, though he tries to keep it hidden. “What do you mean, she decided to sell you?”
“I mean, in return for allowing Paul Simmons to rape me time and time again from the moment I turned fifteen, to the day I killed them, he would give them money for drugs.”
Arnault’s entire face drops, the amusement faltering from his features completely. He sits in stunned silence, and the look of pure horror laces through his expression, his brows creasing further, and a small vein pops on his forehead.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” I say, pulling back and taking a sip of my tea. “I could go into detail of each and every single time that man has violated me, if you’d like.”
“There’s no need for that,” his response comes immediately. “How come you didn’t use that in court? I’d imagine you finally snapped and killed your mother and step-father for that reason.”
I nod, humming behind the rim of the ceramic cup. “I did. But the moment I provided evidence, such as images of the events happening, which were taken by my mother, they disappeared. Back then, Paul had a lot more power than he does now, and he was able to buy the judge.”
“Jesus,” Arnault breathes out. He’s silent for a moment, skimming my sitting position, his gaze almost too scrutinizing. But I’m used to that. I’m used to seeing the pity, mixed with disbelief on people’s faces.
It’s one of the reasons I’ve stopped telling my story.
Not many people believed me, and those who did had nothing but pity to offer.
Somehow, being pitied feels worse than not being believed.
I don’t want their pity. I survived. I survived horrors that not many people could even comprehend.
I managed to stay alive, and now, I’m going to finish what Paul started.
“I’ve brought those images with me, if you want to see them.”
“No,” he frowns. “However, as terrible and as awful this story is, it’s not an explanation as to why you wanted to see me.”
“Ah,” I click my tongue against the roof of my tongue, lowering the cup back on the table. “That was merely an introduction for this story, so you’d understand everything. I’ve just given you context, if you will.”
He nods. “Go on.”
“I’m going to kill Paul Simmons.”
For once, his face remains unchanged. He only blinks, taking another taste of his coffee. Silence falls around us, and I’m waiting for him to speak, though it takes him a while to formulate something that resembles a decently structured sentence.
“Of course you are,” he drawls out, and it’s not quite the response I expected. “How do you plan to do that?”
“Another thing I cannot tell you, however,” I lower my voice. “I come offering a bargain.”
“I’m intrigued,” he raises a brow. “I’m listening.”
“I know you’ve been looking for The Death Angel.”
His entire body freezes briefly. He’s taken aback by my knowledge of the topic, but he quickly recovers. He clears his throat, stapling his fingers together. His face is blank, expressionless as he stares right into my eyes. “How would you know that?”
“I have my sources. And I can offer her to you on a silver platter.”
Frowning again he exclaims, “What?!”
“Tell me, Agent Arnault,” I smirk a little. “Do you believe in doppelgangers?”
He blinks. “No.”
“That’s unfortunate, because The Death Angel is mine.”
He frowns. “Elaborate.”
“After I survived the prison massacre, I had a little help leaving that godforsaken place, and I found myself in this small town called Long Grove. It’s in Illinois.”
He snorts. “Let me guess, you were helped by the De Santis family?”
“Correct. And imagine my surprise when I was given a new name, yet the face remained the same.”
“You got lucky, then.”