5. Sophie
5
SOPHIE
W e get to Soren’s house in the middle of the night. One foot drags in front of the other as I climb the stairs from his driveway to his front door.
It’s dark, and I’m beyond exhausted. I hardly care about anything other than I’m currently safe, and he’s promised there’s an actual bed and not a hole in the ground where I put the lotion on my skin.
“There’s too many stairs,” I groan, my boots shuffling up the wooden planks.
“There’s an elevator in the garage,” he shares far too late.
“Useful information five minutes ago.”
“I hope you like the place,” he says.
“Does it matter?”
Soren’s not out of breath at all despite carrying my large duffle bag over his shoulder in one hand and a suitcase in the other as we ascend.
“Why wouldn’t it matter?” He asks in confusion. “Shouldn’t you like the place you live?” We get to the front porch, and he sets my suitcase down.
“Soren,” I sigh. “You do realize how abnormal this all is, right?
“Still,” he mumbles, opening the front door and waving me in. I walk into a dark house. My eyes are drawn to the back wall, which is filled with floor-to-ceiling windows. For the briefest moment, I see his back deck and the rolling Appalachia beyond.
He flicks a light on, and the sight is lost in window glare. This place is huge.
“You said you had a cabin,” I say. This is a lodge. I assumed he meant something small, hidden away in the woods. Not a mansion inside the ski resort. I walk past the foyer and into the living room. The ceiling is two stories high, and the windows stretch all the way up. I spy a banister with a second-floor balcony that looks down on the living room. To the right is a sprawling kitchen, the lights all off. There are large counters and dark wood.
“Your room’s up here,” he says. I look back in the foyer just in time to see him disappear up a flight of stairs tucked beside the front door. I follow Soren, finding a twisting flight of oak stairs to the second floor.
He’s waiting at the top to lead me to my new room. A queen-sized bed sits in the middle of a decently sized room. The walls have tapestries hung up. There's white shag rugs under the furniture. Soren sets my bags on the bed.
“I’ll hire someone to pack the rest of your things.”
“Right,” I mumble, peeking into the attached bathroom. There’s a clawfoot tub with a chandelier above it. If posh rustic is a thing, then that’s this bathroom.
“Sophie,” he calls me back to the bedroom. Soren’s standing in the bedroom doorway. His hand is on the doorknob. I stiffen. The rules are about to come, along with a locked door.
“Yes?”
“Tomorrow morning, we’ll submit our marriage license.”
“Fine,” I sigh. I march over to the bed and run my hand over the forest-green duvet. There are gold designs of deer and twisting branches.
“I’m not going to lock you inside your room. This isn’t kidnapping.” I stop petting the blanket and look up at him. “If you really want to go, then you can. However, I’m going to sleep.” His hand drops from the doorknob, leaving the door wide open. I hear the stairs creak as he goes down them. I rush out and lean over the balcony, catching him walking through the living room. He moves to the left, where a closed door is tucked opposite the kitchen.
“You can’t do that,” I rush out. He looks up at me.
“You want to be locked in?” Soren asks in confusion.
“Of course not.”
“Okay?” He moves towards his door again.
“But—” I start. What am I doing? Why am I arguing for him to lock me in?
“Yes?” He asks, looking as tired as I feel.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, peeling myself away from the banister and walking back to my room. This could be a trick. Maybe he plans to chase me down and bring me back.
He said he liked chasing me. I swallow thickly. I haven’t heard him come back out of his room. I don’t think he’s trying to trick me. I think he’s being genuine.
I sit down on the bed. Is he trying to make me accept that I’m agreeing to this ridiculous situation? I’m not, right? Not really. I’m just playing along for now.
I get under the covers and stare at the dark ceiling for a while. Then I grow tired of my thoughts and find the remote. I flip on the TV and watch the news. I fall asleep waiting to hear about them finding Thomas wrapped up with a Christmas tree at the tree farm we left him at. But all there is is infomercials.
The next few days are uncomfortable. Slowly, I come to accept I’m willingly here. However, I’m not happy about it. I spend nearly all my time locked in my room.
Soren doesn’t leave the house. He probably called out like I did. My assistant squealed when I blurted, but it was because I had eloped. I begged her not to be excited, but she said that was nonsense. And the sounds she made when she found out it was the newest client made me blush.
I’ve managed to avoid seeing Soren since our trip to the county clerk’s office to turn in our marriage license. Apparently, that ends now. I can see his shadow under my door.
“Sophie.” A light rapping shakes the door. “Are you awake?” With a sigh, I drag myself from doom scrolling and crack the door. Icy eyes peek at me. He looks away, and I catch the side of his jaw, which is covered in a five-o’clock shadow.
“Will you come down? I have something for you.” I consider it. Clearly, staying in here isn’t going to change anything. When he backs away from the door, I follow.
My eyes focus on his wide back. As the nerves and shock have settled, I can’t help but think about him. Soren was right about that. I’m fascinated. He’s a conundrum.
There are small signs of his psychopathy that I witnessed already. I want to poke and prod him more. For instance, he seems immune to being nervous or anxious.
Soren leads me to the large kitchen, and we sit at the dark wooden table. The chandelier is made out of shed deer antlers that create sharp shadows in chaotic design on the ceiling.
Maybe it’s nerves, maybe it’s just complete fascination. But I want to test him.
“I should call the FBI,” I say. He sits in the chair beside me.
“Maybe,” he says with zero interest.
“You don’t believe me?” My eyes drag across his face.
“I believe you might.” He’s relaxed.
“Aren’t you worried?” I finally ask, getting straight to the point.
“Worried?” He thinks for a moment. I stare with intense focus, trying to see signs of masking. He notices and looks right back at me, giving me all his attention. His head leans to the side, and he raises an eyebrow. Then he smiles.
Soren’s smiles are meant to disarm and charm, and he’s mastered them. Despite his cold blue eyes, he feels warm instead of chilling.
“I’ve always thought it’s a waste of time to worry about what may or may not happen. So, no, I’m not worried.” It’s a logical answer, but most people don’t work that way—picking and choosing which emotions to feel.
I’m being reeled in, and it’s entirely my fault that I’m captured by Soren’s allure.
Intelligent, well-functioning psychopaths are a fixation I’ll never shake. It’s a personality feature that others find terrible. My family was convinced it would get me in trouble one day. They were relieved when I switched careers.
Well, it seems they were right all along because here I am, living with a psychopath, promising to keep his secret in exchange for studying him.
“Do you have a plan if I report you?” I ask. I’m latched on to every move he makes. The way he sits in his chair, where his eyes settle…
His languid, comfortable movements say he’s unconcerned despite everything. His eyes capturing me show confidence and a desire to keep me focused on him.
“I haven’t thought about it,” he admits. I tap my fingers on the table and finally look away, unable to keep holding his intense gaze.
Yes, there are signs Soren is a psychopath, but it’s all so smooth, subtle, and wrapped in charm that one might never notice.
More questions pop up in my mind, like his wife and kids. It’s a sore subject, and I’m reluctant to poke a polar bear, but he hinted at something in our therapy meeting. That the marriage dissolved because of him. Because his wife doesn’t like who he is.
“We need to discuss looking like a couple,” he finally says, halting all my thoughts. I look around the empty house.
“Look like a couple for who ?” I imagine dates and hand-holding. Maybe more of Soren’s passionate kissing. Will he tell me to move into his bedroom downstairs? I eye the open door. Would he wrap his arms around my waist and drag me closer in bed, telling me that doesn’t look convincing. That we need to be close, that we need to do more. People can tell, after all, when you’ve been intimate.
They can’t, not really. But they’d certainly be able to tell we aren’t giddy, horny newlyweds.
Soren gets on his knees next to my chair and reaches for my hand. He retrieves a small, red velvet box from his pocket. It’s a ring—a white gold band. There’s an engraved swirling pattern that looks like curling clouds.
Quickly, he puts it on my right hand. He stares at it a moment, rubbing small circles above the ring. His fingers are warm.
“I was born in Norway,” he says. “The right hand is customary there.” I notice he’s wearing a matching white gold band already.
“Oh.” I eye him down on his knee, then look back at the ring on my finger. It’s sinking in that I actually married him. Even if it’s a fake marriage, it’s legal.
“Will you wear it on the right?” His thumb rubs my finger and then slides across the ring, treating it as something precious. It feels like he’s actually proposing—asking if we can make it real.
I pull my hand out of his. That’s not what this is.
“I don’t mind,” I say. He beams. I look in awe at his happiness. Is it real? Or is this all just clever acting meant to make me feel attached to him? I want to know. I want to know the reasons for all his choices.
Before I can ask him anything, he’s already in the living room, heading towards the door.
“I’m going out,” he says.
There’s been a testing period over the last few days. Where I was waiting for him to kill me, and he was waiting for me to flee. But neither of us has. And now we have rings. This is really happening. I’ve agreed to live with a killer. I sigh, disappointed in myself. But that doesn’t motivate me to change my mind. This is an opportunity no psychologist has had.
“I’d like to interview you tonight.” I follow him, watching as he pulls a coat on.
“I’m busy all night.”
“With work?” I ask.
“No, Sophie. Not with work.” He chuckles. “I was hoping to spend a little time with my hobby.” I suck in a gasp.
“You plan to kill again?”
He twists around to face me with a broad smile.
“I am.” The gall of him is staggering. The ease and playfulness with which he admits to murder are fascinating. I’m glued to the floor, watching him pull his boots on.
Soren picks up a gym bag from the ground and opens the front door. It hits me that someone is about to die.
“Don’t wait up.” He winks. The door closes. I pace, biting my nails. The ring on my finger feels heavy and distracting, weighing me down to reality. I stare at the engraved band and consider going back up to my room and locking myself in. Doom scrolling for hours.
The reality of what I’ve fully agreed to is sinking in. He’s not just a murderer. Soren Erikson is a serial killer in the making. One I half-created. Fuck me, I’m a serial killer’s therapist.
I rush to the door, shove my feet into winter boots, and grab my coat. When I barrel out onto the wooden porch, I silently pray he hasn’t left yet.
“Soren!” I yell. It’s dark, and his truck is black, but I see the red backup lights slowly moving further away as he takes his time in case of ice. I can’t let him leave without me. The idea of sitting on the couch while he’s murdering someone makes me feel anxious. I can’t do it. Am I going to stop him, though? I don’t know.
“Shit.” I rush down the steps with a vengeance, my boots rattling the wood as I try to move as fast as possible. A moment later, I spill onto the driveway and race for him. He’s nearly on the road by the time I rip open the passenger side door.
Soren stares at me in surprise as I throw myself in the car. All I can do is suck in lungfuls of air as I catch my breath. What am I doing? I have no idea.
He unbuckles his seatbelt, leans over me, and shuts my door. The heat of his body is inches from mine.
“Buckle up,” he says. Soren turns up Mariah Carey while I have a crisis of morality in the passenger seat.
“So you want to watch?” He purrs the question, teasing me as he maneuvers through windy roads. The ski slopes are lit up to my right. I stare out the window, seeing a group of snowboarders sitting in the snow.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I sigh. This isn’t a wildlife documentary. I’m not a BBC cameraman watching a lion eat a gazelle. I slump in the chair, groaning. Soren reaches over and pats my knee. There’s a smile on his face.
“Don’t look so conflicted. He’s a bad man, I promise.” I close my eyes, and we sit in silence for a while.
“You look happy,” I comment. “Are you still feeling depressed?” Trees speed past in my windows as I pretend this is a normal conversation and we aren’t headed out to murder someone.
“Still want to be my therapist, Doctor Moore? I thought you only wanted to study me.”
“I’m more your therapist now than I was before. Don’t you think you need one?”
“Maybe. I’m feeling better, though. You give great advice.” He chuckles.
“Goddamnit Soren. Can’t you paint?”
“Like… with blood?”
“No! Or kayak, I don’t know. I didn’t mean to murder people when I said get a hobby.” I sink into my chair with a frown.
“Yes,” he says somberly.
“Yes, what?”
“I do still feel depressed sometimes,” he admits. I sit up straighter in my chair. “Getting out of the house, concentrating on bettering myself—” I make a choking noise and he flashes a quick grin at me. “Those have helped a lot.”
“You aren’t out of the woods. A hobby isn’t a bandaid. It’s a path towards improvement,” I tell him. He nods. I let out a groan as I remember exactly what we are discussing.
“But your goddamn path is psycho path y, and the personal interest is serial murder.”
“Whoops,” he jokes.
“I need to get used to this,” I comment. He pulls up to the mall. I wasn’t expecting that.
“Get used to what?”
“Being a therapist for a serial killer.” The shopping mall is decked out in Christmas decorations. The parking lot poles all have festive flags. The mall itself has a massive wreath with ribbons and lights.
Soren finishes parking the car and looks over at me. I massage my temples. I have a headache again.
“Are you going to try convincing me not to kill?” He asks. I glare at him before opening the door. I don’t have an answer. First things first, see if he actually goes through with it a second time. Part of me is in disbelief. Especially since he’s taken me to the mall. He rounds the truck with the gym bag.
“What's in there?” I ask, looking around the parking lot as we head towards the entrance.
“Costumes for both of us. I was hoping you’d come along.” It’s interesting he anticipated me coming.
“Like, to hide our identity?” I ask.
“Eh. That isn’t really their point.”
“I don’t get it,” I say in confusion. His hand lands on my lower back as we get close to the entrance. Gently, he tugs me closer. Our hips touch as we get to the doors.
“You’ll see.”
“Do you have to be so close? Clearly, I’m not going to run away.”
“What do you mean? I’m just walking normally with my wife. Right?”
“Right,” I sigh. Look like a couple, he said. Guess we need to be semi-convincing in case he gets arrested for murder.