Chapter Eight
Katie
Thomas Vale sent me another letter. This time, telling me he’ll see me very soon.
Ominous? Sure. Likely? No. He’s incarcerated for the rest of his life.
Having gotten multiple life sentences for the murder of twenty-three women.
He’s never getting out. I know this. And yet, his obsession with me is unnerving.
And a man like him always seems otherworldly.
God-like. As if he knows exactly what’s going to happen because he can see the future.
Or perhaps he gives off such a powerful aura, it’s as if he can will it to be so.
I pull out the letter again; his sophisticated penmanship dances across the page.
Even in biro, his lettering is beautiful.
Despite the monster that lies beneath, Vale has a charm about him.
A charisma that just sucks you into his orbit, like he’s the sun and we are all just spinning around him, waiting to feel something.
But it’s not warmth he emits. Its sullen tentacles slowly wrapping around you until you can’t let go.
Until you’re so enraptured by the way he sees you that you can’t see your true self anymore.
Thomas Vale made me question everything about myself.
My fifty hours spent interviewing him felt like I was on trial.
He would assess me, his eyes carefully categorizing each item of clothing I wore, the way I did my hair, my nails, my makeup, my shoes.
If he were pleased, he would give me a small nod and a smile.
If not, he would barely look at me all session, giving me evasive answers and uninterested yawns.
I tailored myself to wear what I knew he would like.
It’s not uncommon for psychologists to do this.
But part of me felt like I was playing into his hands.
Feeding his fantasy by preparing myself to become a willing participant.
A willing victim. Any second, he could have jumped over the table, and it would have taken three grown men to pull him off me.
There was only one stationed outside the door to the interview room we met in.
Although he was cuffed and never made any outright threats to me, it sure felt like he was working me.
Molding me into a perfect character witness for him.
I gave him nothing during our sessions. No hint of what my professional opinion was, despite him asking me on numerous occasions.
The betrayal in his eyes at the trial as I took the stand and told the jury that it was, in my opinion, without doubt, that Thomas Vale was a violent, dangerous sociopath with narcissistic tendencies.
That he gets a rush from controlling and attempting to coerce others.
He was a spider, luring in victims, playing with them until, when he got bored, he killed them in the most violent and horrific way.
Slowly. Painfully. And if he were to be let out again, I had no doubt that he would kill again, perfecting his MO.
Moving around so that he would be undetected this time.
It’s there that I saw him flip. The charismatic man who was hellbent on winning me over was gone. And I finally saw the real him. Dead eyes bored through me as if he were trying to commit me to memory. So that if he ever got out, he’d never forget my face, and he’d find me.
Aside from the fact that I have an obsessive serial killer who I literally helped put behind bars sending me creepy, threatening letters, I’m also on my period.
And Jonesy made me feel like shit, and I was too tired and too anxious to have a retort back.
So I’ve given him the silent treatment. Sure, I had a bit of cleavage showing, but my outfit was tame.
Not that I care about what he thinks, anyway.
But you know, I was glad to change into my baggy clothes.
They’re my comfort clothes and, honestly, a bit of a crutch.
I hate the looks and leers of people. Yes, I have big boobs. Move along, please.
I do feel kind of bad because he looks sort of devastated that I’m too tired to argue with him. What an ass.
I check my phone and see a reply from the detective. I had let him know we’d checked in, but I didn’t mention the one-room or one-bed situation.
Anthony: Let me know how tomorrow goes. How is Jones behaving?
Katie: Like a choirboy.
Anthony: I can do some digging on him.
Katie: Your digging would involve asking me. I’ve known him the longest aside from his parents.
Anthony: Can we talk when you get back? I’ll bring pizza and beer and you can actually eat some this time.
Katie: How about when the case wraps up?
There’s a pause between responses, and my gut tells me he’s not happy with my reply. Anthony is perfect, but I’m not sure he’s perfect for me.
Anthony: Sure. Sweet dreams, gorgeous.
My breath catches in my lungs. Shitbags. I don’t want him to ruin this. He hasn’t put any pressure on me at all, and then Jacob goddamn Jones comes barrelling into my day-to-day, and suddenly Anthony feels the need to lay claim? Nope. No. Not happening. Both of these men need to chill the hell out.
I turn my phone upside down on the bedside table, looking at the creepy doll sitting in the corner of the room. The decor, fine, it’s weird and old and not from this century, but why the hell are they leaving creepy ass dolls in here? So unnecessary.
The door swings open, and I lift my head to check it’s Jonesy.
He pulls off his sweater, his T-shirt lifting as he does, giving me an unwelcome view of his abs.
He’s fit, I mean super-fit. But he’s got that layer that just tells you he eats, you know?
He can throw you around no problem, but he’s fun and drinks beer with the guys on a Saturday night.
He’ll flip you over into positions you never even dreamed of, and then sit and eat pizza with you afterward.
He’s not precious about his body, but he looks good anyway. So annoying. God, I hate him.
He’s smiling. Never a good sign. But this is different.
He’s not smiling like he’s won; he’s smiling like he’s happy for me.
And I quickly realize why. Slipping his hand into his pocket, he pulls out a Musketeers candy bar.
My absolute favorite. And frustration begins to boil because now I can’t be annoyed with him.
Unless he starts chowing down on the candy in front of me, but somehow I don’t think so.
He makes his way over to my side of the bed, tentatively perching on the edge, playing with the candy bar, rolling it in his hand.
“I know we’re not close. And . . . I know we’re awful to each other on purpose,” he says softly.
On purpose, ha.
“But I don’t want you to be sad. I took things too far today, and I am genuinely sorry.”
“I sense a but . . .”
“Well . . . we both do have a butt. So that might be what you’re sensing. But you were always the smart one, so correct me if I’m wrong.”
I smack him on the shoulder.
“No buts. I’m just sorry. And this is for you. I figured you may be having a shit day that may or may not have been all to do with me being an asshole. Totally warranted if it was. But if it wasn’t, I’d love to hear about it.”
“There was one ‘but,’” I say, evading his question.
He must pick up on me ignoring his offer because he gives me a small nod before standing and making his way back to his side of the bed silently, accepting that I’m not going to open up to him like I would if it were Lottie, Alfie, or Caleb sitting here instead.
What could I say anyway? He’d be the last person to understand.
◆◆◆
The one flickering streetlamp is the only light that guides me. The others seem to be broken. I can hear footsteps behind, quiet at first, but the heavy tread of rubber soles quickens, getting louder and louder with each step.
I spin around and see nothing, just the empty street I had walked down. Not a soul in sight.
I continue, the burn in my calves building as I all but start running.
Despite the cool air nipping at my skin, I’m hot; a bead of sweat tracks down my back like an ominous warning. The footsteps are louder now. My breathing matches the quickening of my pulse.
He’s found me. I don’t know how, but he has, and I feel a fleeting sense of dread as I break out into a sprint.
My lungs burn, the smell of male cologne fills my nostrils, and I know he’s close.
I start to arch my back, just so he can't grab my clothes with his outstretched fingers. But he’s too fast. Instead of my clothes, he yanks me back by my hair.
My back slams against his solid chest, covering my mouth with his gloved hand as his free hand roams. My stomach, my breasts, a finger trails just an inch under my jeans.
His hot breath warms my ear, and all I can do is close my eyes so tight it hurts. I can’t stop him now.
“Hello, princess.”
I suck in a deep breath, my fingernails gripping the skin on my chest, trying to claw the non-existent hands off me. My lungs are scorched, my breathing uncontrollable . . .
“Fuck, Katie!” a deep voice shouts before hands grip my arm.
I try to pull away, try to withdraw until I’m scrambling, falling with a thud onto the floor.
My shoulder floods with pain as I try to roll.
Where the hell am I? Shadows I don’t recognize creep up the walls.
The smell is wrong; it’s not my room . .
. I’m not where I should be, and a sense of doom embeds itself into my gut, squeezing my organs until I can barely breathe.
A light turns on, and I’m blinded for a moment, my eyes squinting as I shield them from the light.
“Katie, it’s Jonesy.” I look at him; he’s kneeling on the floor next to me. How did he get here? His bare chest is exposed, he’s only wearing a pair of boxers. Jonesy and I are in the same bed together again?