Chapter Twenty-Five – Abby #2
Royal has the honors. He leans over the bed, practically crawling on top of it since Connor is sleeping in the center, and sets the cloth on his face. Connor wakes and reacts, but only for a few seconds before his movements become slow and ultimately fade back into unconsciousness.
When Royal says, “He’s out,” I move across the room and pull the curtains closed over what I assume are elegant windows with nice, gilded trim, and Ezra pulls out a battery-operated spotlight from our bag.
The harsh light flickers on, momentarily blinding us all, strong enough to illuminate the entire room.
I squint like a madwoman as I approach the bed, and only when my eyes adjust do I see Connor laying limp in the center.
Soft, plush sheets adorn his bed, and Royal works to yank them down as Ezra sets the bag on the floor and pulls out the ropes.
Connor is exposed shortly. He wears nothing but silky pajama bottoms, his body completely unmarred by any scars or tattoos.
He might not be overly muscled—rich assholes hardly ever are—but he still takes care of himself.
He doesn’t look like he gorges himself on food or extra calories.
No, someone like him prefers to gorge himself in other ways.
You know, doing things that scar women for life and make them commit suicide.
I stand back and watch as Royal and Ezra tie him up. His bed has a huge frame, which means it’s easy for them to attach him and spread him out limb after limb. His mouth hangs open, his body jostling with the movement.
“He looks like a normal guy,” I say. “A rich asshole, but a normal one. That’s the thing. They always look normal. It’s their secret weapon, and they know how to use it to get whatever the hell they want.”
“It’s a shame we don’t have time to have a little chat with him, first,” Royal speaks with a hard frown.
He finishes tying up his left wrist, and then he moves to his left ankle.
He’s right; we don’t have time to fall down that particular rabbit hole.
Not tonight, not here. We are under a time crunch.
This will be the Downtown Dismemberer’s highest-profile kill yet.
With a shake of my head, I whisper, “It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing he could say that would make it better.”
And it’s true. He’d never apologize, never admit it. If, by some weird miracle he did, it wouldn’t undo all of the pain he’s caused.
Besides, rich assholes like him never apologize for anything. As far as he’s concerned, my sister’s suicide had nothing to do with him.
Even if we did have time, would I want to hear whatever he’d say? Would I want to listen to his excuses, to hear him plead for his life? No. I don’t get off on the power imbalance. Here, tonight, we are simply going to give him what he deserves, and nothing he could say would change that.
Connor Connair will die tonight. He’ll die, my sister’s memory will be officially avenged, and I’ll lay the past to rest.
It’s been a long time coming.
With Connor tied up, Ezra pulls out our handsaws. I get one of my own this time, and as I stare down at the shiny new metal, he and Royal share a long look. A few seconds later, he says, “We thought… well, we thought we’d let you have the first pick.”
Nodding once, Royal says, “Let you have the first cut. Make it a good one, Killer.”
My heart skips a beat when he calls me that. He’s never called me anything but my name before. It’s kind of sweet, in a twisted, blood-soaked way.
I move closer to the bed, studying how Connor’s body is an X, his limbs pulled taut. I know where D.D.K.’s victims are cut, and if I’m going to have the pick of the litter so to speak, I’m going for the Mack daddy of them all.
The head.
I get on the bed, crawling until I straddle Connor’s chest, careful with the saw in my hand.
Staring down at the man, I think of all of the sleepless nights, the nightmares; everything in my life has led to this, and I’m not going to look away.
I won’t flinch, no matter how bloody or gruesome it is. I’m way past that.
The breath I let out right then is slow, steady, as methodical as the cut I’m about to make will be.
I’m not afraid. I stopped being afraid a long time ago.
I know who I am, who I’m supposed to be.
I’ll gladly be the criminal if it means I’ll save some girls out there, stop them from experiencing my sister’s fate.
I lay the sharp edge of the saw against Connor’s throat. The serrated edge pierces the skin just enough to draw a drip of blood. That drip travels downward and falls onto the sheet below, an omen of what’s to come, of how messy this bed is about to be. Wearing my mask, I don’t smile.
Who am I? In a way, it doesn’t really matter. I’m darkness. I’m anger, rage, and pure vengeance. I’m feminine fury brought to life, ready to kill at a moment’s notice because sometimes that’s what it takes when society proves it doesn’t give a shit about us.
My name is Abby LaRoe, and from here on out, I’m a serial killer… and because I am who I am, I do the only thing I can do.
I cut off that motherfucker’s head.