Chapter 13 Shay #2
To make me care about you. To make me trust you. To make me think this was real.
The betrayal was almost worse than the fear.
It sat in my chest like a living thing, clawing and burning, eating me from the inside out.
I’d let him in. I’d let him see parts of me I’d never shown anyone else.
I’d been vulnerable with him, and he’d used it.
He’d lied to my face and I’d believed him because I wanted to believe him.
Because some stupid, naive part of me had thought I deserved something good for once in my life.
“Shay—” he tried again.
“Get out.” My voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Get out. Get the fuck out!”
For a long moment, he didn’t move. But before I could start screaming again, he turned away and climbed the stairs. At the top, he paused, his silhouette dark against the yellow light.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Then the door closed. The lock clicked into place with a sound like finality.
And I was alone with nothing but my anger and the taste of blood in my mouth.
I yanked at the restraints again, harder this time, pulling until the metal cut deep enough that blood ran freely down my arms. The pain was bright and almost welcome. It gave me something to focus on besides the crushing weight in my chest.
I wasn’t going to die here. I wasn’t going to let him win.
I would get free.
And when I did, I’d make him pay for every single lie he ever told.
* * *
Tom came back a few hours later. I didn’t move from where I sat against the wall, my back pressed to cold concrete, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking tired or afraid.
This time, there was a crossword puzzle tucked under his arm along with the meal.
“Are you fucking serious?”
“I figured you could use something to do.” He set the plate down within my reach, but not close enough that I could grab him if I lunged.
“I hate crosswords.”
He knew that. I’d told him once, months ago, when he’d been doing one over his morning tea and asked if I wanted to help. I’d made some comment about preferring actual torture to filling in tiny squares with obscure vocabulary.
He’d laughed then, kissed my forehead, and pulled me against him so we could continue to snuggle under the blanket.
The memory made bile rise in my throat now.
Tom looked almost embarrassed. “I know. I just wasn’t sure what else to bring you.”
“How about you give me the keys to these?” I rattled the chains, the sound sharp and loud against the pipe. “And we can go from there.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
I didn’t like how he used can’t instead of won’t. How he pretended like it was beyond his control, as if he was just as trapped in this situation as I was. The deflection made anger spike hot behind my ribs.
There used to be a time when if I batted my eyelashes prettily enough, he’d give in without complaint. When he’d rearrange his entire schedule if I asked, as if making me happy was the most important thing in the world to him.
No. I reminded myself sharply, shaking my head. That was a different man. That was my Tom—the version I’d constructed in my head from lies and willful blindness.
That was someone who used to wake me up with breakfast in bed. Who’d surprise me with books he thought I’d like, tabs marking passages he wanted to share. Who’d pull me close in the middle of the night, like he needed to touch me even in his sleep.
I didn’t know who the person standing in front of me was.
But I was beginning to understand what he was capable of.
Tom hadn’t slept well—I could read it in the lines of his face, in the shadows under his eyes.
Dark circles bruised the delicate skin there, making him look hollowed out.
His hair was messier than he’d ever allowed it to be, falling across his forehead in a way that would have bothered him before, would have sent him straight to a mirror to fix it.
He’d always cared about his appearance. While his wardrobe couldn’t be called expensive or stylish, he never looked rumpled. Everything had to be in its place—crisp collars, clean cuffs, shoes that were never scuffed.
Now he looked like he’d been dragged through hell and back.
I tutted internally. Sloppy, Dr. Hayes. Very sloppy…
Sleep deprivation would slow his reflexes, cloud his judgment, make him careless. That was useful information. Something I could exploit if the opportunity presented itself.
He set the plate in front of me—some kind of pasta, it looked like. It smelled good, which only pissed me off more. My stomach growled traitorously.
As if sensing my thoughts, he said, “Please don’t throw it at me this time.”
“I’ll do whatever the fuck I please.”
But I let it sit there. I didn’t immediately launch it at his head, even though the impulse was strong. I knew it wouldn’t accomplish anything. It wouldn’t hurt him—not really—wouldn’t even inconvenience him beyond making him clean up the mess.
And some practical part of me, the part that was already thinking about survival, knew I needed to conserve my energy. Pick my battles, so to speak.
I didn’t touch the food, however.
Tom pulled over the chair from the desk, the legs scraping against concrete with a sound that set my teeth on edge. He sat down across from me, settling in like we were about to have a pleasant conversation.
The silence stretched between us, neither of us willing to be the first to speak. I could hear the faint creak of the house settling overhead, the distant hum of the furnace kicking on.
I wasn’t going to break first.
Minutes passed like this, Tom looking me over with those careful eyes, seemingly cataloging every detail—every bruise, every cut, every sign of damage. Finally, he spoke.
“Tell me what you want to know.”
“I already know everything there is to know.”
That was the fucking problem, wasn’t it?
All the pieces had clicked into place with horrible clarity.
The timeline. The victims. His interest in my cases.
The way he’d shown up outside my work under the flimsy guise of wanting to take me out for a drink, when in reality he was most likely searching for an alibi after botching a kill.
I felt sick just thinking about it.
“You must have some questions,” he pressed, leaning forward slightly.
“I really, really don’t. You’re the serial killer who murdered Linda Fell, Alfred Thorne, and Martin Baker. What else is there to say?”
The words hung between us, ugly and undeniable. Saying them out loud made it more real somehow, gave weight and substance to something that still felt surreal.
Tom didn’t confirm or deny it. He just watched me with those steady eyes, calm and patient. “Don’t you want to know why?”
“Because you’re insane?”
He made a considering sound, tilting his head slightly like he was actually giving the question serious thought. “I wouldn’t call myself insane.”
Of course he wouldn’t. Every serial killer in every interview ever conducted said that exact same thing. They all thought they were special, different, when in reality they were just variations of the same broken theme.
“You think you’re sane, then?” I asked, mildly curious despite myself. “There’s a word for that, you know. It’s called being delusional.”
“Are you psychoanalyzing me, Shay?”
“Don’t fucking call me that,” I snapped. The name felt like a violation coming from his mouth now, intimate and wrong, like he’d stolen something precious and twisted it into something ugly.
He didn’t apologize. Didn’t acknowledge the request. Instead, he carried on as if I hadn’t even spoken. “You don’t have to do that. I can tell you everything you want to know. I promise I’ll be truthful.”
As if I was going to believe a single word that came out of his mouth.
I knew better now. Everything he’d ever told me was suspect, every moment we’d shared was tainted.
How much of it had been real? Was any of it?
Or was I just another experiment, another way for him to prove his own cleverness by keeping a detective in his bed, none the wiser to the killer sleeping right beside her?
The thought made something acidic rise in my throat, burning.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to play along for a bit. Keep him talking. Keep him engaged. Maybe he’d let something slip, some detail I could use against him later.
“Is it some sort of trauma?” I decided to ask. “That made you the way you are?”
“Would it make it easier for you if that were the case?”
“Just answer the fucking question.”
Tom was quiet for a long moment, and I thought he might refuse. But then he sighed, and something in his expression became distant, unfocused, like he was looking at something far away.
“I honestly don’t know the answer.”
The non-answer made frustration burn hot in my gut.
My jaw clenched. I wanted to scream at him, to demand that he be honest for once in his goddamn life.
He must have seen it in my face—the rage simmering just beneath my skin, threatening to boil over—because he continued, his voice taking on a strange, detached quality.
“If you’re asking if I experienced trauma, then yes.
When I was fifteen. My father killed my mother and my little sister right in front of me.
He tried to kill me too—stabbed me and left me to die before he slit his own throat.
Obviously, I didn’t bleed out. I managed to call the ambulance just in time. ”
I stared at him, trying to process what he’d just said. He spoke about his past without emotion, as if recounting someone else’s story, as if he were completely untouched by it.
Was any of it real? Or was it just another manipulation, another lie in a long chain of them?
He’d never talked about his family in the time we’d been together. He’d mentioned once, offhandedly, that he’d had a younger sister who passed away, but that was a very long time ago. Nothing more than that.
I tried to search for the truth in his eyes, even though I knew it was futile.
His gaze remained steady, unflinching.
“So if you’re asking whether my upbringing has anything to do with the way I am now, I suppose it’s possible. However, I may never know for certain.”
Those same eyes had once looked at me with what I might have called love. Those same eyes had watched me sleep, had crinkled at the corners when he smiled at me, had darkened with desire.
I could never really read him, could I? All those moments I’d thought I understood what he was thinking, what he was feeling—I’d only seen what I wanted to see. I’d projected my own desires onto a blank screen and called it intimacy.
“Did that stuff with your father really happen?” My voice came out quieter than I intended, smaller. The question felt inadequate the moment it left my mouth.
“Would you believe me either way?”
No. The answer rose immediately, instinctive. I wouldn’t believe him. Couldn’t afford to. Everything was contaminated now, every story poisoned. Every vulnerability he’d ever shown me could have been carefully crafted manipulation, designed to make me trust him, to make me lower my guard.
Not that it mattered anyway. His history didn’t change a thing.
The world was full of people who’d been hurt, who’d survived unspeakable trauma and come out the other side damaged but fundamentally decent. His past—real or fabricated—was just an excuse. A way to deflect responsibility, to make himself look more sympathetic.
I wasn’t going to let myself fall for it.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, with a note of finality in my voice. “Even if it’s true, it doesn’t excuse what you did. Plenty of people have shitty childhoods, but most of them don’t turn into serial killers.”
“No,” Tom agreed quietly. “They don’t.”
The silence settled over us again, heavier this time, weighted with all the things left unsaid.
I could feel exhaustion creeping in at the edges—my body’s way of trying to shut down, to escape the reality of the situation.
My throat ached with a deep, persistent throb.
My wrists burned where the cuffs had rubbed the skin raw, blood drying in dark streaks. Everything hurt.
I wanted to scream. Wanted to cry. Wanted to throw myself at him and claw his eyes out, to hurt him the way he’d hurt me.
Instead, I just sat there, staring at the cooling pasta on the plate between us, watching steam rise and dissipate into nothing.
He must have sensed that I was done talking, that whatever fragile truce we’d reached had run its course.
“Is there anything you’d like me to bring you?” His voice was careful, almost gentle. “Anything you’d like to eat?”
The question was so absurd, so mind-numbingly normal in the context of everything else, that I almost laughed. The urge bubbled up in my chest, hysterical and sharp-edged. Instead, I remained silent. Refused to give him anything—not my voice, not my cooperation, not even my anger anymore.
He waited for a response that didn’t come.
Finally, he sighed—a tired, defeated sound—and stood. The chair scraped against the concrete floor as he pushed it back.
His footsteps were slow on the stairs. At the top, he paused, and I thought he might say something else. Offer another apology that meant nothing, or make another empty gesture.
But he just left.
And I was alone again in the semi-darkness, with nothing but my thoughts and the phantom sensation of hands around my throat.
I closed my eyes and tried not to think about how he’d known exactly where to press, how he knew how much pressure to apply in order to choke me unconscious without crushing my windpipe.
Like he’d done it before.
Like he’d practiced on other people, learning it from experience.
The thought should have terrified me. But instead, it just made me angrier—that cold, burning rage that had nowhere to go, no outlet except to sit in my chest and fester like an infection.
I wasn’t going to give up. Wasn’t going to break.
He might have caught me, might have chained me in his basement, might have stolen my freedom.
But he hadn’t won.
Not yet.