39 | Mike
Mike
Iam sitting with Jessica on the couch, her legs draped over mine, and my laptop set on hers.
Surprisingly, it still works. The screen is cracked, and it barely balances on top of the keyboard, but it works.
And that’s all I need at the moment. Well, to be exact, I wanted to watch a movie, but the woman wanted to scroll down memory lane, and who am I to deny her?
Besides, when it comes to being the dominant personality, unless murder is involved, I’m not the one.
I don’t care enough to overpower people with what I want.
Unless it’s about killing someone—then I don’t give a fuck what anyone else wants but me.
We have been scrolling through the pages of her former classmates—people who made her life miserable when she was just a kid herself, trying to navigate life without a mother.
Liam had uncovered a big part of her story during the weeks he was stalking her, because that’s my brother.
He needs to know the facts. But she hasn’t told it herself yet.
I am sure she will in time. She is stuck with us after all; eventually, she will have to let us in.
It’s not like we’ve done that either, though.
The guys are keeping her at arm's length when it comes to information. I, on the other hand, don’t really care.
Worst-case scenario, she tries to blab to the police and we kill her.
Don’t get me wrong, I like her—a lot. I am obsessed with having her around, but if it comes down to choosing survival, I will always survive.
It doesn’t matter who I have to kill to do it.
She looks sad in this moment, though, and that breaks my non-existent heart.
I swear my heart would ache for her if I had one, but still, sadness fills me at the thought of Jessica being so lost and hurt growing up.
I can see it in her eyes now while scrolling through photos.
They truly hurt her. Those people made an already hard situation worse, and I can’t stop myself from getting angry.
It reminds me of our childhood—the number of times people made things worse instead of helping us.
The ones who turned their backs instead of reporting the weird bruises on our bodies.
The teacher who told my mother about my father coming into my bedroom instead of calling Child Protective Services when I found the courage to ask for help.
The classmates who laughed at us for not having clean clothes or money instead of asking why.
It’s all coming back, and I am deep in my thoughts when I realize Jessica is saying something.
“This is Lindsay,” she tells me, keeping her voice at a whisper level.
I check the photo she just showed me. The woman has red hair and is smiling, but her smile isn’t genuine.
She is putting on a persona for social media; that much is clear.
She looks like one of those women who curate a whole fake life for followers, but in reality, they are just pathetic, attention-seeking rats who have nothing to offer the world.
“Tell me about her, angel,” I say, checking to see if the guys have noticed us yet.
Liam is still working on whatever Nate assigned him. We are safe for now.
“She was the popular girl in my high school,” she begins to tell me.
“She used to make jokes during class, but never anything harmful—up to the point when I stopped attending school. She once visited the diner and ordered every milkshake on the menu. She didn’t touch any of them, and when it was time to pay, she got up and poured the first two over my head.
She walked away without saying anything, and I saw through the window that a bunch of guys from the football team were outside recording it. ”
I try not to get mad at what she says, but now I get why she’s showing me these people: she wants to hunt.
I can see the need in her eyes. I recognize it.
I know that look so well—it’s been in my own eyes more times than I can count.
I know how needing revenge can consume you.
It consumed me for years and years. Nothing truly satisfied it until Mary’s death.
But now? Now I almost feel content. I don’t care about killing.
I know I’ll enjoy the game as much as I did before, but that bloodlust has been gone for a long time now.
“Angel, why are you showing me this?”
Her eyes avoid mine when she answers. “I want to hunt her in the maze like you did me.”
There it is. I knew she was getting to that.
This woman might be as insane as we are.
I wonder if Liam knows the woman he picked is a little psycho.
I’m pretty sure he won’t be a fan of having another serial killer living with him.
Even if he participates in the hunts, buries the evidence of our killings, and acts like he’s one of the killers in the group...
He isn’t. His soul is still clean. He doesn’t have blood on his hands.
I’m pretty sure he never will—as long as it’s a choice, Liam will never choose to take a life without a direct threat.
He would absolutely kill to help any of us, but for fun? Never. He isn’t like us.
“Angel, you must be joking.” I try to steer the situation toward fantasy or a joke, hoping she won’t demand to kill a woman for the sake of revenge.
I know I don’t have the right to deny her this, though.
I’m not a hypocrite. I’ve been doing this for far too long to pretend this isn’t a valid reaction to trauma—at least in my book.
Because to the real world, to normal people out there, this isn’t a valid reaction at all.
In fact, it’s the furthest thing from it.
But in our world—the one where we make the rules—this is the only way to get revenge.
“I want to teach her a lesson,” she insists.
Now I know there’s no changing her mind. She will have this woman's blood, even if we say no. I recognize the signs. She has the eyes of a killer now—a dark, cold, avoidant look. She is ready to kill if it will satisfy her demons.
“You know the women in our game usually don't make it out alive, right?” I try to make her understand the gravity of her request, but I’m clearly not doing a good job.
“She deserves it!” Jessica says.
Sweet girl, you might be more like us than you think.