40. Him
HIM
BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS
It took every ounce of control I had to rein in my monster when I saw the additional crime scenes at the top of their stupid fucking timeline. I wanted to snap that idiot detective’s neck when he droned on and on about releasing information from them.
Where the fuck did those come from? Those girls were never ours.
Something is wrong.
Off.
And we don’t fucking like it.
The itch beneath our skin is incessant, unbearable. It’s screaming at us—telling us that we’re wasting time. We can’t wait any longer. We need to get to Clara.
I slam the car door shut so hard the frame shudders. Staring up at the FBI resident agency building, I calculate the quickest route to Minneapolis. Rhodes will be on his way soon, but we can beat him there. There’s more than enough time.
And I know just where we’re taking her.
Somewhere special.
Somewhere I’ve never taken anyone else before.
The closer we get to Clara, the easier it is to breathe. With each mile burned away, that relentless itch lessens, and our heart races faster. All that’s left now is the moment. The taking.
As I pull into the driveway, my eyes lock on an unfamiliar car parked in front of the garage. She has company.
Who the hell is here with her? It doesn’t matter. Rhodes isn’t here, and he’s the one we need out of our way.
With a deep inhale, I lift the center console lid and retrieve the small lock box tucked beneath a panel. Clara won’t come easily, but we don’t mind. We can make it easy. I select one of the pre-filled syringes before stowing the box away and getting out of the car.
Excitement runs like fire through our veins. Every movement brings us closer to our prize. I pause in front of the front door and knock, loud and firm—a storm announcing its presence.
She makes us wait a minute before opening the door. Our Clara looks like she’s expecting someone else, a small smile blooming on her lips. The second her eyes meet mine, it dies.
“Hello, Clara,” I say, keeping my voice low.
Her eyes widen, and I watch as the blood drains from her face.
Clara’s body jolts like it wants to run, but I shake my head slowly and cluck my tongue. “You shouldn’t be here, Clar. It’s time to come with me.”
She opens her mouth to scream, but I’m already there, plunging the needle into her neck. She crumples in my arms with barely a sound, and I lay her at my feet before pocketing the syringe.
“Clara?” An unfamiliar, feminine voice calls from somewhere in the house. “What the hell is taking so long? I need the salad dressing!”
I look up just as the waitress from The Pour House rounds the corner. She stops abruptly, her eyes flicking from me to Clara, then back to me. I see the moment recognition hits, followed by fear.
“No!”
The woman charges forward, a twisted, determined look etched on her face.
I step over our Clara and meet her halfway. One backhand, coupled with her own momentum, sends her flying into the wall. She crashes onto the floor with a satisfying thud . Her body lies in a heap, still and unmoving.
My monster wants to make sure the woman won’t be an issue—wants to make sure she’s dead.
But we don’t have time.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” I mutter through clenched teeth, turning back to Clara.
This is why we plan, why we wait. It’s too late now.
I hoist her body up and throw her over my shoulder, fitting my arm snugly beneath the curve of her ass. My fingers twitch with longing.
God, we missed this.
I kick the door shut behind me and head for the car.
It’s time to go.
The drive is a blur, forty-five minutes passing in the blink of an eye.
Tires crunch the deteriorating concrete as I stop in front of the large colonial house we never wanted to see again. But admittedly, it’s perfect for what we have in mind.
I step out of the vehicle—the sharp, damp air cooling our heated skin—and open the trunk. Clara’s still out cold, limbs limp and peaceful.
Good. It’ll make this faster.
I lift her again, savoring the weight of her body against mine, and carry her through the front door without a glance at the dust or peeling wallpaper.
I move through the dark kitchen and stop at the cellar entrance.
Finding the old latch, I pull until the hatch creaks open, exhaling years of stale air and damp earth.
I descend into the darkness and lay her gently on the dirt floor before pulling the light string above us. The lone bulb flickers—buzzing awake after years of slumber—until it brightens the dark space just enough to see the shadows in the corners.
We promised we would take better care of her this time. My monster yearns to keep her, to end our hunt with the only prey who embodied true perfection. If only he listened to me the first time.
We told her we’d bring her home, but Clara needs to atone for making this difficult on us. For living with another man. For letting him touch her. And we know he’s touched her. Touched what doesn’t belong to him.
Resisting the urge to let our frustrations out on her body, to punish her for her transgressions, I turn away and scan the space that was once so familiar. A second home.
Memories long forgotten creep forward, causing my monster to thrash with rage inside my chest.
The pallet beneath the stairs catches my eye, and I stride toward it. A dusty pile of threadbare blankets lay atop the wooden slats—once my refuge from Aunt Lisa. From her wrath when I displeased her.
She thought leaving me alone in a suffocating space devoid of light would fix me.
Instead, I acquainted myself with the dark, learning to listen.
Learning to be . It was here I met my monster for the first time.
A quiet introduction. A fog seeped in beneath the door until it filled my lungs and embedded itself so deep it’d never come out.
We became one.
Suppose we should’ve thanked her before we slit her throat in her sleep. If it hadn’t been for that venomous bitch, I might never have found the other side of me.
The real side of me. Of us .
She tried to beat it out of me. Hoped the darkness would chase it away. The dumb bitch. All she did was feed it .
I inhale deeply, the musty scent of the earth and rot coating my tongue.
No. She doesn’t own us anymore. Doesn’t control us. She can’t.
She’s fucking dead.
But she left us this house. This legacy of broken glass and blood-soaked lessons. And it’s here, in these walls and shadows, where Clara will finally see the truth. Where she’ll finally understand.
This is where she’ll find herself.
With us.
And then we can go home .
Together.