Chapter Forty-Nine
Delicious Death
Butch
He was in a good mood when he drove back to his property. For the first time in his life, someone waited for him and had promised to bake a cake. His mother didn’t even bake cakes for his birthday; she bought the cheap ones, which were usually too sweet and didn’t taste good.
When Butch walked inside, he immediately noticed the chemical smell. He didn’t see Willow. Cold anger ran through him, and then her head popped up.
“I know it was presumptuous of me, but I finished the cake and needed something to occupy my time. I’m cleaning your cupboards.
” She hesitated, maybe sensing his anger.
“I put everything back where it belonged,” she rushed.
“I only washed the insides with the cleaner you had under the sink.” Another hesitation.
“I’m sorry,” she said with a slight tremble in her voice.
Butch relaxed his shoulders and walked around the island and into the kitchen. She had a neat stack of pots and pans pulled out, a small water-filled tub on the floor, and a rag in her hand.
He wasn’t sure where his irritation came from, but although she had been through most of the cabinets, the cleaning was presumptuous of her.
He prided himself on keeping an immaculate environment.
Butch held the rifle in his left hand. He removed the cartridges and pocketed them. Without saying anything, he stepped around Willow and the pans to rest the rifle in the corner. It was more to calm himself than anything else.
“The cabinets weren’t dirty,” she said. “I did it mostly to stay busy. I’m sorry,” she repeated.
He rubbed his chin while staring at her. Even breaths, he told himself. He was overreacting.
“Did you make plans for dinner?” he asked.
“Spaghetti,” she said softly, her expression pensive.
“That works. I bought fresh bread, which will go with it perfectly.” He wasn’t ready to smile yet.
“This is the last cabinet. I’ll put the pots back and start on dinner.”
He stared at her until she shifted slightly from foot to foot. Was she nervous because of his reaction? She should be.
“Sit at the table when you’re finished so I can bring the things I purchased inside, and you won’t be in my way.” He turned and went down the stairs.
When he walked in carrying the first bags, she was sitting at the table with her head downcast. He set the bags down. “Don’t touch anything,” he said before he went to fetch the next load.
It took four trips. He tried to shake off his foul mood, but it didn’t fade.
Maybe keeping Willow was a bad idea. He walked inside with his last load.
She waited much as she had before. He sorted the groceries and put them away.
The things he purchased for her went into the closet in his room.
Giving her gifts wasn’t a priority right now.
He settled at the table and watched her. As seconds turned into minutes, she clenched and unclenched her hands. Had she been up to something while he was gone? Trust had been growing between them, but she put a stop to it. Could she get it back?
Her head finally lifted. “May I make you some tea while I start dinner?” Nervousness filled her voice.
“Okay,” he said. He still didn’t smile.
She walked into the kitchen and removed the pot she would need along with the food. He’d left the bread on the counter.
Her nervousness excited him. It would add a duller taste to the meat. He’d never eaten someone alive. Maybe as punishment. He could take one of her fingers and eat it in front of her. The idea grew.
She looked up when he abruptly stood. Slowly, he took a step towards her. She backed away, which he liked. Willow wasn’t dumb. She was a survivor.
Her life would be a little different from here on out.
◆◆◆
Willow
When he left to get the first bags of groceries, she moved fast, her pulse thrumming in her ears as she pulled the ammo out.
She practically threw the pots back into the clean cabinet.
The chain clinked softly on the tile as she picked up the rifle with trembling hands.
Her fingers were clumsy and slick with sweat as she fed the first round into the chamber.
The second slipped.
A metallic ping broke the silence as the cartridge hit the tile and rolled, spinning lazily before vanishing beneath the lip of the cabinet. She froze.
Then, footsteps.
Heart hammering, she snatched the chain and hurried back to the table.
Her hands shook so violently she nearly dropped it.
She forced herself to move carefully, laying the links on the floor just so, arranging them as though they hadn’t moved.
Then she lowered herself onto the chair, trying to still her heaving chest.
Could he see the cartridge from here?
Her eyes darted toward the cabinet’s shadowed base. Maybe it was hidden. Maybe not. The door opened, and her breathing stopped again.
He entered carrying four plastic bags. His eyes swept the room before he turned his attention to her. She lowered her eyes in submission. She’d perfected this role.
He said nothing, just set the bags down.
When he turned for the next load, she exhaled shakily and reached for the dropped cartridge. Her fingers found it, and she slipped it into the rifle, sliding the bolt forward with a muffled click that sounded deafening in her ears.
Her pulse refused to slow. It wasn’t hard to look nervous; she was terrified.
When he returned, his expression had changed. The sight of her twisted his features into something dark. His lips pressed thin, flexing his jaw. Somehow, she had known he wouldn’t like her attempt at cleaning.
But she knew he would focus on that and not wonder what she’d done while he was gone.
Her biggest fear was that he’d send her back downstairs into the dark. This was her only chance.
When she finally asked if she could make tea and start dinner, something in his eyes shifted. The spark of control that made him appear human was gone.
Seconds slipped away before he answered. She moved slowly and began the water for tea before gathering what she needed for dinner.
When he stood, her body reacted before her mind caught up. Her heart stuttered. She backed into the corner and felt for the rifle. Her fingers tightened around the stock.
He saw it.
And he smiled.
Slowly, the most horrifying grin spread across his face. It didn’t reach his eyes. They burned with insanity.
“Now your true colors show,” he said softly.
She didn’t breathe. Didn’t think.
She pulled the trigger.
The look of shock on his face was short-lived. He took one step towards her before he fell. She fired again, but missed.
He lay still, and she didn’t trust it. Lifting the rifle, she approached him. Red seeped into the back of his shirt. She lifted the rifle and brought it down.
Memories flooded her.
Her father lay on the dirty carpet, crying.
“Call the police,” he said.
She went to the phone, watching her mother, who wasn’t moving. Her mother’s eyes stared at nothing, and blood smeared her face.
“Willow!” the shout came from her father.
He gained his knees, then stood. He looked around and stumbled a few feet.
“Willow,” he said softly this time.
She inched toward the front door.
He smiled.
All she had was the bat, and she lifted it.
“You little bitch,” he said.
She swung.
And swung.
And swung.