Chapter 29
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
HER
E very movement serves as a painful reminder of the stitches holding me together.
Since Damon patched me up this morning, I’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness. He sits beside me on my couch, keeping a close eye on me and refusing to leave my side. I wonder if it’s because he thinks I’ll run. Because I know who Blake Sullivan truly is—and what he’s done.
My eyelids flutter open, finding Damon’s face hovering close, etched with worry. His hand still rests gently on my leg, offering comfort and support. I notice he has put his glasses back on, and part of me wonders if he actually needs them.
“You okay?” he asks, brushing my hair away from my forehead.
I gesture at the prescription-strength painkillers on the coffee table next to a first aid kit. He grabs them and pops open the bottle. I try to get up and reach for the glass of water. But my stitches tug at my skin, causing a jolt of pain to sear through me and leaving me gasping for breath.
“It’s okay,” he says, carefully helping me sit up. “I got you.” He helps prop me up against the cushions before grabbing the cup of water.
After throwing back the pills and gulping down the water, I look at him as he sets the glass back on the table. He places a hand on my shoulder and resumes watching the news, his eyes fixed on the screen. His touch should be comforting. But after everything I’ve discovered, all I can feel is unease.
Blake wasn’t who he claimed to be. He had a secret, one that he kept from everyone. With his cover blown, he is no longer the same person. The man sitting beside me might as well be a stranger. As he turns his gaze from the television to me, I catch a spark of familiarity in his eyes for a moment.
“I never meant to hurt you,” he murmurs.
I open my mouth to speak, but then quickly shut it again. Pulling the blanket draped around me closer, we remain silent for a time before the words tumble out. “I know,” I murmur.
We stay like this for a beat longer before he takes my hand in his, squeezing it. He gives me a small smile, one that looks so familiar and yet so different from the one I’ve come to know these past months. “I may not be who you thought I was, but that doesn’t mean we can’t start over again,” he says.
My heart flutters and I find myself nodding in agreement. My emotions tangle in a confusing mess when I look at him. Loving him should be out of the question; after all, he’s a serial killer. The vivid image of Jen’s body, tied up and displayed, haunts my thoughts—and the person responsible is him . He’s already proven his capability of causing harm, even to me.
Am I truly this foolish?
The stitches pull at my skin, each one feeling like a tiny fire igniting my flesh. I resist the urge to scratch at them and focus on the state of my unwashed body. He did his best to clean me up after tending to my wound, but I still feel filthy. However, getting the dressings wet and risking tearing the sutures is not wise—and I doubt he’d let me go to the hospital.
I wonder how he learned to treat and sew up injuries. Just as I’m about to ask, a name jumps out from the TV, making me stiffen.
“Detective Arthur Bryant has been investigating the series of murders in Ashburn, Vermont,” the federal agent behind the podium says, nodding toward the man next to him. “The murders here also bear a striking similarity to the infamous slayings of the Lakestone Reaper—someone with whom Pennsylvania is quite familiar with. We suspect we may have a copycat killer on our hands.”
Camera flashes light up their faces, including those of the uniformed officers flanking them.
I look at Damon, half expecting him to react to what I think he would take as a compliment—being compared to my father. But his face is unreadable, his gaze trained on the screen. The only thing that betrays his stoic expression is his white-knuckled grip on the remote as he turns up the volume.
“We’ve developed a joint task force with the local authorities to catch the killer before they strike again,” the federal agent adds.
“We’re going to need witnesses who saw something, heard something—anything that might lead us closer to catching the killer,” Detective Bryant says, drawing the attention of the reporters to him. “We are asking anyone with information to come forward. With the community’s help, the person responsible will be brought to justice.”
The news conference ends, leaving behind a sense of frustration as reporters’ inquiries remain unanswered or only partially addressed. Naturally, they won’t disclose any relevant details publicly that could harm the case. I know why Damon watched the report; he needs to stay in the loop.
He tightens his grasp on my hand, then presses a kiss against my forehead before releasing me. “It’s going to be okay,” he assures. “They won’t catch me. If it comes down to it, and the worst happens, I have a plan. Always do.”
I huff, shaking my head. “And what do you think they’ll do to me? What if they think I’m an accomplice to your insanity?”
He grins, eyes twinkling with mischief. “What? You don’t want to be my accomplice?” he teases .
“Seriously?” I say, rolling my eyes as he shuts off the TV.
He chuckles. “Relax. I won’t be going down without a fight. And neither will you. With any luck, we’ll be long gone before they can do a damn thing about it, anyway.”
Why does it already sound like he’s roped me into this? I think, my lids drooping with exhaustion. Those painkillers are strong. Where the hell did he get those, anyway?
“Just stay by my side, and everything will be alright. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.” Gingerly, he wraps an arm around me, avoiding the dressings. “No matter what, we stick together.”
I’m not sure if a serial killer having my back is a relief—or something I should be more afraid of. Either way, I don’t have much of a choice, especially with this wound. With no viable options right now, I just have to trust him. “Okay.”
He smiles and kisses the top of my head. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs.
I lean my head back against the cushion, wondering if I even wanted a way out of this when I feel him get up off the couch. I crack open an eye, seeing him go to the kitchen. “Where are you going?”
He looks at me, his gaze distant. “I need to go take care of something,” he replies, slipping on his coat. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon. Just stay here and rest.”
I watch him as he puts on his shoes. “Is it work?” I ask, my words a thinly veiled double meaning .
“Yes,” he responds before turning away to leave.
Before he walks out the door, I say, “Stop killing. At least for now.”
He stops and turns back to me with a long stare. “I’ll try.” And then he exits the apartment, locking up with my keys.
I sigh heavily and sink into the couch, my energy draining away. Somehow, I don’t think he’ll keep his promise.
I drift in and out of sleep, my mind caught between reality and the hazy landscapes of my dreams. Time ticks by, each minute stretching out endlessly. My dreams meld into reality and I find myself staring down an alleyway, struggling to see through the foggy darkness. Then I see him—a shadowy figure, knife raised above his head, poised to plunge it into my chest as he lunges at me.
Instead of screaming and running, I feel the weight of a serrated hunting knife in my hand. I flex my fingers around the hilt—and drive it into his stomach. He howls as the blade slices apart his flesh, again and again, ripping him apart like an animal. I step back, withdrawing the knife as he collapses to the ground. Blood pools around his body, its warmth screaming in my veins like a sweet song.
Crimson droplets pepper my hands and face. I wipe them away with the back of my hand, a strange calm settling over me, knowing that I did what needed to be done. I spin on my heel, turning away from the scene of death—and suddenly jolt back into the real world.
I wake up, my heart thundering against my ribs. Sweat beads down my forehead as I gasp for air. I look around, expecting to see the alleyway again. But I’m in my living room, where moonlight streams through the kitchen window. It’s already evening? I close my eyes, my body still shaking from the memory of what I did.
But part of me—the deepest, darkest part—clings to that feeling of having power over life and death. Whispers that it had been necessary to kill to survive. A strange need stirs within me, and I clench my fists, knowing I can’t allow this dark side to take over. But the temptation lingers like an unwelcome guest, taunting me with possibilities.
How would it feel if I completely surrendered to it?
I don’t have time to dwell on these thoughts as I hear the jangling of keys. Damon walks in, with grocery bags looped over one arm while carrying something in the other. He meets my gaze before flicking on the light and crossing the living room.
“Sorry for leaving you alone for so long,” he says, setting the bags on the kitchen table. “I had to swing by work and finish up some things. I also didn’t forget about making your dinner.” Glancing back, I see him and my partially eaten birthday cake in its container. He notices me staring and adds, “Happy birthday, Gwen.”
“Thank you,” I say, my voice a bit hollow. I bite my lip, unsure of how to explain what I’m feeling. Damon is no stranger to the darkness that haunts me, so I’m unable to understand my hesitance. Instead, I decide to change the subject. “What did you get?” I motion to the wrapped box peeking out from one of the bags.
He smiles, his blue eyes crinkling up at the corners. “I suppose I’ve kept you waiting long enough,” he says, plucking the box from the bag before handing it to me. “It’s your present.”
“Present?” I echo, my brow lifting.
“Open it,” he insists.
I peel away the wrapping paper and open the box. Inside is a knife with a jeweled hilt, tucked into soft velveteen cushioning. I take it, turning it over in my hands, admiring the intricate details of its design. “Beautiful,” I breathe, unexpectedly moved by the gesture.
“I thought you might like it.” His expression softens, and he takes the hand that holds the blade in his. “It symbolizes protection, your strength. It can help you cut through anything—metaphorically or not.” He smirks and moves away, heading back to the kitchen. “Let me get dinner started.”
While he rummages around the cabinets, I stare at the knife, admiring its cold handle against my skin, its weight reassuring. As gorgeous as it is, I can’t help but wonder if this is more than a present, if Damon has some ulterior motive for giving it to me. I return it to the box and set it aside on the coffee table, snatching the glass of water.
After quenching my parched throat, I contemplate how to broach the subject—one that has been bothering me. “Why do you do what you do?”
He fills a pot with water and places it on the stovetop. “Kill?” he says without turning to face me.
“Yeah.”
“Expecting me to have a tragic backstory or something?” he teases, grabbing another pot and putting it on the other burner. “Well, I suppose you could call it that.”
Damon is a man shrouded in mystery, and I realize once again that I know little about him—at least not the truthful parts. Just how many pieces of himself has he hidden away from the world? And me. “You know all these things about me. I think it’s only fair that you tell me what you were like before.”
He falls silent for a moment, and I watch as he pours sauce into the smaller pot. “Before I was a killer?”
“Before all of … this.”
“There was a time when my life wasn’t entirely defined by violence and bloodshed. I was a fairly ordinary child, all things considered. I had dreams and goals. But something happened that changed everything.” He pauses, as if gathering his thoughts before continuing. “My older brother Rowan and I … We were betrayed. We had to fight for our lives.” His voice is barely audible, but there’s an intensity behind his gaze that conveys the magnitude of what he went through. “Only one of us made it out.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and genuinely mean it. Losing someone you love is a soul-shattering pain that never truly goes away .
He grabs a cutting board and a knife and begins chopping up vegetables. “Obviously, that experience changed me. Later, I saw a documentary about your father. I deeply resonated with his views on justice. But when I saw you on that screen …” He trails off, laughing softly to himself. “I guess I just … lost it.”