Chapter 23
REVERIE
The second I hear that damn word through the speaker again, I close my eyes, my organs collapsing from two simple syllables spoken in a voice I prayed to never hear again. I'm paralyzed. I can’t get my vocal cords to work, can’t get my body to function.
I had hoped the first time I heard him say it after I answered, I was hallucinating from the post-orgasm. But the way Dread's entire presence goes utterly still when he says it the second time, I know my personal nightmare has returned, and it's not waiting for sleep to haunt me.
That voice was my very first memory after he saved my life from a mother so lost in grief and darkness, she didn’t understand what she was doing. That voice soothed me and gave me solace through one of the darkest moments of a life that had barely begun.
He was my safety. My home base. The person I ran to when I awoke with night terrors because I thought I couldn’t breathe.
Then, he became my boogeyman. The monster lurking in the shadows. The person I hid from when he came home at night.
Nausea swirls in my stomach, and even still, I can’t get myself to utter a single noise.
Dread comes closer, the energy radiating from him angry and potent. It’s stifling and overwhelming. Everything feels overwhelming.
“Angel…” He sighs the nickname this time, sounding resigned.
“I wish you would talk to me. That’s all I want.
It’s been nine years since I’ve even seen you, honey, and I know you’re confused about a few things.
I… I just want to clear things up. You were so young, and I know everything you heard about me—the things I was being accused of—it must’ve gotten into your head. I’m so sorry it did.”
One burning tear slips from my eye while my chin trembles.
I knew he would do this the moment he got the chance. Gaslight me. Claim what I saw at six years old was all in my head, that my imagination got the better of me.
I dreaded this moment because I also knew it might work. He would needle into my brain and convince me that maybe I did make it all up. Maybe I wasn’t living in fear of him for those two years before Barry arrested him. Maybe, in those moments, I was actually hiding from my mom.
“You shouldn’t be calling me,” I choke out. The tips of my fingers tingle, numbness slowly working its way through my extremities. “And you shouldn’t have come here.”
“What makes you think I was there?” he questions. There’s an edge to his tone, like he’s suspicious.
I have vague memories of Lionel being very paranoid.
I've learned a lot about criminal psychology, how paranoia in criminals is common due to the building pressure of avoiding detection.
Considering how prolific the Locksmith cases were, Lionel was under an immense amount of pressure.
One tiny mistake could lead to his entire world crashing down around him.
I can’t remember much about the episodes or what caused them, but I have flashes of him scouring through the couch cushions, the cabinets, anywhere he could think of, searching for ‘bugs.’ I thought he meant insects back then, and I would always help him look, even though I was terrified a spider would pop out at me.
“No one knows you call me that, Lionel. No one else who's still alive, anyway.”
There's no hiding the bitterness in my tone as I say the last part.
He’s quiet for a beat.
“You don’t know that,” he says vaguely.
“I do,” I argue through gritted teeth. “Just like I know you made that fake dating profile and kidnapped Mindy Sackler. You left a note in my dorm telling me to come back to Silent Mist with her hair clip, and when I didn’t and you saw my transfer papers, you trashed my dorm and gave me a lock of hair and an article about what a great father you are.
I’ve already accepted you’re a psychopath, Lionel.
The least you could fucking do is not pretend like you aren’t and actually give a shit about anyone. ”
The sheer amount of adrenaline surging through my veins should be deadly. I’m trembling, and my heart is racing, but there’s an odd sense of calmness, too. A focus that stills any erratic thought and allows me to home in on him and him alone.
“Honey, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I would never do any of those things to you,” he says earnestly, almost sounding hurt.
God, I don’t know how I never noticed it, even as a child.
He just sounds so… empty. Even when he’s trying to infuse emotion into his voice, it sounds so wooden and unnatural.
Or maybe it’s only obvious to those who know better and can see beneath the facade.
Truthfully, his charm is a mirage, and the moment you get too close, the illusion fractures, and it’s impossible to see anything but reality.
“Is Mindy Sackler dead?” I ask bluntly.
“I don’t even know who that is.” The words are broken with exasperation, like he’s in such disbelief he’s being questioned like this.
I let out a humorless chuckle as I shake my head, realizing I’m only wasting my time and breath.
Why would he admit to anything over the phone? He’s too paranoid and calculated, and probably thinks I’m recording the call. Or maybe even have someone else listening in. It’s something he would’ve considered before he even dialed my number, and he won’t break character, no matter what I say or do.
“Sweetie, listen, I do want you to come back home to see me. You mentioned transfer papers, but please tell me that isn't true. Not when I’ve only just gotten home.”
I glance at Dread. “It is true.”
He lets out a scoff, still sounding hurt.
“You can’t at least visit your father after almost a decade of not seeing me?
I hate that you’ve been alone all these years.
Your mom—” I squeeze my eyes shut, a sharp ache blooming in my chest. “—she had her struggles with depression before you came around, but she always wanted kids. And she was happy, until she wasn’t. ”
Until I killed my little brother, he means.
“What she did on your birthday… it was selfish. She left you all alone, and I can’t stand that.”
Derision twists my features.
“It wasn't selfish,” I snap. “If she were truly selfish, she would've done it the day you were sentenced.
She had the strength to wait until I wouldn't have to go into foster care, and that was the most selfless thing she could've done. She lived in misery so I could have somewhat of a childhood, despite your best efforts to fuck it all up.”
I may hold a lot of resentment for my mother and how she treated me, but… not for that. Not for when I was four, and not for when I turned eighteen.
He's quiet for a few moments, and my chest and throat are burning from rage.
“You're right, I'm sorry,” he says.
Funny thing about Lionel—if you pay really, really close attention, you can hear how hollow emotion sounds in his voice, a pretty mask with nothing real beyond it. He's not dead inside.
He's just empty.
He sighs, as if he's upset with himself. “Listen, Angel, my point is—we only have each other left now, and I want to fix this between us. Put everything behind us, start fresh, rebuild, and go back to the way things were before that boy targeted me.”
Dread’s instantly flying to his feet, startling me and sending my heart into my throat. A thunderous expression blackens his features, dilating his eyes until there isn’t a trace of blue remaining. He's already readjusted his joggers while I'm still naked.
I tuck my legs into my chest, feeling exposed and vulnerable. I attempt to make myself as small as possible, but there isn’t a single place for me to hide.
Clearing my throat, I rasp, “That’s not going to happen, Lionel. I’m not confused, and I want you to stay away from me. Just… just stay in California, or I’ll call the cops and tell them you’re violating parole.”
His silence is heavy. It feels as if the bugs I once thought infested our house are actually inside me, burrowing beneath my skin and crawling along my nerves. The discomfort builds until I can’t stand it anymore. I need to move, to do something other than wallow in it.
Desperate to escape it, I stand and hurry over to the dresser, setting the phone on top of it before pulling open the drawer Dread cleared out for me.
I grab a new pair of underwear and quickly slip them on, then snatch up my clothes scattered across the floor.
Forgoing my bra, I slip on my red T-shirt, quickly pulling on my jeans, while Dread glares at my phone resting on the dresser.
“You won’t do that,” Lionel says, his tone hardening and sounding much more like the monster he truly is—the one he carefully hides until he can’t anymore.
It’s deep and sinister, lined with a sharp edge that cuts through muscle and bone. He could kill with just that voice alone.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand as I pick up my phone again, casting a nervous glance toward Dread. Anything to distract me from the demon on the other end of the phone.
Finally, I work up the nerve to say, “I will.”
My voice shakes, but it’s firm, and that’s all that matters.
He sighs again, and it still sounds resigned, but it’s no longer ‘I hate that you’re angry with me,’ and now, ‘I hate that you’re making me do this.’
Before I can think of what to say, Dread charges toward me and snatches the phone out of my hand. My mouth opens, a protest on my tongue, but no voice to give it life.
“I wouldn’t mind if you came and visited me,” Dread croons, a clear challenge in his tone. He turns his back and slowly paces, looking like a caged animal waiting for the day the gate opens so he can run free.
Again, Lionel’s silence is heavy.
Oh, no.
Oh, no, no, no, no.
This is bad.
“Dread—”
“Who am I speaking with?” Lionel asks, calm and unaffected.
“The boy who’s still targeting you.”