CHAPTER 27
Stalker
I push the door open. The thick carpet drags on the bottom of the door and a gentle hppph sound fills the quiet of your house. I ignore the light switch, I don’t need it – I already know what I’m looking for. Your carpet is soft on my bare feet.
I press the volume button on my phone, so your voice increases in my ears.
“Psychologist Anthony Ringer argued that a killer is impacted by the deaths of their victims, capturing part of each kill into his or her own existence. That, with every person they kill, they are becoming a new form of who they were. In that way, they care about the people they kill. I know! Oh, I know what you’re thinking.
It sounds a little too lenient, doesn’t it? ”
You scoff down the microphone. I want to slap you. This pretentious air of I-know-it-all is unattractive on you. Then again, you probably do know how it feels.
You continue in that smug little voice: “It’s hard, as listeners, to believe that a murder and a missing victim couldn’t weigh heavily on our killer’s mind.
How can Robbie Lane and Nathaniel Olumende’s suffering have improved the killer’s life?
It takes away from their pain and gives the killer a humanity we don’t want to see.
With the murders at Househill Manor, there may sadly never be answers.
But one day, I hope to bring you an episode where we can close this case completely, a story of young Robbie’s justice and where Nathaniel is laid to rest. But until then, my lovely listeners–”
I jab the pause button, cutting you off and unplugging the headphones. His name stings in my ear as you say it. I place your phone on the bedside table, leaving the episode loaded on your screen. You should lock your phone, Ella. It’s time to tidy this room up. You’ve left it in such disarray.
It is quite obtuse of you to release a podcast episode about your own killings.
But then again, why would you ever get caught, eh?
You’ve covered your tracks so well. Living under a fake name, never confirming to your friends how involved you were in Nate’s disappearance, even lying to your fiancé. It’s deliciously deceptive, for now.
“You’re not as smart as you claim to be,” I say into the darkness. The mask itches my cheek, but I refuse to raise my hand to it.
You snort, almost in response. Open-mouthed and visceral.
I lean down, your breath thick with sleep. “It’s nearly over,” I whisper.
Straightening up, I remove the glass from your bedside, refilling it in your sink and placing it back for you. I leave a small kiss on your forehead.
My brother did this with me. Every night, he’d come in and say goodnight before he went to sleep.
Sometimes we’d read a story, or other times we’d chat.
He was young and hated going to bed. I became part of the process to prove there was nothing else going on once he closed the door and turned off the light.
But that’s the thing: life continues even if we want to pretend it doesn’t.
Air pulls in through your nostrils as you shift in your sleep, curls splaying out of your bonnet near your temples. I could smother you, cover your face with these dark teal pillows and create an easy ending for us both.
Is that the justice you deserve?
Over ten years of you pretending. Pretending to be happy and deserving and good.
I stroke your arm as it hangs limp off the bed, the hairs so soft on it that it feels unreal. What lotion do you use?
“You don’t want a dead arm in the morning,” I say, placing your arm back on the bed.
That’s funny, Ella. My laugh is loud in the silence of the house, but not enough to wake you. That was really funny, Ella.
I choose the seat at the far end of your bedroom, a pointless crimson chair that’s both plush and excessive.
I settle in, taking up as little space as possible.
Goosebumps crawl across my arms in anticipation.
If you woke up now, you’d find me sitting in your bedroom.
Would you scream, run, or simply ask why I was here?
I draw my knees to my chest and roll my shoulders.
This is what I used to do all those years ago when Mum was asleep and Father walked into the night on his “adventures”.
I remember the first time I went with him.
I felt old and mature but I was still young.
His shoes made a slapping sound as they walked over the wet ground, which I came to find comforting.
I complained about the cold and he hit me across the face.
I’ll say this, all those nights spent in the cold dark, watching people, they taught me how to be patient with my thoughts.
And with others, too. Father taught me how to be present in the moment, how to stay still as time trickles through your patient hand.
I watch you sleep, because this may be the last time I get to.
And since you removed the internal cameras, I have to watch you here. I get to.
“Do you think we wouldn’t notice, Ella? The way you tweak the truth so it suits you.” My voice is barely a whisper as you sleep, but I have to tell you this, Ella. You’ve gained so much from other people’s suffering. It’s time you heard the truth.
“It all started with poor Robbie, a teenager who died thanks to you and Henry. From there, you did everything in your power to gain from other people’s suffering.
You studied it, got a job in it, and when that wasn’t enough, you made a podcast about it.
You didn’t care who you stood on, as long as it gave you enough height to reach up.
But people like you don’t deserve all of this.
And people like me? Well, we have to bring you back down to earth. ”
My voice fades and pitches as I speak, but I don’t stop. Not when you flutter your eyes or roll over, your leg sticking out from under the covers. I speak into the silence of your bedroom. And when I’m done, I run a knife along your foot until your toes twitch and you yank your feet back.
As the sun begins to break, low in the sky, I slip out. I put your podcast on as I walk back through your house. Your voice fills my ears, loud and arrogant.
“It’s hard, as listeners, to believe me, I know…”
I close my eyes as I walk through your special little gated community. It was so easy to infiltrate your life, Ella. And I think it’ll be just as easy to bring you all down.