Chapter Five
Noelle
Five years ago, the Serial Killer Santa took his first victim’s life.
He killed my ex-boyfriend Steven.
And Steven was a real piece of work. I still have the bad dexterity to prove it from when he broke my wrist. The thing about Steven was that he was an abused child, so he thought the only way to keep someone he “loved” was to abuse them as well.
But his trauma was not a valid excuse for his behavior.
Work that shit out in therapy, not on me.
He also didn’t take no for an answer. Even two months after I officially ended things with him and got a restraining order, he’d still track me down and beg me to be with him again.
He used all the classic manipulation tactics: love bombing me, telling me he’d kill himself if he couldn’t have me, and my personal favorite, violence and threats.
Then one day, he just disappeared. I wasn’t foolish enough to think he’d finally gotten the message and adhered to the restraining order he never bothered to acknowledge before. I knew something must have happened to him.
And something did. The Serial Killer Santa. Although, at the time, he wasn’t known by that name yet. You aren’t considered a serial killer until your third murder. At least according to the FBI. Some authorities label you as a serial killer after two separate murders.
But that’s beside the point.
The point is, the man who killed Steven, the Serial Killer Santa, is in my apartment.
And after murdering his third victim for the year, no less.
What are the odds.
Ok. Play it cool, Noelle. You don’t want to spook him.
I’m not worried he’ll kill me next, because then he’d be breaking a pattern upheld for the past five years.
But I am worried he’ll leave before I can get a few answers.
While the logical side of my brain knows I should report everything that happens tonight, that I should probably lock myself in my room and call 911, I don’t have plans to do either.
He may not know it, but he might have saved my life.
If Steven hadn’t been murdered, who knows how bad things would have escalated.
I’m not sure how to play this. Should I tell him his first victim was my abuser? Or should I just keep that to myself and pretend like this never happened in the morning.
All of my musings go out the window when Santa answers my earlier question.
“I never liked that nickname, but I guess it could be worse. I mean, Santa is a giver, I take. Not really the same thing. But I am doing some good in the world by eliminating people that have been harming others.”
Where’s a hidden recording device when you need one? I can’t believe how readily he’s admitting all of this to me. Not to mention confirming some of the suspicions that he only kills people who deserve it. Several true crime enthusiasts believe he’s a Dexter kind of killer.
“Now that you know my name, what–pray tell–is yours?” The deep timbre of his voice sends little pulses down my spine.
It’s a little unfair that one of the most notorious serial killers is so hot.
It’s the Ted Bundy effect. He’s so attractive that no one would ever think he’s capable of such gruesome crimes.
He can just flash a smile and no one will associate him with a cold-blooded killer.
Though, in my opinion, Ted Bundy wasn’t that attractive.
I must be sleep deprived, it is midnight, afterall. I need to get my train of thought back on track.
“Techanically, I don’t know your name,” I answer with a hand on my hip. My older sister gene is coming out. “I know your serial killer name. I don’t think it says Serial Killer Santa on your birth certificate.”
“Wow, ballsy of you to talk to a serial killer that way.” He makes a good point. But the humor in his voice leads me to believe he’s impressed, not offended. Call it intuition or naivety, but I don’t think he’s going to hurt me. “My name’s Cole. Now you tell me yours, beautiful?”
Beautiful? Wait. Wrong thing to focus on.
Should I give him my real name? If he’s clever enough to evade the police for five years, he’s probably more than capable of confirming my real name. So I answer honestly, “Noelle.”
“Ha,” he laughs shortly. “How can someone named Noelle hate Christmas?”
“Plenty of reasons.”
“Name one.”
I tsk like the teacher I am, “Sorry, Cole, we just got on a first name basis. You haven’t earned my tragic back story yet.”
For a moment, his eyes soften on me. Then his face lights up with mischief. I’ve seen that kind of look on kids who are about to pull a prank on another student. But on Cole, a fully grown man with a stubbled beard I want to feel between my legs, it’s downright sexy.
“First name basis, huh? What do I have to do to earn the tragic back story, Noelle.” God, I like the way he says my name. I like the sound of his voice.
“Why don’t you start by telling me why you’re in my apartment.”
With a shrug of his shoulders Cole replies, “Seems reasonable.”
Before continuing, he walks over to my couch and takes a seat, spreading his knees wide and extending a long arm across the back of the cushions. Make yourself at home, I guess.
“Well, as you know, I killed Frank, and I cut out his heart. I had planned to take it with me and find somewhere out of sight to stay until morning since there’s too much snow to drive in.
But someone started trying to get into Frank’s apartment.
So I couldn’t stay there in case whoever it is has a key or calls the police.
I thought your apartment was vacant since the lights were off and you don’t even have a fucking christmas tree, but here we are. Clearly I was wrong.”
“Clearly.” I muse with narrowed eyes. How long is he going to complain about my lack of holiday decor? It’s already getting on my nerves.
“So, anyway, I need somewhere to crash until the snow plows clear the streets and I can go on my merry way.”
I shake my head as if that will jostle my thoughts into place. “So, you’re telling me all this because you want to spend the night on my couch until you can go home and repeat this all again next year?”
Nodding with a twinkle in his eye, Cole says, “Pretty much, yep.”
How am I supposed to answer that?
Sasha answers for me by prancing out of the little cubby in her cat tree and leaping into Cole’s lap.
Figures that bitch would take to a freaking serial killer.
It took her three weeks to come out from under the couch when I first got her.
And another month until she even laid next to me on the couch.
Now she’s acting like she’s the friendliest feline in the world.
Pointing a finger at the vixen, I say, “Sasha! Of course you’d take his side. Don’t forget who feeds you.”
The Serial Killer Santa nuzzles his face into Sasha’s fluffy white fur while scratching under her chin and the bitch purs, she fucking purrs. This grumpy girl never purrs. What is happening here? Did I fall through the rabbit hole or something?
“What a little angel,” Cole admires. He slips his gloves off his hands to scratch Sasha behind the ears and I see another hint of tattoos peeking out from beneath his long sleeves at his wrists.
“She’s a demon from hell,” I admonish. “She probably likes the taste of blood and you smell like a fresh kill.”
“She just has good taste.” Cole proceeds to make little kissing noises toward my cat while she melts into his touch.
Looking at those strong hands with defined tendons, I can’t blame her.
I think I’d melt into him too. Cole looks like the kind of muscular that’s also incredibly comfortable to snuggle with.
“Does Sasha’s approval mean I can stay?” This man just killed someone a couple hours ago, he’s dressed for stealth, he has at least a hundred pounds on me and stands a foot taller.
Yet he’s giving me puppy dog eyes over the top of my hypoallergenic cat in a silent plea to spend the night on my couch.
“Fine,” I give in with a weighted sigh. “You can stay. But at the first sound of a snow plow I want you gone.”
Cole raises both hands in the air as if I’m pointing a gun at him and not a finger. “Understood.”
Then he gently lifts Sasha from his lap, placing her on the top tier of the cat tree in the corner before walking toward the window.
“First things first,” he says as he switches the lock open and lifts the old window, “I need to get that heart.”