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My eyes go to the fireplace-the fireplace where we…there’s a sharp tug on my heart and then I see it on the mantel. —The book Asher showed me on the plane, the one about serial killers. My breath catches in my throat as I pick it up, flipping through its pages with trembling hands.
The words blur together, but the descriptions leap out at me with chilling clarity. No, no, no….My gut twists with a sickening realization—the atrocities described in this book, the gruesome details of the killings, they mirror what was done to those men in the shed. And the book is written with a chilling detachment, as if the author is talking about the weather.
I stagger back, dropping the book as if it burns my fingers. Panic surges through me, threatening to choke me. Asher hasn’t noticed. He’s still by the stove, oblivious to the storm raging inside me. My breaths turns painful and I clasp my throat.
I have to get out of here. I have to escape before it’s too late.
Silently, I make my way across the creaking floorboards towards the door. Every step feels like an eternity, each heartbeat a thunderous drum in my ears. My hand trembles as I reach for the doorknob, wincing at the faint click it makes as I turn it.
But before I can push the door open and flee, it slams shut with a force that makes me gasp. Asher presses up behind me, his breath warm against my ear, his body heat nauseatingly hot.
“Don’t,” he whispers.
I freeze, my heart hammering in my chest. Tears blur my vision as I turn to face him, his features cast in shadows. Fear flares in me as I search his eyes for any hint of remorse or deception.
But what I see is a cold determination, a darkness that sends me spiralling. The truth stares me in the face now, undeniable and terrifying. My mind races with disbelief, but the evidence is there. He’s not who I thought he was.
9.
Asher
I feel her tense beneath my touch, my voice a soft plea amidst the chaos she has brought upon us. "Don't break my heart," I murmur, my breath mingling with the scent of her hair. ”Not when you managed to patch it up.”
For a moment, she hesitates, her body stiff with fear and suspicion. But when she tries to slip away, to escape the truth that looms between us, I can’t let her go. I pull her back from the door, my grip firm yet as I guide her away from this freedom she’s clinging to instead of me.
Solange fights my decision, but her struggles are futile against my strength. I lead her to the bed, making her sit down as I stroke her hair, my touch tender yet tinged with urgency. I kiss her forehead, holding her close as if to shield her from the wrong and bad emotions inside of her.
"You don't need to be afraid," I whisper, my voice steady despite the turmoil in my chest. But she shakes beneath my touch, her eyes searching mine for answers.
"Are you… are you…?” Her voice quivers with the weight of the question, the accusation hanging heavy in the air between us.
”Am I what?” I rasp, stroking my knuckles down the side of her throat. ”In love with you? Yeah, very much so.”
”Have you killed people?” she asks, her voice shrill and she clutches the edge of the bed, her body squirming. ”Did you kill those men in the shed?”
”They were going to hurt you.”
Her eyes flare, filling with disbelief and flare. ”And what about other people?” she asks but I don’t reply and she screams in panic, ”How many have you killed!”
”There’s no need to raise your voice.”
”How many?” she croaks, letting out a sob.
I drag a hand down my face. ”After a while the numbers blur…”
Solange recoils, a strangled gasp escaping her lips. The truth shatters the fragile look in her eyes and I feel as if I’ve just exposed her to a stark reality I never wanted her to see. I want things to go back to the way they were between us.
I reach out for her, but she jerks back.
”Don’t touch me,” she pants, squirming away from me. She brushes a tear off her face. ”It’s fucked up what you do,” she whispers. ”It’s fucked up to murder people then write books about it!”
She stares at me, disbelief and horror warring on her features, and I know things will never go back to the way they were. Not unless I get her to reason, to understand that what I do isn’t bad. That my actions are necessary for the thriving of others. For the thriving of people like Solange. I’m steadfast in my convictions. I just need her to be the same.
"It's not fucked up, my angel of sunshine," I say softly. "It's charity. I'm doing the world a service.”
I reach for the book, picking it up and flipping to a page. The words stare back at me, stark and unapologetic, a justification for everything that I do and I agree with every single word.
I read aloud, my voice steady despite the weight of the words. "Many of the victims were murderers themselves, criminals who posed a danger to society…”
