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Twenty-Nine
HER
Every 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.”
