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I nod, my gaze dropping to our joined hands. “I keep thinking about those men. How can I move forward with my life, knowing they’re doing the same to another woman?”
Silence lingers, broken by the crackle of the fire. I glance up to see his jaw tighten, his eyes glinting with dangerous resolve.
“What is it?” I ask.
“We captured everyone we found in the asylum. Tell me which ones hurt you, and they’ll die screaming.”
The menace in his words makes me shiver. It’s both comforting and threatening that he would do anything to keep me safe. But it’s not enough. I need to be the one who draws blood.
“I want to end them myself,” I say, my voice wavering. “But I’m not sure if I can.”
His eyes meet mine with an unwavering confidence I’m not sure I deserve. “You’re stronger than you think, and I believe in you.”
My breath hitches. I want to say something to acknowledge that statement, but my mind goes blank. Xero takes my hand and leads me back into the kitchen, where he pulls up a laptop open at a webpage for arancini. After minimizing the browser, he fires up a program containing several screens, each showing photos of different men.
“These are the ones we captured,” he snarls. “Which of them hurt you?”
I glance at the faces on the screen, my throat closing around a bellyful of bitter bile. They all look like regular men with families, girlfriends, and jobs. No one would ever conceive the monsters hiding behind the masks of normality.
Xero stays patient and silent, even though his chest heaves with restrained fury. It’s comforting to know that I can point the finger and he’ll exact vengeance, but I need to slay my own monsters.
“Take your time,” he says.
Only one of the faces is familiar, a man about my age with a wispy mustache and a scar on his left eyebrow. My mind pulls up a flashback of him jerking off into my mouth, forcing up a wave of nausea. I yank my head to the side, my stomach heaving.
“That one,” I whisper, pointing to the man with the scar. “He was one of the crew.”
Xero double-clicks on the mousepad.
“Clyde Proctor. Graduated with a degree in film studies at New Alderney State University. Currently interning at the CNA Network.”
I shudder. “How the hell does someone go from studying film to making snuff?”
“Let’s ask him,” he snarls. “But first, you’re getting changed.”
Xero takes me upstairs to a bedroom with charcoal walls and an ebony four-poster shrouded in a black silk canopy, along with matching furniture made of the same dark wood.
The setting sun streams in through the sheer black curtains, casting long shadows across the dresser.
He crosses the room, opening a closet filled with an array of black clothing.
“Pick something,” he says before heading to the door. “I’ll leave you to get dressed in peace.”
I walk to the closet, taking in items I don’t recognize. All the clothing I valued was packed in boxes in the crawl space I set on fire. Everything else I left upstairs would have been taken by Mom’s removal people.
It’s too late to cry about missing garments when I’ve already lost so much. After browsing through the clothes, I pick out a simple black turtleneck and jeans and pair it with some boots.
After I change and step out into the hallway, he hands me a waterproof coat. I already know it’s because we’re about to spill blood.
We walk in silence down the stairs, through the kitchen, and into a pantry that opens into another stairwell. He leans into me and says, “Don’t push yourself. If at any time it’s too much for you, say the word, and we leave.”
As we descend, his gaze burns the side of my face. If I show any weakness, he’ll take me back upstairs and put me to bed. I can’t let that happen, so I square my shoulders, even though my heart pounds so hard against my ribcage that the sound drowns out the echoes of our footsteps.
We continue down a dimly lit hallway that feels like it stretches the length of the house and garden.
“I have a question,” he says. “Why didn’t you recognize any of the others?”
“Xero told me—” I shake my head. “Not you, but the hallucination.”
