Page 64 of Captive

With a shake of my head, I whisper, “It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing he could say that would make it better.”

And it’s true. He’d never apologize, never admit it. If, by some weird miracle he did, it wouldn’t undo all of the pain he’s caused.

Besides, rich assholes like him never apologize for anything. As far as he’s concerned, my sister’s suicide had nothing to do with him.

Even if we did have time, would I want to hear whatever he’d say? Would I want to listen to his excuses, to hear him plead for his life? No. I don’t get off on the power imbalance. Here, tonight, we are simply going to give him what he deserves, and nothing he could say would change that.

Connor Connair will die tonight. He’ll die, my sister’s memory will be officially avenged, and I’ll lay the past to rest.

It’s been a long time coming.

With Connor tied up, Ezra pulls out our handsaws. I get one of my own this time, and as I stare down at the shiny new metal, he and Royal share a long look. A few seconds later, he says, “We thought… well, we thought we’d let you have the first pick.”

Nodding once, Royal says, “Let you have the first cut. Make it a good one, Killer.”

My heart skips a beat when he calls me that. He’s never called me anything but my name before. It’s kind of sweet, in a twisted, blood-soaked way.

I move closer to the bed, studying how Connor’s body is an X, his limbs pulled taut. I know where D.D.K.’s victims are cut, and if I’m going to have the pick of the litter so to speak, I’m going for the Mack daddy of them all.

The head.

I get on the bed, crawling until I straddle Connor’s chest, careful with the saw in my hand. Staring down at the man, I think of all of the sleepless nights, the nightmares; everything in my life has led to this, and I’m not going to look away. I won’t flinch, no matter how bloody or gruesome it is. I’m way past that.

The breath I let out right then is slow, steady, as methodical as the cut I’m about to make will be. I’m not afraid. I stopped being afraid a long time ago. I know who I am, who I’m supposed to be. I’ll gladly be the criminal if it means I’ll save some girls out there, stop them from experiencing my sister’s fate.

I lay the sharp edge of the saw against Connor’s throat. The serrated edge pierces the skin just enough to draw a drip of blood. That drip travels downward and falls onto the sheet below, an omen of what’s to come, of how messy this bed is about to be. Wearing my mask, I don’t smile.

Who am I? In a way, it doesn’t really matter. I’m darkness. I’m anger, rage, and pure vengeance. I’m feminine fury brought to life, ready to kill at a moment’s notice because sometimes that’s what it takes when society proves it doesn’t give a shit about us.

My name is Abby LaRoe, and from here on out, I’m a serial killer… and because I am who I am, I do the only thing I can do.

I cut off that motherfucker’s head.

Chapter Twenty-Six – Hawthorne

How I wish I could’ve gone with them. While they’re gone, we don’t have any contact, so I spend the time pacing about the house. I do some cleaning, some laundry, and I douse my internal organs with as much coffee as I can swallow.

All in all, it’s a shitty time.

I don’t sleep much, and so as the hours wear on and the day turns into the next, my nerves become a jumble. Trust me, I would have loved to see it for myself, to witness Abby taking her revenge on the asshole who hurt her sister. I would have loved to stand there at her side as she metamorphized into a new being.

It is beautifully, wickedly sweet when you finally can breathe that breath of relief, when the person who changed your life and helped take away the person you held dearest is gone for good.

D.D.K. will have another victim, and his name is Connor Connair. I don’t know how long it will take for the authorities to find Connor’s body, but from a deep-dive into him, he sounded like someone who constantly goes on and off social media. Sometimes he posts multiple times a day, other times there are weeks in between. His last message to his parents was weeks ago, and that appears pretty normal. Again, when someone finally realizes something is wrong, it’ll be far too late.

When it’s time for them to return, I pace the living room and keep glancing out of the window. Provided they stopped for meals, and adding in any stops for gas, I can pinpoint the hour they come home.

I’m good at some things. I might not go out in the field like they do, but that’s okay. I don’t mind being the man behind the team, the one who does the math and gathers everything they’d need to get the job done. Like a father figure, in a way—only decidedly not.

A father figure definitely would not be imagining sweeping Abby into his arms upon her return and kissing her so hard he steals the breath right out of her lungs, for example.

Well, maybe there are father figures out there like that. Father figures like that are probably the kinds of people that would end up on the sharp edge of the saws Royal, Ezra, and Abby use.

I’m in the process of making a full loop in the living room when I see headlights turning into the driveway, and I immediately stop pacing and make a beeline through the house.

Trying to act all cool, calm, and collected? Like I wasn’t just pacing the house? Not going to happen, so I’m not going to try.

The door swings open, and the moment it does, I say, “I missed you so much, I—” And then I see who it is, and I stop before I say anything else.