His(46)

“Goodbye,” I said, and stood up before I could get any angrier.

The shadow was already creeping up around, clawing its way back in.



Kat

Hours passed. I struggled to untie the knots at my wrists, but I only drew the rope tighter. Hunger made my stomach growl. I wished I’d eaten more for breakfast.

What if he was serious? What if he left to try to kill himself? What if I was stuck here by myself?

Fear ran through me, and I had no way to tamp it down. Normally I would pop a pill when I got too anxious, but there were no pill here. I couldn’t reach anything. The ropes tightened around my wrists and I began to breathe hard.

Calm down, Kat. Calm down. Don’t freak out. If you freak out—

The door downstairs opened, and I heard his footsteps coming up the stairs. He was whistling. Strangely enough, I was relieved. He opened the bedroom door and walked in, a bounce in his step.

“I come bearing good news,” he said, hopping to my side and leaning over the bed. He was—oh God, he was untying me. First my feet, then my wrists. I rolled my wrist, getting the circulation back. He whistled as he undid the last knot. I’d never seen him so… upbeat. I wondered what the news was.

“Put on a dress for me, will you, kitten? Do this one thing for me today.” He went to the closet and threw down the remaining dresses that he’d brought for me. “Whichever you want.”

I picked up the first dress I saw and a set of lingerie and stood up.

“No! Not in the bathroom. Here. Dress in front of me. You know I can’t trust to you do anything without me, kitten.”

He watched me carefully as I dressed, his eyes touching me everywhere. I still felt dizzy from the wave of anxiety, but as I dressed I felt better. The one I chose was the red sheath, a shorter dress that hit me just above the knee. He looked me up and down appreciatively and then came over to where I stood.

“Gavriel?”

He kissed me briefly, like he was kissing his wife hello. I didn’t know if he was pretending to be happy, or if he actually was happy.

“You look beautiful, dear,” he said. “Sit down. Let me brush your hair.”

I sat down on the corner of the bed, dazed by his good mood. He retrieved a hairbrush from the bedside drawer and sat behind me. His hands moved through my hair, the brush caressing my scalp gently. There were a lot of knots, but he worked patiently, never yanking the brush. His fingers were long, careful. He would have been a good surgeon, I thought stupidly.

“There,” he said. “Now let’s go downstairs.”

He led me down, his hand guiding me on the small of my back. We passed the statue of horses on the stairs; their eyes seemed to watch me as I went down. When I realized we were heading to the kitchen, I started back in panic.

“It’s alright, kitten,” he said, catching me against his chest. “You’re going to make me something to eat, that’s all. That’s all.”

I trembled and continued. What else could I do?

He sat at the kitchen table, where days earlier I had watched him kill and dismember the professor. He gestured toward the fridge.

“Make us something to eat,” he said.

I opened the fridge and looked inside. It felt so weird to look at what a serial killer ate. Everything was so… normal. Milk, eggs, orange juice, shredded cheese.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Are you good at cooking? No, I don’t care. Make us an omelet. You know how to make an omelet, right?”

“Sure.”

“There’s ham in the bottom shelf.”

I took out all of the ingredients and began to do what I had done a million times. Sometimes when I was cooking in someone else’s kitchen, I didn’t know where anything was, but everything in his place was exactly where I would have put it. Bowls in the side cabinet. A pan underneath the counter next to the stove. I greased the pan with butter and turned the stove to hot. He sat there quietly, watching me as I beat the eggs in a large bowl. Then I took out a knife to cut the ham into pieces. As I finished cutting, I looked up at him. He was watching me intently.

“Did you not want me to use a knife?” I asked.

He raised his eyebrows in a question.

“I—it’s a weapon,” I said. “I tried to kill you before.” As I held the knife in my hand, my palm grew sweaty. I thought about the razor and blinked the thought away.

“Are you going to try to kill me now?” he asked, smiling.

I shook my head. No, I wasn’t. I was—I didn’t know what I was doing. I put the knife down and sprinkled ham over the cooking eggs in the pan. Added cheese. Flipped the omelet in half, flipped it over to finish cooking.