Monster in His Eyes(29)

MURDER.

There's a flow of murmurs through the classroom that he silences when he  picks up that godforsaken stick and whacks it against his desk so hard  I'm surprised it doesn't break.

"Show of hands," he says. "Who thinks murder is wrong?"

All at once, every hand in the classroom goes up.

His eyes scan us. "Why?"

Just as fast, nearly every hand drops back down. Santino scans who's left, pointing at a boy in the front row.

"Because it's illegal."

Santino stares at him like he's an idiot before moving on, pointing at a girl along the side.

"It's immoral," she says. "It's wrong to take someone's life."

He moves right along, calling on others, who give much the same answers.  After everyone who volunteered has spoken, he scans our faces again and  shakes his head. "Why is it you all know murder is wrong but you can't  say why it's wrong, except that it just is? It's wrong because it's  illegal; it's illegal because it's wrong; it's wrong because it's  immoral; it's immoral because it's wrong. But why?"                       
       
           



       

The silence is deafening.

"Show of hands," he says again. "Who believes in the death penalty?"

The majority of the class raises their hands, Melody included. I waver  but eventually put mine up, not so much a cynic as not wanting him to  call on me for this conversation. He smirks, all crazy-eyed, as he  surveys our hands. "Ah, so you guys don't think murder is wrong?"

Hands slowly drop down.

"If we define murder as the premeditated killing of another human being,  is putting someone to death not murder? What makes one situation right  and the other so wrong?"

"Because people on death row are murderers," the same guy from earlier says, not bothering to raise his hand this time.

"So it's okay to murder somebody if they've also murdered?" Santino asks. "Equal justice? An eye for an eye?"

"Yes," the boy says. "But that's not murder. Murder is killing someone innocent."

"Did you know," Santino says, tapping his stick against the floor, "that  since the death penalty was reinstated, 139 people slated for death  have been exonerated and set free? In that same time, we've executed  over twelve hundred. How many of them do you think were innocent? Maybe  none, but if it's even one, doesn't that make it murder? After all,  you've killed an innocent man."

Nobody knows what to say …  except for the same damn boy. "It's unfortunate that they had to die, but it's for the greater good."

"And that's precisely what a lot of murderers would say about their  victims," Santino says. "So again, show of hands. Who believes in the  death penalty?"

Only a few brave souls raise their hand this time.

"Two page paper on the topic of murder," he says, turning away from us with a wave of the hand, dismissing class. "Due Tuesday."

A collective groan echoes through the room. It's a holiday  weekend-Easter. I get up and grab my bag, heading for the door with  Melody beside me. We stroll through the building and I glance up just as  we step outside, my footsteps stalling when I come face to face with  Naz. He's parked out front, leaning against the side of his Mercedes,  his eyes zeroing in on me.

"Uh, hey," I say when he steps toward me, suddenly wishing I had done a little more to get ready, after all.

"Hey." He kisses the corner of my mouth before turning to Melody. "Hello again."

"Hey there," she says, smiling warmly at him, before her eyes turn to me. "I'll meet you back at the room, Kissimmee."

Naz's brow furrows as Melody walks away. "Kissimmee?"

"It's what my mother calls me," I say, shrugging. "Play on my name or something, I guess."

"Kissimmee," he says again. "Like the city in Florida?"

"Yep," I say. "So what are you doing here? I thought we were meeting up later?"

"We are," he says. "I'm actually here on business."

"Ah." I eye him peculiarly. "I guess I'll let you get to that, then. See you later?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

He kisses me again before strolling away, heading inside now that almost  everyone has cleared from the building. I stare at the door for a  moment, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted to follow him  inside, to watch him, to see what he's doing, but I don't. He's caught  me every other time, and I know if I follow, he'll catch me again.

Sighing, I turn away and make the walk back to the dorm.

When I see Naz again, hours later, he seems to be in a peculiar mood. He  doesn't even look at me when I slip into the passenger seat of the  Mercedes, doesn't even attempt to get out to open my door. I don't  expect it, or need it, but when he's usually chivalrous, it stands out  to me.

As soon as I snap my seatbelt into place, he swings the car around and  merges into traffic, not saying a word. His eyes are focused on the  road, darting between the windshield and the rearview mirror, never once  turning my way. I settle into the seat, leaving him to his silence as  we drive through Manhattan toward the bridge.

We were supposed to go to dinner. I'm not sure where, but I dressed up  for it, even putting on a pair of the new heels he bought me. But it  becomes clear when he heads toward his neighborhood that we're going  straight to his house instead.

I turn to him, confused, and start to speak, when his eyes meet mine  finally. The look he gives me makes me swallow back my question, the  darkness telling me that his bad mood is deeper than just on the  surface.

I think I prefer the silence to what might come from his lips.

Instead, I turn back away, staring out the side window as the houses  rush past, familiar now from coming here so often. He still doesn't  speak when we arrive, getting out and standing beside the car, waiting  for me to walk ahead of him.                       
       
           



       

He unlocks the door, ushering me inside. The click of the deadbolt  behind me is magnified in the icy silence as he relocks the door right  away. I flinch involuntarily at the sound, watching him.

"Is everything okay?" I ask, unable to contain the question any longer.  It's been a while since I've felt this nervous around him. I've grown  used to him, but it feels different now. He feels different. I'm used to  my relaxed, smug playboy, charming and intense, and not this wound  tight, unnerving man in front of me.

He nods, pulling off his jacket before turning to me. "Why?"

"You just seem …  edgy."

"It's been a long day," he says. "You okay with ordering in for dinner?"

"Sure."

He strolls to the kitchen, flicking on the light as he goes. I follow  behind, stalling in the doorway to glance around. I haven't spent any  time in here, and he doesn't seem to, either, although it's immaculate,  everything polished and shiny and appearing still brand-new.

Naz grabs a takeout menu from a drawer beside the refrigerator and pulls  out his phone, dialing the number on it. An Italian place, it turns  out. He orders a large pepperoni pizza and hesitates, turning to me  while he's still on the phone. "Do you have anything chocolate? Yeah,  chocolate, some kind of dessert." He's quiet for a second before he cuts  in, raising his voice. "I said chocolate. I don't know what universe  you live in, but panna cotti with berries isn't chocolate. You want to  treat me like a jamook, like I don't know what fucking panna cotti is,  and I'll show you a jamook."

I tense, staring at him with shock as his anger surfaces. He tosses the  menu back in the drawer and shuts it before interjecting again. "Give me  both of those. Yeah. And hurry it up."

He hangs up, tossing his phone down on the counter with no regard, and  brushes right by me without speaking. I stare at his discarded phone, my  stomach clenching, as he heads upstairs.

I don't follow.

Instead, I make my way to the den, not turning on the light or touching  anything. I sit down on the couch and pull out my own phone, tinkering  around with it to distract myself. I'd text Melody but she's on her way  to meet Paul's parents to spend Easter with them, and I don't want to  burden her.

It takes Naz a while to return. I don't hear him, never do, but he pops  up in the den, switching on the light when he walks in. My eyes remain  glued to my phone as I flick little colorful birdies across the screen,  but I can feel his eyes.

Now he's looking at me.

His voice is quiet, calmer, when he asks, "What are you doing?"

"Killing pigs."

He lets out dry laugh. "My favorite pastime."

I cut my eyes at him. "You play Angry Birds?"

I can't imagine him playing games like this.