Monster in His Eyes(62)

Don't look.

Don't think.

Don't breathe.

Don't.

I chant it in my head, tears streaking my cheeks as he leads me right  out the front door. His car is parked nearby. We don't pass another  living soul, and I'm grateful for it.

Something tells me a witness tonight won't live to see tomorrow.

I cry to myself the whole way to Brooklyn, my body shaking and teeth  chattering. I clench my jaw to keep from making any noise. Bile burns my  chest, my throat, scorching my insides, sending me up in flames. I  nearly lose it a few times in the car, and Naz says nothing, his gloved  hand reaching over and grasping the back of my neck. His touch is firm  as his fingers knead the muscles. It eases my headache and calms the  fire raging inside of me, but I only cry harder.

Why does his touch affect me this way?

Those vengeful hands killed a man tonight, they took the life of another, and yet they soothe me like nothing ever has before.

I hate myself for it.

When we get to the house, he presses a button on the visor, the garage  door opening. He pulls the car in before closing the door again, cutting  the engine. He sits there, staring straight out the windshield, his  voice detached. "I should kill you."

Despite my attempt to stay silent, I whimper at those words.

"I should wrap my hands around your neck and steal your last breath," he  says. "Bleed you dry, drain you of every last drop of that filthy Rita  blood. You drugged me …  betrayed me …  so you could run off, put yourself  at risk. You lied to me, when I've done nothing …  nothing …  to hurt you!"

His voice raises, anger seeping into the words.

"I should kill you," he says again, opening his door. "I fucking wish I had it in me to do it."

He steps out, slamming the car door behind him, and heads straight  inside without waiting for me. I break down as soon as he's gone,  sobbing loud and hard, gasping as I try to catch my breath. It rushes  out of me, purging like a flood, as the tears fall and my chest caves in  until there's nothing left inside of me.

Nothing at all.

I fold into myself, curling up on the seat, getting lost in the  darkness, in the silence, until my eyes dry on their own and my muscles  stop fighting the stiffness, succumbing to the anguish.

An hour passes.

Or two.

Maybe it's even three.

I feel like I've been beaten to a pulp, my bones brittle and on the verge of shattering when I finally step out of the car.

I go inside.

There are no lights on in the house, and I don't hear him, but I seem to  know instinctively he's in the den. He always is. I consider going  upstairs, going somewhere else, anywhere else, but I'm weak.

I'm weak, and I'm scared, but I'm not a coward. I may have Rita blood in  me, but that's not all I am. I'm that man's daughter, but I'm not him.  And maybe that makes me stronger than I think.

I stroll that way and peer in. I don't find him at his desk, as I  expect. He's sitting on the couch, his head down, cradled in his hands,  the gloves discarded on the cushion beside him, lying with a small black  gun. I've never seen it before, never even knew he owned a gun.  Exhausted, and terrified, I slink to the floor right there in the open  doorway, leaning back against the doorframe.                       
       
           



       

I'm at his mercy now.

"How did you know?" My voice is scratchy, but it surprisingly still works. "How did you find me?"

"Your phone."

I stare at him in the darkness. "My phone?"

"I tracked your phone. I knew it was only a matter of time before you led me right to them."

"You used me." I don't know why that stings so much, but it stirs up my  guilt, like it's my fault this all happened. "You used me to find them."

"I tried not to involve you," he says. "I did everything I could not to drag you into it."

"How can you say that?"

"Because it's true." The hard edge, the hint of anger, is back in his  voice, as he raises his head to look at me. "It would've been so simple  to force you to lead me to your mother, and it would've been easy to get  rid of both of you. I could've ended this in a day. But then I saw you,  I watched you, and I realized … "

"Realized what?"

"That you had no idea who you were," he says. "You had no idea where you  came from. And I shouldn't have cared …  it shouldn't have mattered …  but  you reminded me of someone else, someone who died because of who her  father was."

"That's why you couldn't kill me," I whisper, my voice shaking. "I remind you of her."

"No, I couldn't hurt you because you remind me of her," he says. "I  would've still killed you …  but you would've never seen it coming. You  wouldn't have suffered, not like she did. So I did everything I could  not to involve you, so you never would've known. I had Santino steal  your school files, I followed you, I searched addresses, but your mother  was smart. Had you not moved here, had you not walked into Santino's  classroom, looking exactly like a woman we all used to know, I probably  never would've even caught her trail."

The guilt from a moment ago amasses until it makes it hard to breathe. "Then why didn't you kill me?"

"You know why."

"Because you fell in love with me." My voice is so quiet I'm surprised he hears it. "You still got your revenge."

"No, I didn't. I punished him, instead."

"What's the difference?"

"Depends on who you ask."

"I'm asking you."

"He didn't suffer," Naz says. "Not as much as I did."

I want to tell him I don't think he would have suffered either way, but I  don't think it's worth the breath. Killing us wouldn't have affected  John as much as I think Naz believes. Not all men hold the ones they  love so closely. If my father could so easily walk away, could live his  life surrounded by white picket fences in suburbia, knowing his family  was struggling to live, removing the burden of us from his world  would've just been a blessing.

Naz knows that deep down inside. He's told me himself-only a coward  leaves his family. Nobody mattered more to John than himself.

Maybe that's what stopped Naz, the truth that my father didn't really  care about me. Maybe it wasn't love that saved me. Maybe it was the lack  of it.

I don't know.

"I hate you," I whisper. I feel it in my gut, and I can't deny it. I  can't ignore it. I'm so angry, so hurt, so consumed that the hate feels  like lava, settling in the pit of my stomach. My world was a sunny sky  before him, a pretty picture my mother drew for me, and he painted it  all black with the truth, splattering it with red from the bloodshed.

I hate it.

I hate him.

"I know," he says quietly. "You said you wouldn't …  you said you meant it …  but I know you do."

"But I love you, too …  I don't know how I still can. I hate you, but I  still love you somehow. It's just …  how can I feel both ways?"

"Easily," he says. "The opposite of love isn't hate, Karissa. It's  indifference. You're a passionate person, and love and hate …  it's not a  far stretch from one to the other. They both take passion, someone  getting under your skin and consuming you. And I ate you alive,  sweetheart. You never had a chance."

A chill flows down my spine as he stands up. I watch him warily when he  turns my way, seeing the darkness lurking in his eyes. "What am I  supposed to do now?"

He steps toward me, reaching into his pocket and pulling something out. I  watch incredulously as he drops it on my lap, stepping right over me  like it's nothing. I glance down, blinking with surprise when I see that  it's my engagement ring.

"You set a date for the wedding," he says. "That's what you do."





Vitale.

He traces the name again and again, the rough texture of his hands  skimming along my back. It's as if he's branding me with his touch,  claiming me as his with the signature of his fingertips, an ironclad  contract forged with blood, sweat, and tears.                       
       
           



       

My tears, usually.

It was almost my blood, too.

According to Greek Mythology, people were originally created with four  arms, four legs, and a head with two faces. Four hands to touch with.  Two mouths to speak. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two  separate beings, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their  other halves.

I learned that from Plato's Symposium during my time in Santino's class.

It's a beautiful concept: your soul mate, a part of you, existing in the  world inside of another body. People spend their entire lives searching  for the one, the one who can complete them, but I never had to look.  Mine started chasing me before I was even born.