Lost Boy
“I didn’t want you figuring things out too soon.”
This isn’t happening. Pain spreads out over my palm, my nails burrowing into the flesh. “What does that mean?” My head feels like it’s full of helium. I’m about to float away.
He takes another step toward me, so I pull the box out, holding it like a hostage victim.
He fixates on it, and tenses, his eyes glued to my hand. “Don’t make me take that from you,” he growls, and for the first time, I fear him. His jaw flexes, his mouth twisting into a sneer. “Lizzy…” My name is a warning, terrifyingly pungent on his tongue. Without thinking, I rip off the lid, my body flinching back when he roars, “Nooo!” His hands are outspread, eyes wide with horror.
I drop the box like it’s made of hot coal, each finger hitting the floor in slow motion.
Dink, dink, dink…
Vomit races up my throat, spilling from my mouth, splattering at my feet. “It’s you!” I cry out, retching. A calm appears to wash over him. He closes his eyes for a fleeting moment, then walks to where the horrors litter his bedroom floor. Kneeling down, he collects his trophies like it’s an overturned jewelry box, not human flesh.
“Why? Why!” I scream, my soul wanting to tear through my skin and flee the carcass holding me hostage.
“To draw out our father—at first.” He shrugs. Our father. “Then, I have to admit, I got a taste for the kill.” He stands, tucking the box back into the freezer. I eyeball the door behind him, weighing my options. As much as I want to escape him, I want answers just as bad.
“Do you know what it’s like growing up being hated by your own mother?” he asks, looking over at me. Rolling his shoulders, his size appears to expand under the moonlight, the monster coming alive, taking the reins. My heart splinters, the shards cutting through bone, skin, deserting me.
“I didn’t have a mother. Willis killed her,” I spit out, hatred overwhelming my sense of fear.
“Well, he failed to kill mine.” His brow quirks. “He tried. If they hadn’t caught him right at that moment, she would have bled out and died, and little me already taking root would have died right along with her. Does that terrify you or make you feel alive?” He turns to me, a callous smile transforming his pretty face.
“Impregnating her without knowing?” I breathe.
“She was sixteen when she had me. The wounds barely healed, and the scars never would. They called me a miracle child. So much trauma, yet I stuck.”
“I’m sorry.” And I mean it. What a twisted way to enter this world.
“I believe you.” He smiles, pacing the floor between us before stopping in front of me. Taking a strand of my hair, he curls it around his fingers. “You were nothing like I expected, Liz. Damn, I thought after everything you’d witnessed, you’d be just as fucked up as me. Willis’s blood in your veins on top of the ordeal…”
“I’m nothing like him,” I grit out.
“Oh, I know. But you’re not exactly normal either, are you?”
“Is that what you are—normal?” I mock.
“Fuck no. What a boring waste of life that would be. The Abigail’s of the world disgust me.”
Abigail. Sorrow and shame marinate inside me. “Is that why you killed her?”
Moving away from me, an expression of satisfaction shining in his eyes, he says, “That and to see your reaction. Someone you knew but weren’t particularly friends with. Close enough to get a reaction, not close enough to cause you pain.”
Is that what he believes? That her dying because of me wouldn’t cause me pain? Seeing people lose their lives in gruesome ways, dredging up my mother’s murder, wouldn’t have a profound effect on me? “I’ve been in pain. It fucking destroyed me thinking that bastard came back and was killing people to torment me. Why the rose? How did you know about Marco Polo?”
Scoffing, he scrunches his nose like I insulted him. “You’re always scribbling Marco on any piece of paper in your vicinity. I knew it must be for a reason.” Tilting his head, he adds, “The rose—a prop to get under your skin.”
“Why now?”
Leaning against the dresser, ankles crossed like he doesn’t have a care in the world, his shoulder jerks up. “I’d been watching from afar for so long, it became a game for me, testing my restraint, an edge game that kept my adrenaline pumping and my fire burning like a fine wine I’d been saving for the right moment. I spent weeks watching, learning your routines, the people in your life.”
Glancing over at me, his lashes flutter. “You are so fragile, numb, lonely, like me, drifting through life almost asleep.”
Lies. I’m nothing like him. I will never be anything like him.
“There’s something missing inside you.” He moves toward me again, coming too close and tilting my chin with his fingers. I try to tug free, but be pinches the skin, making me wince. “It shows in your soft, muted, dark eyes. They have a smoky flare waiting to be ignited in a fiery passion. I can be the spark you’ve been missing all this time,” he breathes, his gaze dropping to my lips.