The Bad Guy

She tilted her head back, her delicate neck calling to the primal part of me that wanted to mark her as mine. “Did having all this money make you this way?” She brought her gaze down to mine. “Is that it?”

“Nothing made me this way.” I’d spent countless hours in therapy sessions, thanks to my dad, and each doctor and psychologist had come to the same conclusion. On the spectrum of personality disorders, I was the most psychopathic person they’d ever counseled. It was hard wired into me. Nature, not nurture, had created my monster. “What did you say earlier? ‘It is what it is’? This is who I am, who I’ve always been. It can’t be fixed.”

Her eyes softened for a moment, and she seemed to be on the verge of saying something. Then she appeared to think better of it and abruptly descended the stairs.

What I wouldn’t have given to know what she was thinking at that moment.

Her golden hair shined like a halo as she entered the foyer, and just having her with me eased the ache between my ribs. This was right. It had to be.

Once we hit the landing, the marble floor felt cool beneath our feet, I led her around the flared staircase toward the back of the house.

“Sitting room, dining room, and an office.” I pointed to each doorway we passed.

She followed, only pausing for a moment to peer into the office.

I turned into the last door on the right. “The kitchen. It’s always fully stocked, and if there’s anything in particular you want, I’ll be happy to get it for you.”

Rita bustled out of the pantry, her dark hair in a neat bun and her nurse shoes squicking along the tile floor. “Mr. Lindstrom.” She looked up and stopped. “Good morning. Was there a problem with breakfast?”

“It was fine. I wanted you to meet Camille. She’s the one you discussed with Timothy.”

Camille stared around at the large kitchen, double ovens and stoves, granite counters, and the built-in fridge and freezer.

“Pleasure to meet you.” Rita’s voice was welcoming, but her smile faltered somewhat.

“I suppose you won’t help me either?” Camille’s cutting tone had Rita looking at me, then back to Camille.

“She won’t.”

“Fine.” Camille ran a hand through her newly blonde locks. “Rita, be a dear and show me where the knives are.”

“She’s already locked them away in a safe in the pantry.”

“Yes sir, just as Timothy instructed.” She leaned on the sink, her age showing in the hunch of her back. “Sir?”

“Yes.” This was likely the most we’d ever interacted in the dozen years she’d worked for me.

“You won’t hurt her, will you?” Rita dropped her gaze to the floor and clasped her leathery hands together.

“Never.”

“Good.” She nodded, but still didn’t look up. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Camille.”

“Just Camille.”

“I hope breakfast was all right? I can make whatever you prefer from now on.”

“Breakfast was delicious, thank you.” Despite her attempts at being rude, Camille always reverted back to the real her, the one with warmth and life in every word and movement.

Rita offered a smile before grabbing a scrub sponge and wiping down the already-clean counters.

I motioned back toward the door on the hall. Camille scowled as she walked past.

“This way.” I continued along the back of the house.

The wall gave way to wide windows looking out onto the pool. “It’s heated and covered during the winter, so you can swim anytime you like.” The light blue water rippled, and the waterfall splashed quietly at the far end.

I caught her reflection in the glass. She was taking it all in, but didn’t say a word.

Instead of leading her through the music room, I turned and showed her toward the other wing of the house.

“This place is even bigger than I thought.” She trailed her fingers along the wainscoting. Her voice descended into bitterness. “But I suppose the size of the prison doesn’t matter. Just the bars.”

“I’m glad we’re on the same page.” I don’t know why I enjoyed goading her, but then again, any emotion I felt remained a mystery—one that only she could solve. “This is the last room you’ll see on the tour today.” I pushed through a heavy black door and flipped the switch. Lights began to glow far overhead, and an iron chandelier flickered to life in the center of the room.

She followed and stopped. I turned and backed up a step so she could get the full view. Two tiers of books, bright windows, comfortable chairs, and a warm fire—the house’s library was one of the first rooms constructed over a hundred years prior.

I gestured to a brand new bookcase I had installed in the center of the room. “This is for you.”

Her wide eyes tried to take in the entire space as she walked deeper into the room. She trained her gaze on the bookshelf in the center. “These are mine.”