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“Who would come?” I ask dryly. Two days ago she gave me some water; now she drops random ice chips in my mouth when she feels like it, but the IV takes care of any dehydration concerns. I need real hydration, though, real water, not the scraps she keeps doling out.
At least she’s still interested in feeding me. It’s awkward as shit since she won’t give me back the use of my hands, but I eat what she gives me and try to not spit it back at her. I need to build up as much strength as I can so I can try to get free. If she happens to be around, I swear I’ll strangle her as a parting gift.
She waves a hand and continues skipping around the room, constantly running her hands across the clothing hanging around us. I wish the ceiling were shorter so she would bash her head as she moves. “You let me worry about the guest list, boy. We’re serial killers. Whodoesn’twant to party with us?”
That just makes me think about the letters I used to get in prison from psychotic fans. I received detailed love notes in the beginning from total strangers, idolizing the killings and techniques like I’d done something exceptional by torturing all those women. Men, women, the insanity had no bounds when it came to fanmail. Eventually I stopped opening the letters because reading the words brought me absolutely no joy. I’m a killer. People should be worried about getting close to me.
Porscha hums, hopping over to my side. I almost wish Fake Porscha would appear and keep me company. “Her name was Tanya. Tanya Gomez.”
I blink, lifting my head to stare at what she’s holding. “You took her wallet?”
“Living off grid is expensive boy,” she tells me, pulling back with a wink. “Took the cash, dumped the cards. It’s a nice wallet though, so I’m keeping it. I thought I’d keep the ID so the FBI has to work to find answers.”
As if they aren’t already?
Licking my lips, I decide to play along and keep her distracted. If we can keep the dosage down, she’ll lose her hold on me. Nevermind the cravings, that’s something I'll have to find a different way to deal with. “Did you do that for the last girl?”
Her eyes flash with excitement. “See, this is just like old times! Your soul is still fucked up, just like mine. I knew you’d want to hear all about it!”
The words make me wince, and suddenly, I’m thrown into a memory I’d prefer to forget.
The woman standing on the other side of the door has a youthful face smudged with paint. She immediately reminds me of one of my classmates, from her strawberry blonde hair to the way she raises an eyebrow as she looks at me. The eyes are different though. This woman’s are green, but the girl I'm thinking of has blue eyes. She’s tall, especially for a woman; she’s well over six feet, but doesn’t quite reach my six-foot-five frame. There’s a tool belt slung over her shoulder and a hardhat on her head.
She smiles at me, radiant white teeth sparkling in the sun. “Hi! I’m Porscha. I’m supposed to be here to repair and paint some cabinets?”
“Yeah, Rob said someone would be by. This way I guess.” I glare at her; she interrupted my work, and I don’t want to give her the time of day. But the sooner I show her to the shit my foster parents are having repaired, the sooner I can go upstairs and ignore her.
“Are you a friend of Rob’s son, uh… something with an E.”
“You really know Rob, don’t you, lady,” I say sarcastically, glancing over my shoulder. We head to the kitchen which is around the corner, and I gesture vaguely to the cabinets. “Emeric. The Franks' other foster kid. I’m the new one.”
She nods slowly, eyeing me up and down. Her gaze lingers a lot longer than I expect, giving me extra time to study her too.
Yeah, she looks like that girl that Emeric hangs out with. Joelle. But I’d say the younger version is prettier than the lady standing in front of me.
“Well it’s nice to meet you…”
Her voice trails, and I roll my eyes. “Alastair.”
“Pleasure,” she says, not at all put off by my attitude. I’m guessing she’s trying to be professional. She’s definitely not getting paid to deal with a moody teenager. She flashes me a grin and I see there’s a gap in her front teeth. It’s stirring up a memory. “So, when will Rob be back? I have some questions about what the Franks need done specifically. I can start sanding-”
“Rob and Jen will be back around six,” I tell her dismissively, moving back towards the living room.
Wait. The teeth. That chick acting all shady with the SUV the other day looks just like her, and I pivot back and do a double take. She’s staring at me with a calculating look, that friendliness from moments ago gone.
Does she recognize me too? I acknowledged that it was blood on the pavement when she drove off, and I glance at her bare arms. Doesn’t look like there’s a mark, but it was weeks ago. Maybe it wasn’t deep.
When our eyes meet again her lip twitches up into a smirk. “Is your brother home?”
That should put me on alert, but I’m curious where she’s going with this. “Not yet. Soon, though.”
She nods, then winks. “Next time you want to light one up, think about sharing. I like to blow off steam sometimes too, boy.”
I squirm. I’ve had enough run-ins with untrustworthy people since I got thrown into the foster system that I know a shady character when I see one. “Fuck you, lady.”
“Porscha,” she reminds me, a little laugh in her voice. “Fuck you, Porscha. But I’d be nicer to me if I was you. I knew Rob years ago. We go way back. It would suck for you if he decided to give you up suddenly because of something silly like smoking pot.”
She can’t be serious. I’ve seen manipulation before but this is so transparent. “Do you want something?”