Page 2 of Bound to a Killer

Fear has swallowed her whole, pulling her somewhere far away, as if she’s no longer in the room.

I finally close the small gap between us, the faint scent of her shampoo hanging in the air, drawing me into something crisp and floral. Bergamot and peonies.

Her hair is close enough to touch. I’m half-tempted to take a strand, wrap it around my finger, draw it close, and lose myself in its intoxicating haze. It’s been so long since I’ve given in tothat kind of temptation, my brain almost doesn’t know how to react.

Her shoulders hitch, the rest of her body going taut with an instinctive dread that tells me she knows something’s behind her now.

Before she can react, I slide the kitchen knife across her throat, forcing a broken cry past her lips. It dies in her throat when I press the jagged edge harder against her skin, careful not to draw blood, only to silence her.

She jerks in my hold and claws at my hands, trying to twist free from the blade pinning her in place. Her nails dig into my skin, sharp enough to sting, but not enough to make me budge. All it does is push her body tighter against mine.

Most people would’ve started pleading by now, thrashing and sobbing. But she just grips my arm like a silent prayer.

A prayer for what, I'm not sure. But one thing’s certain—she’s not trying to save herself.

She’s already given up.

Her head tilts back toward the ceiling, surrendering with a shallow, trembling sob. Then it dawns on me. She’s trying to distract me from whoever else is still up there.

A bitter film coats the back of my tongue as I weigh my next move. I don’t know who else might be awake or how soon they’ll come looking for her.

I need to move. Now.

“Follow me,” I say, low and quiet. “Make a sound, and I swear you’ll regret it.”

PART ONE

“The darkness sat next to me and I fell in love with its shade of black.”

— JM Wonderland

1

ARIA

NINETEEN HOURS EARLIER

I’ve often wondered how many times a person has to get burned before they finally learn to stop reaching for the flame.

Once? Twice? Three times?

Whatever part of the brain is supposed to control impulse and self-preservation must be missing in me. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been scorched by that same flame.

Hope does that to you—especially when the person you’re hoping for is your mother. It makes you ignore the pain, forget the damage, convince yourself that maybe this time will be different. That they’llreallychange.

Even when her mood shifts without warning, when her presence is sporadic and her involvement unreliable, she still finds a way to burn through every part of my life without fail. And no matter how many times I’m left to pick through the wreckage, I still hold onto hope that she’ll change. That life might go back to how things were between us.

But this morning, that fragile bridge of hope doesn’t just burn.

It disintegrates.

I drop to my knees and yank open the last drawer in my dresser. Empty. Just like the others. My stomach twists with the sick realization that it’s happening again. That my mom chose today, of all days, to strike with her usual self-serving cruelty.

She’s left me with no clothes. Nothing but a handful of mismatched socks and a few plain panties shoved in the bottom of the drawer.

Something serrated and bitter coils beneath my ribs, crawling up my throat and stinging the back of my eyes.

I don’t get it. Why take my clothes? Whatever happened to her own?