Page 48 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth

“I don’t need career counseling from you. The university has a whole department for that. But that’s not why you’re here.” I smiled tightly. “What do you really want? Money?”

His face darkened, and his hands fisted at his sides. “No, I don’t want money.” He took a deep breath as if he was controlling himself through extreme effort. “I’m here to renew my invitation.”

“Your invitation?”

He stared at me, and I stared at him.

Finally, I remembered the birthday card and his offer to initiate me into whatever sick version of manhood he had in mind.

“No, thanks.”

He shook his head, irritated by my flippant tone. “You’re taking all these classes in the psychology of criminals. Meanwhile you have the opportunity to do some firsthand research.”

“So you admit you’re a criminal?”

He clenched his jaw but didn’t answer.

I scoffed. “It doesn’t matter. I already have my thesis project, thanks. Just like we have career counseling, we have academic advisors here.”

I reached for the door, and he grabbed my sleeve. My eyes followed the motion.

“Don’t touch me,” I spat through clenched teeth. He pulled his hand back like my arm was on fire.

“Take it easy. I’m not here to hurt you.”

I locked eyes with him. “Newsflash: you can’t hurt me.”

He laughed bitterly. “Oh, believe me, you spoiled little mama’s boy, I absolutely can hurt you.”

“Try it.”

He ignored the challenge and went on in an unnatural, stilted tone like he was narrating a documentary. “Experts aren’t sure how many killers work with a partner. The most famous team, of course, was Leopold and Loeb.”

“The Harpe brothers are more notorious within the field of criminology,” I told him in a flat voice.

He gave me a scornful look. “The Harpes were butchers. Leopold and Loeb were artists. They took the time to plan the perfect crime.”

The admiration in his tone made my pulse thrum. Could I get him to confess to what he’d done? Aside from bringing closure to Dana Rowland’s family, maybe I could actually find out what happened that night in Windy Rock.

“Did you really track me down to talk about what happened in Maine?”

“No. I told you. I’m here with an invitation.”

“Right, the same invitation Dad gave you.”

His face twisted into an angry sneer. “Dad didn’t invite me to do anything. In my case, it was a demand.”

“Tate, what happened?” I asked, my voice low.

“Dad had appetites, and he wanted to share them with me.”

I asked the question that, as far as I knew, no one in Windy Rock had ever asked him directly, “Did Dad attack Lexi Lincoln?”

His expression shifted. “Dad had different appetites.”

I had no idea what this was supposed to mean. I kept my eyes locked on his as I struggled to make sense of his words. My brain sputtered like it was overheating.

He scoffed at my confusion and clarified, “Dad liked to watch.”