Page 156 of Under Your Scars

Now that I’m a family man, people find me more approachable. When I arrive at Reeves Enterprises, I’m greeted dozens of times.

I’ve always been able to turn on the charm when I needed to, but there used to be a wall between myself and other people. I only ever got spoken to by outsiders about business.

I think people can see that I’m human now. They can see I have a life outside of my company that’s made me happy.

Happy. Still such a strange feeling. I was completely numb for thirty years. That tug on my hollow chest—that squeeze in my black heart when I look at Elena still feels foreign sometimes.

When I step into the elevator, I check my phone. No missed calls or texts. No voicemails. No anything. Complete radio silence from the only person I care to hear from.

I stare at my lock screen with a sad smile on my face. It’s a photo of the best day of my life. Our courthouse marriage ceremony. The moment the judge officially declared us husband and wife, I took Elena into my arms, dipped her backwards, and gave her the kiss of the century.

In that moment, she became officially, thoroughly, indisputablymine.

All the boring paperwork came next. Updating my will. Adding her to all my bank accounts and credit cards. Applying for a new deed to add her as an owner of the Reeves Estate. Giving her the same authority and privileges at R.E. that I have as CEO. Complete and untethered access to anything and everything that was mine. I wanted her to have it all.

Not that she’s taken advantage of any of it. The only thing she’s purchased with her black card is a bar exam prep course, and a set of highlighters because all of hers ran dry. She takes the bar exam in three days, which is another reason why I’ve been working from home. I wanted to watch Caroline while she does her last-minute studying. It’s been beautiful to watch Elena blossom under the stress, but now that it’s imminently upon her, she’s freaking out.

But I know she’ll do great. Perfect. There’s no way in hell she won’t pass with flying colors.

Imighthave something to do with that, but I’ll take that secret to the grave.

The elevator dings and the doors open. I walk into the office, still focused on my lock screen like staring at it will somehow make Elena less upset with me.

I’m immediately hit with the foul, unmistakable odor of decaying flesh.

When I look up, I freeze. My stomach turns and I don’t think I’ve ever seen something so horrifying in my entire life.

I’m a serial killer, so that’s saying something.

In front of me, two people are slumped over in chairs taken from the conference table. One man. One woman. The woman is wearing a short black wig and has red lipstick on her lips. The man is wearing a suit.

Both of them have a bullet hole in their heads and a sheet of printer paper stapled to their chests. Big, bold, red letters spell out Thomas and Elizabeth.

There are not many things on this earth that disgust me. I’ve done enough maiming of my own that blood and gore don’t bother me.

But whoever did this is clearly trying to send a message to me, and it’s working.

For the first time in my life, when I look at dead bodies, I lean over and puke.

A half-hour later, I’m sitting outside the building on a bench, trying to smoke away the horror while I give interview after interview to the police. There’s a huge commotion on the sidewalk outside. Bystanders and police and coroners and media vans.

“Christian!”

I stand up at the sound of my wife’s concerned voice. She nearly faceplants when she exits the SUV before it’s even fully stopped. Gavin brought her here, probably after hearing about the situation on the police scanner.

Elena cups my cheeks and forces me to look at her. I do, but I’m sure I look like shit.

“Are you okay?” she asks quietly.

“Do you have any mints? Or gum?” I ask, my reluctance to answer her all the confirmation she needs that I am in no way ‘okay’. She pulls a tiny tin of mints from her purse and hands them to me. I put seven of them into my mouth and use my tongue to brush them along the inside of my teeth while the spearmint flavor envelops me. I shove my hands in the pockets of my slacks.

“It was my parents,” I say, laughing cruelly at this sick joke someone has decided to play on me. “I don’t know who they were, but they were made to look like my parents. Dressed up like dolls.” I take a deep breath and I lean my forehead against hers. “Are you still mad at me?”

She lets out a sardonic scoff. “Are you still lying to me?”

I shake my head. “It wasn’t me.”

Her silence tells me that she still doesn’t believe me.