Page 15 of Wicked Riddles & Bitter Heartbeats (Till Death Do Us Part #1)

Chapter Twelve

Lilah

Atticus looks different on the ride back home.

There’s something shadowing his face that reminds me of the first night I met him—when I first saw him standing in the doorway, before he killed Steven.

There’s something dark lingering just below the surface, and I can’t help but be excited over it.

I think we’re going to kill someone tonight.

He hasn’t told me what happened, but I know something angered him today.

We had a perfect morning at the hotel. Atticus ordered us clean clothes and delicious food.

We spent hours in the jacuzzi tub. He made me come.

He paid extra just so we could stay late because I was enjoying myself so much.

I love the way he spoils me and how he is truly happy to do so.

But everything changed just before it was time to leave. Atticus got a call. He went onto the balcony so I couldn’t hear what was being said, but when he came back in, he was different.

I tried talking to him, but he wouldn’t even look at me. I didn’t feel like he was mad at me, it was almost like he couldn’t see me at all. He’s spoken few words since then.

Though I’ve been around a lot of violence, I’ve never actually seen someone die.

Not unless you count Steven, and I didn’t actually watch that.

By the time I realized what was happening and opened my eyes, he was already dead.

Watching someone die, seeing the light leave their eyes, and their body just stopping…

it’s intriguing. And also sort of sad, especially if it’s someone who doesn’t deserve it.

But for those who do? I can’t say I care too much about that.

Unsure of what Atticus plans to do, with hope that he won’t kill someone innocent, I pull up my phone and do some digging. It doesn’t take long to find exactly what I’m looking for. I put the address into the GPS on my new cell phone and watch the alerts.

“In a couple miles, you’re going to turn right.”

Atticus is breathing hard, hands gripping the steering wheel like he’ll float away if he doesn’t. He glances toward me, but there is no expression on his face.

“Just trust me,” I say softly. “I’ll tell you when.”

Maybe I should be afraid of him, but I’ve already established that I’m not right in the head.

My fear meter is broken. I get scared at all the wrong times.

I don’t think Atticus will hurt me. He is fully capable of ending my life, I know that, but something about it is exciting more than scary.

Knowing he can but won’t. That I’m special to him…

Is there anything that can make you feel more special than that?

It was very similar with my father, only slightly different because I didn’t see what my father was capable of until he was taken away from me.

Sometimes it’s just the knowledge that makes all the difference.

I have seen what Atticus is capable of. Witnessed it with my own eyes.

There is nothing stopping him from doing any of that to me, except not wanting to.

Free will is an interesting thing. Seeing the choices people make.

What they choose to do over what they choose against. How, even though we are all human, we think so very differently.

Take different risks. Have different interests. It’s an amazing thing.

I’m special to Atticus. And being special to someone like him, someone who is probably a sociopath, means so much more because it’s rare.

I’ve read plenty of studies on it, after my father.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that’s not what my father is, but I’m pretty sure that’s who Atticus is.

And though I know this relationship with him won’t be a typical relationship, because he’s unlikely to ever love me as deeply as humans can, there is something here.

Some primal connection. He feels something that’s different from what he’s used to.

I can see it in the way he studies me like he doesn’t understand it either.

I’m playing a dangerous game, being with him, but that’s my MO. My life is already planned out for me, I’m just along for the ride.

“Two more blocks. Right after that gas station,” I tell him.

There’s no way to know if he’s going to listen to me or not.

I’ve never seen him go through this before.

I can only guess whatever happened during that phone call set him off.

I’ve seen a few stages of Atticus, and we’ve talked minimally about it.

He disassociates often, I see him sitting there in a trance frequently.

He has blackouts; he’s explained that to me because I haven’t seen it yet.

He has no idea how many people he’s killed because of it or how he didn’t get caught.

But it’s enough to get him dubbed the Boston Phantom.

And apparently it took him over a year to realize that it was him who was doing those killings.

Atticus makes the turn, and I smile to myself. I’m proud of how well I know him, but also that I can get through to him.

“Next block, take a left. Then a right directly after,” I say as I watch us move along the map on my phone.

We navigate through a quiet neighborhood, making turns here and there to get to the house I’m looking for. When we pull up to it, it’s nicer than the man living there deserves.

Atticus loses control when he kills people.

He doesn’t always know who he is killing, and that’s not fair.

But he has me now. And if I can control who he kills, then I’m doing some good in the world.

I won’t let him kill innocent people, but I will use him as my rabid watch dog and rid the world of scum who don’t belong here.

“I’m barely hanging on here,” he says quietly. “I’m trying, but it’s too much to contain. I feel like something is trying to crawl out of my skin.”

I can’t begin to describe how his opening up to me makes me feel. Atticus is a man of few words, and this is a deeper look into himself than I’ve had before and may never get again. It’s truly a gift.

“You call me your kitten,” I say. “Well, you’re going to be my big bad pit bull. You’re going to protect me and anyone I feel needs protecting. The man who lives in this house is a pedophile.”

He blinks a few times, taking a slow breath as his eyes fall closed.

“You brought me here to kill him.” His voice is slightly deeper than normal, and he’s speaking slowly. Different enough that I can notice, but not so different that I feel like I’m talking to someone else.

“Did you think we were going for a joy ride?”

“I thought you were trying to get me to calm down.”

“I know well enough to know that won’t work, Atty. Now go park down the street so we can handle this asshole.”

Ten minutes later we’re walking around the back of the house, and breaking into the back door with the lock picking set Atticus had in his pocket.

I don’t need him to remind me that I do as he says.

I’ve never done this before and I refuse to be the reason he gets caught. So I won’t hesitate to listen.

I tied up my hair in the tightest bun I could manage, not wanting to leave behind any hair.

Not that I still couldn’t, but I’m trying here.

Atticus is in no mind to prepare me for this.

I can only go by all the articles I’ve read and TV shows I’ve watched, hoping they’re accurate and not a bunch of bullshit.

Atticus opens the door silently, and we step into a kitchen that smells of old food and grease.

Atticus goes right for the knife block, pulling out the largest one there.

We’ll need to have a conversation about this after. He seems both here and not at the same time, and if I’m going to help him with this, I need to get into his head as much as I can.

He moves ahead, seemingly forgetting I’m tagging along. I keep up, following him down a hallway. He peaks into the rooms he passes but doesn’t stop for more than the amount of time it takes to do a quick sweep with his eyes. His footsteps are sure, even, and quiet as he moves.

He’s done this many times. He’s so good at it. And it’s so fucking hot.

We enter a living room with another room branched off, the door partly open and lights flashing as if the TV is on inside. He doesn’t hesitate to go that way, pushing his way into the room.

“What the—”

I don’t recognize the voice, and by the time I get into the room, Atticus already has the guy’s throat slit. Blood soaks the bed, the once white sheets splattered in red.

Atticus doesn’t stop there, though. He rears the knife back, sinking it into the man’s chest. He yanks it out, then goes back in.

Over and over, he stabs the pedophile, who was lying in his bed watching Barney—naked.

If there’s anything I hate in this world, it’s pedophiles.

Children are innocent and deserve nothing bad that comes to them.

I understand it all too well and wouldn’t wish it on a child in this world.

“Disgusting,” I say as I lean against the wall, arms crossed and watching my man go to work.

He’s doing the world a service and doesn’t even realize it.

I’m not sure it’ll ever really matter to him, either.

Atticus doesn’t care who he kills, he just needs to do it.

He needs to feed whatever darkness is inside of him.

Which is why it’s a good thing he found me.

We can turn his darkness into something good, even if the law doesn’t see it that way—we’ll keep the law out of it, anyway.

It’s a long time before he stops. There’s blood everywhere and I’m pretty sure he made a hole in the guy’s chest the size of a basketball. The metallic smell is something I’ll remember for years to come.

Atticus is heaving for breath when he turns to face me, knife in his hand, blood covering his face, arms, and chest.

“You’ve never looked hotter,” I say.

“You brought me here to kill him.” His tone is slightly different again. Softer. Maybe a little shocked.

“I figured it’s what you needed.”

Atticus moves toward me, a dark figure in the room. The light from the TV creates monstrous shadows on his face—but he is no monster. Not to me.

He stops inches away from me. A rush of adrenaline shoots up my spine as I realize I have nowhere to go.

He has me backed against the wall. To my right is a dresser where the TV is sitting, and on my left is the other wall.

Atticus stands in front of me, blocking my only means for escape, and he has an eight-inch French knife in his hands that I just saw slice through human flesh like warm butter.

“Is it enough yet?” I ask breathlessly as I stare into his endless blue eyes.

“Almost.”

I give him a small smile, not wanting him to see that I’m upset by his answer.

I don’t understand why he won’t fuck me, why he won’t give that part of himself to me.

He wants to; it’s very clear that he wants to.

But this is something that tells me there is some human inside of him.

That he is capable of some emotion. That there is hope for him to love me.

“There are some things I should tell you first,” he adds in his usual tone.

“Then let’s get out of here.”