Page 7 of Wicked Riddles & Bitter Heartbeats (Till Death Do Us Part #1)

“You do?” My words come out as a whisper. He nods firmly, dropping his hand. “Oh, okay then.” I lick my lips, taking a step back and looking around. “What am I supposed to do? Do you need a cover story or something?”

He frowns, looking at me like I’m an alien. “Why would you do that?”

“Because you saved my life. I’d be dead if it weren’t for you.” He doesn’t respond, so I move to him again, careful not to step in the puddle of blood that’s still growing. “He would have killed me.”

“Yeah.” It’s all he says before stepping away and pulling a cell phone from his pocket to make a call. “Yes,” is what he says after a moment of holding the phone to his ear. “As soon as possible.”

He ends the call, putting the phone back in his pocket before walking into the kitchen like he’s familiar with it.

The sink runs and then he returns, hands and face free of blood.

It’s probably soaked into his clothing, but because he’s in all black, you can’t see it.

I glance down at my Sherlock Holmes t-shirt that used to be white once upon a time.

It’s more grey now, with a few stains and holes.

The words 221B Baker Street are across the top, and that’s the only design on it.

My sweatpants are black, and this isn’t my typical outfit to leave the house in, but Steven had to run out to get some weed and told me to go with him, and so I did. Like I had a choice…

“What do you need me to do?” I ask again.

“Nothing,” he answers. “Enjoy a life of freedom.”

He gives me his back and doesn’t hesitate to walk to the door, pulling it open and letting in a gust of cold air. He’s going to leave, just like that. My prince comes to rescue me and then just leaves? That’s not how this is supposed to go.

“Wait!” I call just before the front door closes. He pushes it open, raising a brow as his eyes find mine. “I can’t—I don’t know how… I don’t think I can.”

Something in his eyes changes as he stares at me.

They darken just a bit. I don’t know what I’m asking this man for or why I think he’ll care at all.

He just committed murder, something that will get him in jail for the rest of his life.

I’m sure he wants to get the hell out of here.

He already did me the biggest favor in the world, what more could I want from him? But I can’t stay here like this…

“Come with me,” he finally says.

I’ve never moved so fast in my life.

We walk down the sidewalk, heading in the general direction of Boston.

“How far do we have to go?” I ask.

“Far enough,” he answers, and I don’t know what that means. Does he live around here? In another state? Across the city? Around the corner?

“The cops will want to question me,” I say.

“Yes, they will.”

“What am I supposed to say?”

He shoves his hands into his pockets and keeps walking as if I asked about the weather and not something that could have us both in jail for the rest of our lives.

“Don’t know yet.”

“Should I be worried?” I ask, getting a little nauseous over this whole thing now that we’re leaving the scene. It’s officially bad. Had I stayed and been a cooperating witness, things would be different for me. But I’m covering it up. I’m an accomplice. If we’re caught, I will do jail time too.

“Not unless you plan on talking about what just happened.”

“I don’t. I won’t, I swear.”

He nods, turning down a side street as a gust of chilly wind rustles my hair. We walk for another twenty minutes before he pulls out his phone and brings it to his ear.

“All set?” he asks. “I’ll send the payment.”

He takes the phone from his ear and does something on it before putting it back in his pocket.

“You have, like, a clean up team or something?” I ask carefully.

“Something like that.”

“You do this often?”

He smirks, keeping his focus forward. “You could say that.”

There’s more silence as we walk for another thirty minutes. My calves are burning, and I’m getting a cramp in my side. I don’t usually do this much walking. The night is quiet in this area, so when he speaks out of nowhere, it startles me.

“Why aren’t you scared?” he asks.

I answer as honestly as I can. “I think it’s something in my blood.”

“Brain chemistry, more likely.”

I huff out a laugh, hugging myself. It’s late into the night and cold.

It’s my favorite time of year, but when it’s in the fifties, a sweater is nice.

A few more steps and something is thrown over my shoulders.

It’s the sweatshirt he was wearing. It smells masculine, and I’m pretty sure it’s covered in blood, but that’s okay.

It doesn’t bother me. And it’s dried by now, so…

“My father went on a murder spree eight years ago. It was all over the news,” I say conversationally.

“What was his name?” he asks.

“Victor Spencer.”

He takes a moment to think about it as if he’s searching his brain for information, then he nods.

“Eight years, two months, three weeks, three days. He killed eleven people in the basement of his home, after holding them hostage for months. This happened over a course of fifteen years.”

Wow, that’s… impressive and slightly disturbing, in an endearing sort of way. Is he obsessed with my father or killers in general?

“You got a thing for killers?” I ask carefully.

He shrugs. “Just have a good memory.”

“Apparently,” I mutter.

“So you think you’re okay with death because your father was a killer?” he asks, seeming more at ease, maybe intrigued, now that he knows we have something in common. It’s why I’ve been interested in him since I saw him inside my house. I felt a connection.

“Yes.”

“It’s more complicated than that, actually.” He runs his hand over his head, spearing his long fingers through his messy, dark hair. “Especially with the diagnosis he received.”

“Oh—really?” I ask.

I’ve never looked into it before and never went to therapy like the court said I should. I felt fine about the whole thing, other than being shocked that my father was gone, and I was going to live with my uncle—which was the worst time of my life.

My father’s love was never questioned. He did nothing to hurt me.

What’s to go to therapy about? He was a father making things right for his daughter.

At least, in his head that’s what he was doing.

He just wanted the world to be a safe place for me.

Considering his first victim was taken when I was only three months old, it makes sense.

Some say it was my mother’s death that threw him over the edge, but I just think it was his blinding love for me.

A father’s need to protect. Which is why I never told him about Uncle Frank, still to this day.

“There are genetic factors he could have passed down to you. Aggression, impulse control, emotional instability. Though, from what I’ve seen of you so far, I’d say you didn’t inherit any of them. Maybe some emotional issues, but not in the same way as he has them.”

I frown, tucking my arms into the sweatshirt sleeves and pulling it closed.

“Then in what way?”

I’ve never had anyone to talk to about this, and even though I just met this man, I’m okay having this conversation with him. He’s smart and seems to know a lot about things I’ve always wondered about.

“In the way you’re attracted to aggressive people,” he says simply.

I already knew that, so I don’t comment on it.

He adds, “It’s possible you lack empathy, but not completely. I saw the way you looked at me in there.”

“How did I look at you?”

He glances at me, giving me a small smile. “Like you wished you were the one to kill him.”

Truer words have never been spoken.