There Is No Devil (Sinners Duet, #2)(57)

“Well?” I say, bouncing in my seat.

“I take back what I said. This is really fucking good.”

“Better than Italy?”

“You tell me after you try the real thing. You’re the one with the best palate.”

I flush with pleasure, attacking my own plate of food.

I’ve never enjoyed compliments as much as Cole’s. Men have always told me I was pretty, but that’s the blandest of tributes. It says nothing about me as a person.

Cole compliments my taste, my opinions, and my talents. He notices things that nobody ever bothered to notice about me before, like the fact that I can taste and smell more acutely than most people, which really does make me a better cook.

It’s the silver lining of my sensory issues. While I’m often distracted or stressed by light, sound, smell, and touch, I also take deep pleasure from music and food, rich colors and textures, and the right kind of touch on my skin. It’s a blessing and a curse. When everything is wrong, it’s pure torture. But when all goes right, it’s a gift I’d never give up.

Cole is more considerate of my sensory issues than anyone I’ve ever known. While he occasionally uses them to manipulate me, he’s never tormented me like Randall used to do. Instead, he calls me his pleasure kitten and puts me in a state of such comfortable bliss that I feel I’d do anything to be his pet and live in this house forever.

When we’re finished eating, and Cole has washed and dried the dishes in his meticulous way, and I’ve put them back exactly where they belong, he says: “I have something to show you.”

“What is it?”

“Come with me.”

He takes me into the dining room, where we never actually eat, preferring to sit at the high countertop in the kitchen.

My laptop still sits in the same place. I suppose I’ve made this my office, not that I spend much time on my computer.

Cole opens the laptop, flicking through windows so quickly that I can hardly follow what he’s doing.

Watching Cole navigate technology is eerie, his brain and fingers operating more rapidly than the machine itself.

“Have a seat,” Cole says, gesturing toward the chair next to his.

I slip into it, feeling uneasy.

When Cole has an objective in mind, he becomes highly focused to the point where he doesn’t blink and hardly seems to breathe. His face is smooth and unsmiling, his dark eyes fixed on my face.

He holds up a small black cylinder in his elegantly-shaped hand.

“I have something for you to watch,” he says.

Silently, I take the flash drive, our fingers briefly meeting with an electric spark, static passing between us.

“What is it?” I ask.

He doesn’t respond, pushing the laptop toward me. Waiting while I insert the flash drive into its slot.

The drive contains only one file: a video, twenty-eight minutes long.

My mouth has gone dry. When I try to lick my lips, my tongue rubs across them like cardboard.

My index finger hovers over the cursor. I’m frightened, and I don’t want to see whatever Cole is trying to show me. I know it won’t be good.

He stands up from his chair, coming around the back of mine. Watching over my shoulder.

There’s no way out of this.

I click the video to make it play.

The image that flickers onto the screen is dimly lit and grainy. It appears to be the interior of some kind of small house—wooden floors and walls, only one room that includes the kitchenette, single bed, and the door to the outside. It could be a cabin or a shack.

A man kneels directly in front of the door, shirtless, wearing only boxer shorts, his legs bent beneath him and his large, misshapen feet splayed out below. His graying hair is scruffy and his back hairy and sagging.

I recognize him immediately. I’ll never forget the shape of that blocky head, with its roll of fat where the skull almost meets the shoulders.

The wave of revulsion that washes over me is physical, so strong I have to clamp my hand over my mouth to prevent the carbonara from making another appearance. I want to jump out of my chair, but my legs are rubber, bent under the table.

I thought the video was silent, but now I hear Randall let out a low moan.

His nose is pressed against the door. He appears to be kneeling on something—possibly marbles. He squirms with discomfort but doesn’t dare take his nose away from the door.

“I can’t …” he groans. “I can’t do it anymore … you’re gonna break my fuckin’ kneecaps.”

“You spoke,” Cole’s chilly voice cuts through the video, clear and unemotional. “That means another hour.”

Randall lets out a strangled sound that is part sob, part snarl of rage.

I’m mesmerized, staring at the screen. Watching this man endure the same punishment he inflicted on me at seven years old. I know how his kneecaps feel. There were no marbles in my case, but the wooden floor became agonizing all on its own as the hours crawled by.

Once, after three hours of punishment, I passed out and hit my head on the floor. Randall made me finish my time the next day.

I stare at his nasty old back as his hands begin to shake, bound at the wrists with zip-ties.

A maelstrom of emotions whips through me: guilt, fear, disgust, anxiety … and also a dreadful spitefulness that whispers, Serves you right, you motherfucker.