Legacy (Sociopath Series Book 2)(24)

But I will be watched. I’ll be watched for the rest of my life. One way or another, I bet Aeron Lore’s people will keep tabs on us, making sure we’re still conveniently silent on all matters pertaining to the murder of Emily Lore.

Do they know I know? Or do they think it’s just Mum…?

I glance about in the dark, my veins thick with the acidic sting of panic. My gaze falls on another video camera I’ve been playing with, its lens catching a sliver of light in white echoes.

If Aeron Lore’s company is going to watch me…maybe I should watch them.





CHAPTER FOUR


Leo


Forgiveness (noun): popular form of denial for those who lack the stamina true hatred requires




There’s something oddly comforting about the sound of Aeron’s key in my front door.

It shouldn’t be that way, of course. It’s still the key that he stole all those months ago, not a lover’s invitation as it ought to have been. If we were the soppy kind, perhaps we’d have exchanged new keys, key rings with inspirational quotes from favorite books or movies, jeweler…something other than bodily fluids. I have a key to his place but I’m only allowed to use it when Ash isn’t there.

No, the only things Aeron has ever given me—besides the usual pretty clothes and shoes and upside down roses (don’t ask)—are etched into my flesh. Winding patterns, knitted back together in a mockery of the human mind’s ability to heal. And the only thing I’ve willingly given him is a bullet.

His birthday’s coming up. Ha.

Aeron’s footsteps into my living area are preceded by the sour, sugary aroma of Chinese food. He places two brown bags on the kitchen island and then walks toward me, shrugging off his overcoat in the process. Shadows catch across the angles of his stern face, a half mask of dark shapes clutching at one eye.

“Come on,” he says firmly. “Eat.”

I huddle further into the sofa, staring at the candle on my coffee table and inhaling the scent of melted wax. “I asked for this, huh.”

He drops to his knees beside me and digs firm fingers into my thigh. Gets his face in mine. “I’m not going to lecture you. Just let me do something nice for once and f*cking eat the f*cking chow mein.”

I glance at his hand, raising an eyebrow at the way he’s squeezing hard enough to bruise.

“Nice for me,” he mutters, drawing the hand away.

“Did you call Posner?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

He rolls his eyes. “What do you think?”

“FBI.” I place my palm against his cool, stubbled cheek. I like the way he responds to the smallest of touches, his pupils flaring and shoulders pulling tense. “So what now?”

“Now we eat. Forget about it. Leo, you run a goddamn surveillance company—nothing can touch you.”

“You touch me,” I murmur, my thumb slipping to rest against his bottom lip.

In one fluid movement, he shoves my hand away and leaps back up, jarring my entire frame of vision.

“Can we just clear this up once and for all? I’m not a serial killer, in case you haven’t noticed. Any time this guy is supposed to be out slicing and dicing, I’m not just with you, I’m usually inside you—”

“That’s not what I mean.”

He begins removing the takeout boxes from the bags, slamming them on to the island. “Then what do you mean? You think I’m just a baby serial killer, that I’m going to progress to the lofty heights of cunt artistry and cum calligraphy in the next few years?” He tears open a pack of chopsticks and jabs them in my direction. “You think you’re going to be my next victim, is that it?”

I shift about, willing the nervous churn to stop in the pit of my stomach. “But there have been other victims, Aeron.”

“You’re not bringing that shit up.”

No. Not bringing up the fact that he killed his mother, or that Rachel and Tuija died because of the things we both did. I am implicit in so many of his sins. Bound. Tied. Crucified.

I force out a dry laugh. “We probably should talk about it at some point.”

He shakes steaming noodles on to two plates. “And now is the perfect time?”

“There’s never a perfect time.” There’s never a perfect anything. Perfection is for girls who’ve never had a murderer’s hands between their legs, probing inside, teasing, and delighting in every silent throb.

He thought I’d accepted his faults. Made peace with them. I thought that I had too; that’s what all the expensive therapy with Doctor Yao was for—not that she was aware of Aeron’s many transgressions. She simply helped me through the guilt of “accidentally” shooting my boyfriend, and with it, tightened the bars a little. You can’t build a house out of lies, see, but you can sure as hell build a cage.

Aeron sets down the plate he’s holding and stalks toward me, chopsticks still in one hand. He’s agitated—more so than usual—there’s a stiffness to him, a caution he rarely exhibits. I rise to meet him on heavy legs.

“Tell me what I’m supposed to say,” he demands, standing over me. “I’m all out here. You know what I’ve done; you came to me anyway. I won’t apologize.”