What Are You Afraid Of? (The Agency #2)(96)

“Of course I am.”

“What did your . . .” She struggled to force the words past her stiff lips, taking another step to the side. “Kill Club do?”

“At first we exchanged messages on the best way to choose our victims and the most satisfying way to murder them.” He studied her closely, obviously savoring her horrified expression. “We even created chat rooms where we could role-play how we would lure our prey into our trap.”

She pressed her hand to her stomach, the queasiness continuing to roll through her. What sort of pervert crouched over his computer as he lived out his revolting fantasies? And just how many of them were out there?

“The hospital let you chat with other patients?” she demanded in disbelief.

His features twisted with a smug arrogance. “They didn’t know anything that was going on. As long as I didn’t cause problems they didn’t care what I was doing in the privacy of my room.”

She took another step, sliding along the wall. She didn’t really know where she was trying to go; she just wanted space between her and Ronnie Hyde.

“I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with me.”

Amusement sparkled in his eyes. As if he was aware of her covert attempt to inch away, and was enjoying her futile efforts. Like a cat toying with a cornered rat.

“We were enjoying our games, but I knew something was missing. We didn’t have a focus for our club.” With one long step he was once again directly in front of her, his foul breath brushing over her face. “And then a friend brought me a copy of your book. I was instantly inspired. Because of you, I knew my true calling. I was destined to kill.”

Her mouth went dry. She originally feared that the stalker—or stalkers—had chosen her because of the book. Then she’d feared it had been because of her past. And then, because of her family.

Who could have known that all her suspicions had been right?

It was insanity.

“That’s not why I wrote it,” she said, the words sounding ridiculous.

Ronnie seemed to think so too. His eyes darkened with a strange emotion.

“I don’t believe you.” He reached up to grasp her throbbing chin. “You’re fascinated with death just like I am.”

“No,” she breathed in horror.

His fingers squeezed, his pleasure visibly deepening as she whimpered in pain.

“Why else would you write the book? You were drawn to the dark side.” He leaned down until their noses were nearly touching. “Just like me.”

She pressed against the wall, wishing it would open up and swallow her. Anything would be better than being trapped alone with this deranged psychopath.

“I’m nothing like you,” she denied, refusing to let him think that she had any connection to his sick fantasies.

“Yes, you are,” he insisted, a fine spray of spit coating her face. “We might not have been raised as brother and sister, but we were baptized in blood.”

The horrifying vision of Ronnie standing in the kitchen with her parents’ bloody and broken bodies lying at his feet once again seared through her head.

Lifting her hands, she shoved them against his chest.

“No!” she screamed.

*

Ronnie laughed.

He’d spent nearly an hour watching Carrie lie unconscious, anticipating the moment she would open her eyes and realize that he was the one who had been leading her directly into his trap.

He’d anticipated the rush of pleasure he would feel at her fear, and then the glorious horror as he revealed his ability to precisely imitate the infamous killers in her book.

She would have no choice but to marvel at his cunning.

But instead of making his grand announcement, Carrie had distracted him with endless questions about the past.

He didn’t want to think back to the gutless boy who’d been desperate for a father. Or remember the times Stuart Jacobs had walked past him as if he was nothing better than a bug.

That had been more painful than the blows from Andrew and the sharp words of disappointment from his mother whenever they caught him spying on the master of the house.

Now, however, he at last had what he wanted.

Carrie was visibly trembling as she stared at him with wide eyes. He could almost taste her fear.

This was the power he’d craved. The ability to prove that he might not carry the Jacobs name, but he was just as capable of greatness.

No, he was more capable.

Any idiot could go to business school and run a company. Lawrence Jacobs was proof of that. The fool didn’t even know what was going on beneath his nose.

But Ronnie had created magic out of chaos. He’d taken his violent needs and molded them into purpose, not only for himself, but for other misfits who struggled to find their way in the darkness.

And then he’d found his ultimate inspiration, and he’d known exactly what his fate was destined to be.

“I read your book over and over, studying the killers until I understood the precise manner they stalked their victims and their preference for satisfying their most basic urges,” he told Carrie. “And, of course, how they each displayed their trophies.”

She licked her lips, her hands continuing to push at his chest.

“You killed those women in Kansas.”

He trembled with remembered bliss. For the first time he’d been able to act out the years of fantasies.