I tried to move but couldn’t. I reached up with my fingers and found that I was chained, wrists together, hands above my head. My back was leaning up against a cold wall, maybe stone, but I wasn’t sure.
I tried to call out, but nothing came. My voice was a scratchy croak, barely a whisper, certainly not my own.
The fear hadn’t hit me yet, fortunately. I was still thinking very analytically, very seriously. I couldn’t see and my hands were chained, but my legs felt like they were free. I tried shifting my weight and pushing my legs forward, but they hit what felt like metal bars only a foot away.
So I was in some kind of cage, chained to a wall.
The fear came then, fast and heavy.
The killer had me. I’d gotten a glimpse of his face, but he’d hit me hard enough to knock me over. I thought I recognized him, but he was young, so young. I began to struggle, trying to wrench my arms free, but the cuffs bit into my wrists and held me tight.
I made some noise but didn’t move an inch.
What was happening? Why wasn’t I dead yet like all the other girls? I still had my fingers, which was good.
When did he take them?
I tried to make more noise and only succeeded in rattling the chains and kicking the cage. Otherwise, there was total silence all around me.
Easton. Did he know where I was? I shifted my weight but couldn’t feel my phone anymore. It had been in my pocket, but clearly the killer had taken it.
I felt the fear and panic well up through my chest and wash over me. I wanted to scream but couldn’t, and I knew that it wouldn’t help. I had to trust that Easton would know what to do.
Easton was still out there. He knew I was home, and he knew the killer was coming after him. Easton would come for me.
He had to come for me.
I didn’t know how long I was left down there. I could smell something musty and damp, and so I figured I was in a basement. But without light or sound, I was completely lost, floating in space.
Hours passed, maybe minutes, maybe days. I fell asleep at one point and woke up with a start, dreams of fingerless people parading through my mind. I kept telling myself that Easton was coming, he would come, but the fear was almost too much.
And then suddenly, light.
I squinted, surprised at the harsh brightness. I heard someone descending stairs. The original light disappeared, replaced by a single, dimmer source.
It came toward me, illuminating the space.
I was in a basement, that was for sure. Junk was piled up all around. Rotting wood, cinderblocks, mossy stone, and more. I was in a cage with my back up against a concrete wall, my chains attached to a ring a few feet above my head, outside the cage’s roof.
I was like a dog in his crate.
“Hi, Laney.”
The voice cut through my mind.
“Where am I?” I tried to say, but it came out a raspy wisp instead.
The light crouched down in front of me, and I finally figured out what it was.
A single gas lantern.
Held by a young man, almost handsome. His hair was dark, and he looked so damn familiar. I squinted at him, trying to understand, but my mind was a mess.
“Here,” he said, opening my cage. “Drink.”
He reached in and held out a water bottle. I didn’t want to, but my body needed the water. I drank it greedily.
“There you go.” He stopped and pulled it away. Water dribbled down my shirt. “Better. Can you talk?”
I tried again. “Where am I?”
“Good.” He smiled. “You’re in my basement, Laney.”
“Who are you?”
His smile got larger. “Ah, there’s the big question. Haven’t you figured it out? Or is Easton not the golden boy we all thought he was?”
I shook my head. I had no clue who he was, although he looked familiar. So damn familiar. Like a young version of a picture I’d seen a hundred times.
He leaned forward, smiling. “Come on, Laney, say it.”
“Jean Rodriguez,” I blurted out as it hit me all at once.
“Very good!” he said, clapping his hands.
Jean Rodriguez, Martin Rodriguez’s son. Easton’s partner’s son. He was nineteen, maybe twenty, just a year or two younger than me.
I shook my head, unable to believe it. Why would Jean be killing people? His father hated killers, had spent his whole life hunting them down and locking them up. And now Jean had become the monster his father had so hated.
“Surprised?” he asked. “I’m sure that you are.”
“Why?” I croaked.
“Why,” he said softly, “is a good question.” He sat down cross-legged and looked at me intently. “It’s very simple actually. Do you really want to know?”
“Yes,” I said, although part of me didn’t.
“It’s because of Easton. It’s always been because of him.” Jean laughed again. “After Easton got my father murdered, my family fell apart. Do you know what that’s like, losing a father like that?”
I shook my head no. “He hated killers,” I managed to say.
“I know. Ironic, right?” Jean seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. “I thought to myself, what would be the best way to get back at Easton? And it hit me all at once: revive the killer that had so destroyed everything about my life and had taken my father’s. Become Lester Seed and get revenge on Easton Wright.”
“That’s crazy,” I said.
His smile disappeared. “Maybe,” he said, “but it’s almost over. You’re the last victim before I destroy Easton.”
“How?”
He cackled wickedly, the smile coming back. “You know what’s going to happen now, don’t you? Are you just trying to keep me talking so that you don’t have to go through it?”
He was right, but I just stared at him silently.
“Either way, it’s just a delay.” Jean looked at his nails absently. “My father had a wealth of information, you see. Case files, books, basically a how-to guide for any up-and-coming serial killer. I simply studied and practiced.”
“All those dead girls,” I said softly. “All of them innocent.”
“Maybe, but death comes eventually anyway, doesn’t it?”
I could see the madness in his eyes. Whatever had happened to Jean after his father’s death had pushed him well beyond the limits of a normal person. He wasn’t human anymore, not after all the killings. Maybe at one time he could have been saved, but the more he spoke, the more I knew that he was way beyond coming back.
“Not like this,” I said. “Please.”
“Sorry, Laney.” He began to unbuckle his belt, the wicked, twisted smile never leaving his face. “I like you, you know. You seem smart and kind. Easton likes you too.” He pulled his pants down. “He had a file on you. Described you as ‘sexy and brilliant,’ I believe. Plus those pictures were about as intimate as you can get.”
He began to reach toward me, and I knew what was coming. I had read the case files, over and over and over, and now I was becoming one of them. I was becoming one of those poor, murdered girls.
He reached up and unlocked my wrists. I tried to struggle, but I was so weak, he simple pinned me back against the wall.
“I like you, Laney,” he said softly. “So I’ll tell you this. If you struggle, it will be worse, so much worse.”