Michael tenses. “Videos?”
“The other night, when you fucked me until I was sobbing and begging you not to hurt me.” I wash my cup carefully. “I kept it.”
“You told me to do that. You said that you’d ask me to stop, but I wasn’t to listen. You told me—”
“International bestseller and rapist. It sounds so much different when you add the last word, don’t you think?”
He stalks toward me. “How . . . why would you . . .”
“If you’re a good boy, no one has to ever know. If not . . .”
Michael isn’t Reid. He takes several breaths. “What do you want me to do?”
I’m disappointed, but I’ll help him write a better book. He’s coming to understand Reid, but he still doesn’t know what it feels like to be me. I’m going to show him.
“Knees.”
He stares at me, and I open the kitchen drawer. There are a few knives there. Nothing terribly exotic, but a couple that are decent sized. I pull one out and place it on the counter with a quiet clatter.
“Knees,” I repeat.
When he obeys, I remove my clothes and lift one leg so my foot is on the edge of the counter. “Gently, as if I matter to you.”
“You do.”
I lift the knife and use it to direct him.
Once he’s there, doing as he has never done so very thoroughly, I lower the knife so the edge is resting against his neck. It’s not somewhere that would truly hurt him even if I slipped, but it’s still enough to make him falter.
“Do you trust me?” I ask again.
He starts to pull back to answer, and I push the knife down until it cuts his skin. He can pull away in order to answer me, but moving means bleeding.
“I didn’t say you could stop, Michael. I should be enjoying this. If you were good enough, I would be.”
There’s a right answer. There’s always a right answer. Reid taught me that all tests must have the possibility of right answers. It’s no use if you set someone up to fail. They can’t learn, can’t improve.
Michael’s attentions increase until I buck into his face.
The knife cuts him again as my hand presses down, and he whimpers.
“Shhh, you’re a good boy, Michael,” I reassure him.
His hands slide up, fingers entering me. He knows my body, knows I like it when he’s rough with my soft places.
“No. Mouth only.” I hate that I have to stop him, but he’ll fail the test if I don’t.
Blood trickles slowly from the cuts on his neck, and I trace them with my finger tips. Once the blood coats them, I slide them down, tracing my own skin.
He looks up, cutting himself further. He’s a good student.
Finally, he passes the test. He holds me tight enough that I can’t move, can’t cut him further as I shake and thrash.
When the pleasure passes, I pull the knife away. “Do you still trust me?”
He starts to stand. “That’s the lesson? To get cut? I don’t—”
I shake my head. “I can email the video or we can do this.”
He stares at me, still missing the point despite his body’s reaction.
“You like it, Michael.” I stare pointedly at the proof. “You like it because you trust me. You know that I won’t do anything so awful that you can’t deal with it because you trust me.”
“Tess . . .”
“It’s your choice. No one is making you do these things.” I dig my fingers into the cut on his shoulder, drawing fresh blood. “Every minute of today is one you are choosing to participate in.”
He glares at me. “Not entirely. You are blackmailing me.”
“You’re letting me.” I fold my arms over my chest. “You could give me your notebooks, and I’ll leave now . . .”
Michael stands. For a moment, I think he’s going to hit me or maybe even say he’ll let the story go. But he says, “I have limits to what I’ll do.”
I laugh. Everyone thinks they have limits until they cross them. I had limits. I had a lot of limits, and Reid took them all away.
“Come on. Come to my house. I need to pick some things up before we go out.”
40
Juliana
I can’t do it. Even when I know it means that there’s a growing chance that it will mean that Reid will torture me, I can’t.
He puts his hand over mine and forces me to press the tip of the knife into Andrew’s belly.
“It’s okay, Jules.” Andrew holds my gaze. “I love you. It’s okay.”
Reid lets out a sound of frustration and releases my hand. He steps back and stomps around the living room. He wants me to be someone I can’t even pretend to be.
I’m sitting beside Andrew on the ugly sofa. The knife is still in my hand. Without Reid holding it, my arm is limp. The knife rests on Andrew’s legs.
“You need to do what he says,” Andrew tells me quietly. “If you don’t, he’ll hurt you. Just go along with him. It’s the only chance.”
“I can’t kill you.”
“But you can hurt me, Jules.” He stares at me. “You’re here because of me. He’s not lying about me. I knew about the women. I knew what he did and—”
“Don’t.”
“Think about that, and it will help you do what he says. Whatever you do. I forgive you.” He leans toward me like he’s going to kiss me.
I lean away.
Reid laughs.
I hadn’t heard him come back, but he’s there watching us and laughing.
“Tell her about Tessie. Have you told her? Does she know?” Reid strokes my hair. “Do you, Juliana?”
Andrew stares at me intently, and I know he wants me to play along. I’m not sure he’s right, but this fiend is his brother. He obviously knows him better than I do.
“That he slept with Teresa?”
“Tessie.”
I nod.
“Do you think he pretended you were her when he fucked you?”
I look at Andrew, who is still staring at me as if willing words into my mind. I force myself to say, “Maybe.”
I’m still staring at Andrew when Reid adds, “I pretended some of my pretty things were you, too, Juliana.”
Against my will, my attention snaps to him.
“Either you cut him or you can become one of my pretty things.” Reid leans in and kisses the top of my head. “Shall I pretend you’re my wife? Shall I pretend to be Andrew the day he raped my wife? She fought him good.”
Whatever mess is in his head, Reid has twisted me and Teresa and the rest of his victims into a jumble. Serial killers often enact scenarios; they have rituals. I do not want to be any part of his.
“How . . . how do you want me to cut him?”
My hand shakes, but I lift the knife.
And then I do exactly what he says. Over and over.
I don’t know whether it’s an hour or ten hours. It feels like time is ticking by so slowly that this will never end. I’m sitting on Andrew’s lap, cutting his skin in strips.
“You can end it at any time. His throat? His balls? What do you want to slice?”