I’ve never actually let anyone go who swore through a slimy haze of snot and tears that if I’d just let them go, they’d never tell anyone what I did to them. I assume they were all lying, though. Who the fuck wouldn’t tell? Nobody, that’s who. It’s the thing people say to get away when they know they can’t successfully fight their way out—then, if I decided to be merciful, they’d run as fast as they could to the police station and get my ass locked up.
I don’t think so, snowflake.
Nice try, though. I like a smart woman, so I’m happy to see mine thinking on her feet.
I guess smiling at her isn’t the right thing to do right now. Probably only serves to raise up her hopes, and I don’t like disappointing her.
Reining in my expression and slipping a more stoic one into place, I try to let her down easy. “I’m afraid not.”
Her face freezes—her eyes wide, her pretty little mouth forming an O of surprise like she can’t quite believe her well-reasoned “get out of jail free” card has been rejected.
I’m prepared for the surprise.
What I’m not prepared for is what she does next: burst into tears.
Maybe I should’ve expected that, I don’t know. I’m new to recreational kidnapping. The usual type of person I’d be sent to snatch would be the human equivalent of a sewer rat, or maybe a hardened criminal who got a little too ambitious—someone tough who’d rather fight me than cry about it.
That kind of thing I’m prepared for. This, not so much.
It’s not that I’ve never seen a person cry after spending some unwanted time with me, but they’re usually in a lot of pain by that point. I’ve never had someone burst into tears before I’ve laid a finger on them.
I have the strangest urge to pull her close and give her a hug, but I can’t do that while I’m driving down the road, so I have to let her cry it out on her own.
She sobs quietly for several long, painful minutes. I wish I knew what to say, but while I comforted my sisters plenty when they were kids, I never encountered a scenario like this one—and if I had, I wouldn’t have been reassuring them at home, I’d have been out finding the asshole who thought he could kidnap my fucking sister and teaching him a lesson in how wrong he was.
Autumn doesn’t have a brother to protect her, though. She doesn’t have anyone.
Now she has me, but first we have to get through this uncomfortable adjustment stage of her accepting that she’s mine now. I’m ripping her out of the life she used to lead and giving her a whole new one—that was bound to hurt a little.
Her breath hitches and she sniffles as she starts to settle down. She reaches into her purse and draws out a little rectangular package of tissues. She takes one out and daintily pats at her pretty face, trying to absorb all the tears.
I hate making her so sad. I feel like a real prick, but I don’t know how to make it better.
“Why me?” She sniffs, swiping at her nose with another tissue before turning her big, sad eyes on me. Her nose is all red, her cheeks blotchy from crying. “I didn’t do anything to you. Why did it have to be me?”
“Fate,” I tell her, reaching over and patting her hand.
She glares at me and turns away. Under her breath, I hear her mutter, “Fuck fate and you.”
So I guess she’s mad.
She has plenty of time to cool down as I drive along the interstate. It’s mostly empty but for the occasional car and a few semis. The first time we pass a car, I catch Autumn sitting up, suddenly alert as it occurs to her maybe she can signal someone for help as we’re driving by. It’s too dark for anyone to see her clearly, but anytime I have to pass a car, I speed up anyway, just to be safe.
That’s not the only plan my pretty little travel companion comes up with, either. Since I haven’t taken her phone—no need to, it’s a brick until I turn off the jammer—she must think I forgot she had it. She can’t call the ex-boyfriend or any other standard phone number, but she must know that all phones can call 911 whether they have service or not. She slides the phone between her thighs and steals a glance in my direction. Then she peels off one of her gloves and covertly places her hand over it. I peek over to see what she’s up to and see her with the keypad open, trying to dial 9-1-1.
The jammer stops her from doing that too, that’s why they’re illegal.
Her brow furrows with confusion when her call doesn’t go through.
A little smile tugs at my lips and I keep on driving.
I appreciate that she didn’t go straight for 9-1-1, though. There’s no way she could have guessed that wouldn’t work. Makes me thinks she might not be entirely full of shit; maybe she really wouldn’t have said anything if I let her go.
Not gonna happen, though. I haven’t spent much time with her yet, but I have good instincts and I attached pretty quickly to the idea of taking her home with me.
I’ve never been an indecisive man. Since I was just a kid, I’ve always had a natural ability to make decisions efficiently and definitely. Once I choose a path, that’s the one I’m taking, wherever it may lead. I’m not unreasonable or unwilling to accept new information, I just pay close attention all the time and collect relevant information as it’s presented to me. By the time I need to decide something, there’s generally no reason to dally. I know what I want, and I’m not afraid to reach out and grab it.
I can count on one hand how many times I’ve decided on a set course and failed to see it through.
If Autumn thinks she’ll be one of those exceptions, she’s got another thing coming.
I spend plenty of time with only my own company, so I’m content to ride along in silence, periodically taking a peek at my new girlfriend to see what she’s up to. I keep most of my glances covert though, because I noticed she tenses up when I turn my head and she feels me looking at her.
Finally, she gets up the nerve and enough composure to speak to me again without bursting into tears.
Her voice is low and a little resentful, so I imagine she’s been stewing in all kinds of bitter thoughts about me over there. “So, what, are you some kind of criminal or something?”
“Yep.”
Her eyebrows jump, her eyes widening in surprise at my forthrightness. “Oh.” She pauses to regroup, then goes on with a little less hostility. This time there’s more wariness in her tone. “Are you… a serial killer?”
I don’t much like serial killers, so I answer with a quick, “No.” But then I pause, cocking my head and reconsidering. “Well… I guess, in a sense. But no, I’m not like Ted Bundy, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Understandably confused, she frowns. “What does that mean? How is that something you’re not sure about? This is a yes or no question.”
It is, but it isn’t.
I’m not a serial killer… but I guess in the strictest sense, I am.
I have killed time and time again, but it’s not because I need to or any sick shit like that. My mom never woke up to me wielding a knife and a creepy smile at her bedside when I was a kid. I never killed small animals or ripped the wings off insects out of cold, unfeeling curiosity. I don’t savor taking lives, and I’m not some sadist who needs the violence to get hard—I’m not that kind of killer. It doesn’t drive me. If I never killed again, I’d be just fine.