Page 80 of Conflicted Lies

I chuckle, but tears well in my eyes. I pull away from my father to adjust my glasses. This is so stupid. So strange that being caught as a killer by my family has relieved me in a way I thought wasn’t possible.

“I’m just sad you felt like you couldn’t tell us. If I’d known you wanted to kill people, I would’ve taken you out myself. We could’ve created a hunting ground or something. Ooh, perhaps we should create auctions like that for the rich. My niece, you’re brilliant!” she says, inspiration lighting her eyes as she places the knife in her purse.

“How does it make you feel when you take a life?” Dad asks carefully.

My eyebrows furrow, and I lick my lips. A buzz of energy rushes over me as I recall every kill.

It’s beautiful.

Magical.

Life and death.

In the moment I take a life, I feel something besides the adrenaline, besides the acute, heightened senses. I feel like I’m connected to everything and every color. The world becomes my canvas.

“I like it… a lot.”

“More than this?” He waves a hand around the room, and I can only nod. Because I feel like without one, I would no longer have the muse to do the other.

They are both part of who I am.

“Something doesn’t make sense, though. Your pattern, or the serial killer’s. The strangling of one of the victims and the broken neck of another. You’re five foot nothing, so how did you pull that off?” Anya asks me.

I click my tongue and look away, furious. Those two kills tarnished my legacy. “They weren’t my kills. And it kind of pisses me off they’re assumed to be my victims. But it’s not like I can correct the police or the media.”

Anya laughs. “My, my. What a little ego. We definitely have to work on that because it will be your undoing, and you’ll get caught.”

“But you’ll bail me out, right?” I ask, batting my lashes.

She smiles in return. “I knew you were my favorite niece for a reason.”

“I’m your only niece,” I remind her as she pulls me in for a hug.

My father huffs, acting annoyed by our camaraderie. But deep down, I can see the twinkle in his eyes. The approval. The quiet confidence and pride. He might not ever say it out loud, especially in front of my mother, but I feel it. And I feel whole. Finally.

“We won’t share this with your mother just yet,” he says.

“Do we have to tell her?” I ask, and he pins me with a glare. It would be easier if we didn’t. I don’t like lying to her, but I don’t think she’ll be as accepting as they are.

“Your mother loves you. She’ll just need time to adjust. It will eat at her, knowing there is something in your life you can’t trust her with,” he says. “If she can love a monster like me, let me assure you, she will love her only child.” I want to cry all over again. My father is a man of few words, but when he does speak, it’s with confidence and conviction. “However, the next time you have the urge to kill someone, you will be calling me. Do you understand?”

I nod, trying not to smile.

“And me,” Anya adds with a smirk. I’m not sure why I would call either of them; it’s something I enjoy doing alone. But their moral support is nice.

“Anything else we should know about?” Dad asks.

I bite my bottom lip. I think about the glass sculptures, but that feels like mine and Braxton’s secret. And if I tell them about them, they’ll storm his place immediately to get rid of the evidence. But selfishly, I want him to have those.

“Nope,” I lie.

My father stares at me skeptically, and I’m certain he knows I’m lying.

“I have to work now,” I tell them, trying to usher them out.

“You know, if you came under our employment, you could get paid for killing,” my aunt says.

“No. She’ll focus on her sculptures,” Dad bites back.

---