Page 8 of Slaying for Santa
“Can I kill her?” I deadpan, and his lips kick up as he chuckles.
“She’s not worth it.”
“I disagree.” I want to add that any mother that squeezes their child’s wrist like I saw deserves to have their hands cut off, but then I’ll have to explain that I witnessed more than I’m letting on, and while I’m typically honest, I do know that withholding information is sometimes necessary. “I’ll drag it out if you like.”
His eyes narrow as he stares at me. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.”
“Have you known me to joke?”
“No, never.”
“Well. There’s your answer.” I shrug.
“So you did it then?” he asks, turning away and moving to the fridge.
“Did what?”
“Became the serial killer everyone expected you to be,” he states, so matter-of-factly as he opens the fridge and reaches in, snagging two cans of beer.
“What would you say if I said yes, that’s exactly what I became?”
Straightening, his head darts over his shoulder, some auburn strands falling in his eyes again, which must annoy him, because he bats them away.
“I think I should ask if I’m your next victim?”
“Depends.”
“On what?” His voice rises like he’s actually worried.
“If you’ve done something worth being killed for.”
His lips kick up. “Who decides what’s worth it and what isn’t?”
“Well me. Duh.” I roll my eyes. “I’m the killer.”
He throws his head back laughing, and again, I fight the urge to smile.
What the hell…
“This is a weird fucking conversation.” He strides towards me holding out one of the beers.
“Pass,” I say, shaking my head, and he frowns.
“I don’t have harder stuff than beer in my home,” he states almost angrily, like I’m the one doing something wrong.
I suppose the me three years ago would have already had a few lines of coke by now.
“I’m sober. No drugs or alcohol for me,” I admit, like it’s no big deal, but by the way his brows shoot up, I know he’s going to make it a big deal.
“Bell… that’s fucking amazing.” He moves back to the fridge, and I hold my hand up to stop him.
“Let’s not make a big thing about it.”
He puts both cans of beer back in the fridge and turns to face me. “Why the fuck not? It is a big thing. A huge fucking thing. How long have you been sober?”
I shrug, feeling awkward, the sensation unfamiliar to me. “A while.”
“Hey.” He steps up to me, both hands gripping my upper arms, his blue gaze locking with mine, and I stiffen, waiting for the urge to flee that normally comes when people crowd me. “I know you know the exact day count, Bell. One of my mates is sober too. When I saw him a few days ago, he was on day four hundred and thirty-seven. What’s yours?”
