Page 83 of He Sees You
He reaches up, traces my bruised cheekbone where Jake hit me. "Does it hurt?"
"Everything hurts. And everything feels perfect." I straddle his lap in the chair, frame his face with my hands. "We killed someone together tonight."
"Yes."
"I should feel guilty. Horrified. Traumatized."
"But you don't."
"I feel alive. Electric. Like I've been sleepwalking for thirty-one years and finally woke up." I lean closer, my lips brushing his ear. "Is this how you felt? The first time?"
"The first time was my parents." His hands settle on my waist, holding me in place. "And yes. I felt like the world finally made sense. Like I'd found my purpose."
"Tell me about it. Tell me everything."
He's quiet for a moment, then starts speaking. "They'd just finished with Juliette. She was thirteen, bleeding, trying not to cry because crying made it worse. Patricia was playing Chopin on the piano, that Nocturne in E-flat major, like she always did during. Richard was drinking scotch, satisfied with himself."
I don't move, barely breathe, not wanting to interrupt this confession.
"I'd been planning it for months. Reading about carbon monoxide, testing the heating system, creating small leaks that could be explained as wear and tear. That night, after they went to bed, I sealed their bedroom windows from the outside. Tampered with the detector. Increased the gas flow."
"Did they suffer?"
"Yes." His hands tighten on my waist. "They woke up when it was too late. Tried to open the windows, the door. I'd blocked everything. I sat outside their bedroom window and watched them die. Listened to them scream into their pillows as their lungs failed."
"Good."
He looks at me then, really looks at me. "Juliette knows. She's never said it, but she knows."
"And she's grateful."
"She's terrified. Of me. Of what I'm capable of."
"I'm not."
"No," he agrees. "You're not."
I kiss him then, tasting violence and honesty on his tongue.
When I pull back, we're both breathing hard.
"Show me your journal. The one where you document them all."
He hesitates, then stands, lifting me with him. Sets me on my feet and goes to a hidden panel in the wall I hadn't noticed before.
Inside is a leather journal, thick with entries.
I open it randomly, read his neat handwriting:
Mark Webb, 38. Drug dealer. Specialized in high school girls, getting them hooked on pills in exchange for sex. Three overdoses linked to his product. Found at bottom of Black Mountain ravine. Cause of death: gravity. Justice served: November 15th.
Another page:
Timothy Morrison, 44. High school coach. Seven complaints of inappropriate touching from female students over ten years. All dismissed for 'lack of evidence.' Hunting accident—arrow through the throat. His own arrow, impossible trajectory unless self-inflicted or placed. Justice served: March 8th.
And another:
Patricia Morse, 52. Social worker. Took bribes to ignore abuse cases. Four children died due to her negligence. Fell down her basement stairs. Neck broken. Blood alcohol level made the accident plausible. Justice served: September 22nd.
