Page 63 of Ruin
The same energy that makes everyone in Hell step aside when Cassius walks past.
The same aura that drew me to him like a moth to flame.
And his voice. God, his fucking voice.
I close my eyes and let the memory surface fully, no matter how much it hurts.
The killer had spoken to my father, just a few words before the gunshots that changed everything.
Through the panic room's speakers, distorted by fear and the poor audio quality, I'd heard,"You should have taken the money."
The same voice that whispers endearments in my ear during our most intimate moments.
The same voice that commands my submission in Hell.
The same voice that told me he loved me last night while his hands worshipped the body of his victims' daughter.
The same voice that's been lying to me every second of every day since we met.
My body had recognized him even when my mind refused to accept the truth.
That's why I was drawn to him so instantly at Purgatory, why I felt that immediate, inexplicable connection that made no rational sense.
Why something about him always felt familiar, like coming home to a place I'd never been but somehow knew by heart.
Because I had been there.
In the worst moment of my life, he was there, taking everything from me before I even knew it was his to take.
The sixteen-year-old version of me hiding in that panic room didn’t know his name or his face. But it carved a groove in me, and he spent years ensuring that when we finally met, I’d fall right into it.
I grab my phone with shaking hands, scroll to Michelle's number, then stop.
What would I tell her?
That I've been fucking the man who killed my parents?
The conversation plays out in my head:
Michelle, remember that research you did for me? Well, it turns out I've been sleeping with a serial killer. Oh, and he murdered my parents. Small world, right?
I'd lose everything.
My career, my reputation, any chance at a normal life.
I'd be seen as either a victim too stupid to recognize her own abuser, or an accomplice who helped him evade justice for years.
Neither option offers a future worth living.
I consider calling Emilia, but the thought makes me physically sick.
Sweet, innocent Emilia who still believes in justice and happy endings and the power of good to triumph over evil.
She'd try to save me, try to fix this, try to convince me to go to the police and trust the system.
The same system that buried my father's investigation.
The same system that let his killer walk free for years while I fell in love with him and begged him to hurt me.
