Page 69 of Petrify

To face what he is. What he’s done.

“Say it.”

“You’re a murderer.” As soon as I speak the words, I realize how ridiculous they sound. How impossible.

But Iknowit’s not impossible.

Killers walk amongst the living everyday. They blend in. They look just like the rest of us.

He’s silent for a moment, maybe deciding how much more to reveal. “My first was an accident.”

His firstkill.

“One day, she put her hands on me for the last time. My nanny. I was only ten.” His fingers tighten on my jaw. “I told them it was an accident. Self defense. But I wrapped my fingers around her throat and didn’t let go until the whites of her eyes turned purple.”

I force myself not to look away this time.

“Then I was curious. And I didn’t particularly like my tutor. He had even less patience. Why not rid myself of that problem, too?”

He says it like he relishes the memory.

“They already had trouble explaining away two deaths, scrubbing the media of any mention of something strange going on at Beauchene manor. They threw around the idea of sending me away. But wouldn’t that look suspicious?” The words are bitterly sardonic. “There’s more pity to be had in a dead son.”

He told me I should be afraid, and I am, but there’s also this strange numbness settling over me, this sense of understanding, and that scares memore.

“And the maintenance worker? Burned to death at the radiator?”

His eyes twinkle. “I held him there against the metal until his flesh melted and charred to a crisp. Want to know why? He was too curious, putting the pieces together. So they told me to take care of him.”

And he keeps telling me that we’re thesame.

“Don't you have any remorse?”

“Should I?”

“It'swrong, Bastien.”

“Is it any more wrong than what they’ve done? You act as though these people are perfect angels. I can assure you that nine times out of ten, it’s deserved.”

“And who are you to make that judgment?”

His fingers trail down from my jaw, loosely circling my wrist. “This house, this estate—no one within is safe. There's no way out. Not for you.”

My eyes burn. “Like I'm some animal you can hunt?”

He shakes his head. “We're all animals. None of us are good. Things are not so black and white, Mallary.”

“Bastien, you can’t just?—”

“I can,” he says. “I can and I will. Ihave. I don’t mourn any of them, and you shouldn’t, either.”

Something in me recoils so harshly, I flinch away from him. “It's wrong,” I say, “it’s disgusting.”

“Don't pretend you’re on some moral high ground now. Why do you feel bad for them?” His fingers intertwine with mine. I can't pull away. “There’s no use in feeling ashamed of what we have to do.”

“We?” I step back, trying to pull my hands from his, but his fingers are tight.

“I, then. WhatIhave to do.” He exhales.