Page 10 of Captive

“Can I ask you something?” Abby says, picking at the edge of the pillow on her lap.

“I guess.” I have the feeling she’d ask even if I said no. She doesn’t seem like the type who’s used to hearing the word no.

“What’s with the old hockey masks?”

Out of everything she could’ve asked, that wasn’t a particular question I’m prepared for. My brows furrow, and I look at her curiously. What’s even more funny is the way she asked, as if she was merely asking about the weather outside.

“I didn’t choose the hockey mask, if that’s what you’re wondering,” I tell her. She thinks she knows everything, but there are still parts of D.D.K. she’s clueless about. She might think Hawthorne is the brains, and to a certain extent, he is, but he’s not at the top of this totem pole. Oh, no, there’s so much more to this than she could ever realize.

“Then who did? And why?”

“Believe it or not, being here doesn’t mean you’re going to learn all about our secrets. You already know too fucking much.”

Abby rolls her eyes and mutters, “You’re no fun. I was just wondering.”

“It’s just part of what we do,” I say, figuring I’m being vague enough. She might think she knows about us, about D.D.K., but the book on D.D.K. is a lot bigger than she could ever know. Hell, I’m pretty sure it’s bigger than I know. Out of the three of us, Hawthorne is the one who knows the most, being one step higher than Ezra and me.

And you know what? I’m fine with that. I enjoy what I do. I wouldn’t want to have Hawthorne’s position. I’m a doer, not a thinker. It’s who I’ve always been. Ezra is more in the middle when it comes to doing and thinking.

“What we do,” she echoes me softly. “It’s so crazy to me that D.D.K. is a team-effort. Has it always been? I mean, did one of you guys start this whole thing first?” When I shoot her another hard look, she shrugs. “What? I’m curious. You can’t blame a girl for being curious.”

I’m not used to anyone asking questions like that, let alone simply knowing the truth, so it takes me a while to push away the thoughts that threaten to surface as a result of her line of questioning. She doesn’t need to know why we do this, or how it all began. Some things are better left in the past. All of us in this house have things we’d rather not dig up.

Some things? They’re better dead and buried. If you grab a shovel and dig ‘em up, you’ll only find fucking bones.

She turns toward me on the couch. “Okay, well, at least tell me this. That other guy—”

“Hawthorne,” I say.

“Hawthorne,” she corrects herself, “asked if I was one of Brock’s victims. How’d you guys know Brock had a thing for drugging and taking advantage of women?”

I don’t say a word, but I don’t need to. The expression on my face must say enough.

“That’s who D.D.K. kills, isn’t it? Guys like that.” Abby leans her head back and stares at the ceiling for a few seconds. I hesitate to describe her expression as awe, but that’s the closest thing to it. “Why the hell doesn’t the news link the victims like that? Anytime there’s a story about D.D.K., it’s always about the police scrambling to link them together.”

I’ve never, ever heard anyone be so cavalier about these things, other than Ezra and Hawthorne.

I want to dislike this girl. She’s a complication none of us need. Complications in our line of work could mean making mistakes and getting caught, which is bad. Obviously. But, as much as I want to dislike this girl, as much as I want to be annoyed and hate her for intruding and being a thorn in our sides, I don’t.

No, more like I can’t.

Fuck, is it weird to say she’s a breath of fresh air? Is it wrong to want to know more about her? She didn’t act like Brock hurt her, which means… what, exactly? As much as she wants to know about us, I’d like to know more about her, too.

Eventually the truth will come out, how all the victims are similar. See: they’re rapists and abusers. But not yet. Maybe when it does, maybe when the entire country knows that there’s a serial killer out there targeting bad men, those same men will think differently before they act on their immoral impulses.

It’s not perfect, but it is something. Being a part of this makes me feel like I have some say in the world, in how it’s run. One by one, we line ‘em up and then we take them the fuck down. We have a never-ending supply of shitty men.

Since I don’t respond to her, we settle into silence for a while. I don’t know what she’s thinking about, but she’s definitely got my mind running.

A few minutes later, Abby breaks the silence of the room by asking, “Seriously, you can tell me the truth: what’s going to happen to me? There’s no way you guys want to keep me here forever as a captive. Sooner or later, you’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”

I give her a hard look, and the moment I do, I try not to get lost in her gray eyes that are so metallic they’re practically silver. Such a unique, almost impossible stare. Combine those eyes with her hair and her nonchalant way of looking at tonight’s events, and she is a total enigma.

“We don’t kill women,” I whisper.

The smile that spreads on her face after that makes something in me twist, but not in a bad way. More like a way I’m not used to. “A serial-killing team with a code? Not something you hear every day.” She hugs the pillow closer to her chest, still grinning at me. “It might be kind of fun being here, assuming everything you said is true.”

“It is true. I might be a fucking killer, but I’m no liar.”