by Mason, V. F.
“A friend of Rafe’s just called. He told me you have to come. He mentioned something about accidents can happen even without cars.”
Everything inside and around me freezes; my heart stops beating for a moment as fear sinks into my bones and almost makes me gag from the implication of these words.
I see Herb’s mouth move but don’t hear what he’s saying. My head’s spinning from different scenarios, and I sway to the side, my knees wobbling. But strong arms catch me in time and press me to a muscled chest that anchors me in the present and brings me back from my shock.
By the time the world around me stops spinning and comes into clear view again, Zachary is dragging me to the door with my jacket hanging from his arm while he throws over his shoulder to Herb, “I’ll take her home, and we’ll call you back.”
“I hope so. Rafe is a good kid,” the man shouts with worry in his voice, but I barely concentrate on that, gulping from the frigid air in my lungs that slaps me so hard, once and for all destroying the haze that settled around me when Herb basically said the serial killer has done something to Rafe.
Sara trusted me with her brother, and now he might be dead because of me!
I’m too lost in my thoughts to comprehend how Zachary pushes me inside the spacious black car and barks at his driver, “James, take us to her place. As fast as you can.” The driver starts the car immediately, taking off toward home, his car going so fast I think we will get there in a second.
Tremors rush through me as goose bumps appear on my skin, and only then it dawns on me how cold it is. Cursing, Zachary pulls me to him, throws my jacket over me, and makes me push my arms into the sleeves. Then he palms my scalp, tilting my head back, and orders, “Snap out of it, Phoenix. Now.”
I shake my head, my teeth chattering against each other and the fear almost killing me with how strong it is.
Is it possible to die from it?
“He might die. Rafe might die. He said there doesn’t have to be a car for an accident.” Grabbing the lapels of Zachary’s jacket, I scream into his face, “He might kill him because of me!” Doesn’t he get it? How can he be so calm?
The last time this serial killer played a game with me, his wife died! Or if it’s no one close to him, then he can’t be bothered by the fact?
“I get it, but your hysterics won’t change or help in the current situation.” He fists my hair, tugging it painfully, and I wince. “Whatever we encounter there, he’ll watch us. He’ll get off on everything he inspires in you. From your tears to your fear. So don’t give him any satisfaction.” I stay silent, tears forming in my eyes and almost dropping on my cheeks, but he shakes me harshly, and I groan. “Do you understand?”
Before I can comment, the car stops abruptly. I begin to fall forward, but Zachary catches me in time before my face hits the car seat.
He opens the door and gets out but not before muttering, “Show nothing but indifference, darling.” Is he insane? It will be a miracle if I don’t fall to my knees, bawling my eyes out at this point. “James, call an ambulance.”
“Yes, sir.”
I jump out of the car, doing my best to school my features, and rush inside the building, running to the stairs, and Zachary is hot on my heels, our shoes thumping on the crooked concrete. I don’t even pay attention to how my sides are hurting from all this physical exercise as we finally reach the fifth floor.
I dart toward the end, almost ready to burst inside, when I’m tugged back by Zachary, and he orders, “Stand here.”
“He’s there—”
“Stand here,” he repeats, steel lacing his tone, indicating he’ll accept no arguments. He goes to the door while I hurry after him, noticing how it’s cracked open with loud music blasting from the speakers, changing so fast it reminds me of the same sound my car radio made before I hit Angelica King.
Zachary kicks at the door, keeping me firmly behind him as he steps inside, and I cry out, covering my mouth with my palm when the scene opens up to our view, chilling the blood in me as my stomach flips. Disgusting smells float in the air and add to the dreaded atmosphere.
Rafe is lying right in the middle of the living room, soaking in a pool of blood under him, while shattered glass is scattered all over the floor. The walls are smeared in red paint or maybe Rafe’s blood forming words I don’t understand, because the letters seem to be backward.
The TV is muted, yet some horror movie must be playing on it, because a masked face keeps laughing and laughing at us, as if mocking the entire scene.
The furniture is either destroyed or slashed; feathers are still floating everywhere, sticking to the blood and almost covering Rafe, making him resemble a swan-like creature, floating in a lake created by his blood.
“Oh, dear God.” I dart toward him, the glass crunching under my shoes, and press my fingers to his pulse, exhaling in relief when I detect it and when I quickly examine his wound, my medical instincts kicking in. The blood is coming from the back of his head. Someone must have hit him with a sharp object that broke the skin but didn’t touch any important vein or artery. It’s possible the fall might’ve resulted in internal bleeding too. Without thinking, I order Zachary, “Get me a clean towel from the bathroom and tweezers from the desk.” He nods and does as I say, while I scan Rafe for any other wounds but thankfully find none.
The minute Zachary is back, I take the tweezers from him and ask, “Hold his hair back here.” After he follows my instructions, I have a clear view—well, as much as possible with all the hair and blood—and notice traces of glass in the wound. Paramedics will have to act fast, since we don’t know for how long he has been unconscious, and if I can save them time by removing glass, I’ll do it.
Quickly but carefully taking it out shard by shard, I find that the wound is not that deep. So how come there is so much blood under him? It’s not possible from such a small wound.
Unless this is the illusion game where the player presents the disaster bigger than it is in order to plant fear and despair in the hearts of his opponents?
Snatching the towel from Zach, I start to apply a little pressure on it, hoping to stop the bleeding for now at least, and that’s when the image on the TV changes, transforming into a text.
She was a genius with the perfect life.
Living in her fairytale world with no care.
Until I broke it all apart,: Made her a murderer who everyone wanted to rip to shreds.
The phoenix burned in flames.
I couldn’t stand watching it.
So I uncovered the truth and helped her to be reborn from her ashes.
Did you really think I would give you up, Phoenix?
Compared to everyone else in your life, I always stood by your side, but even I had to use you.
And everything I do now will be for you.
It’s one last dangerous game: Only one inevitable outcome.
Do you want to play it with me anyway?
“Oh, dear God,” I whisper, reading between the lines of this message, reminding me of how obsessively we used to study serial killers in one of our classes, because our professor used to work as a profiler.
The unsub, the one who he wants to find so much?
Created a connection with me a long time ago, and somehow it soothed the pain inside him to a point where I became a constant in his life, keeping him sane and in line.
But it also awakened the desire to kill that he must have kept in check for decades, judging by the language he uses.
When a grown serial killer wants to play with you and addresses you like you’re his best friend, it means he never had friends in his life… or a childhood, not a happy one anyway.
And if he has done such horrendous things?
It means his past is so bad one might not want to hear about it.
Which brings only one conclusion.
He doesn’t have a conscience, as no one taught him the concept of compassion toward others, a sociopath who seeks the power he was stripped o
f when he was a child.
In this twisted game he’s playing, he plans to die victoriously.
And take his best friend with him to the pits of hell.
Chapter Eleven
“Peace is a mythical word that doesn’t exist in real life.
They say a person should rest in peace when he or she dies.
But what should those who lost them do?
There is no such explanation for suffering in peace.
For there cannot be pain in peace.
Only dead people can truly understand or feel it, and isn’t that ironic? Or is the word I’m looking for ‘tragic’?”
Zachary
From Phoenix and Zach’s letters history…
Dear Zach,
I wasn’t sure if I should write this letter to you or not, since you weren’t exactly my favorite person after the last one. I found it rude, and… well, to be frank, you acted like a fucking asshole.
I thought you weren’t fair. Just because you experienced pain, it doesn’t define doctors as a whole.
Every profession has risks, and granted, yes, not in every profession lives depend on you every day… at least on the surface.
But even an architect has to design the best, most solid structure that has the ability to withstand harsh weather and not crumble. Or else he risks the safety of whoever lives or works in his buildings.
Anyway, all philosophical musings aside, I’m happy to inform you I got into an Ivy League university with a top score and a scholarship that covers all expenses.
Take that, rich boy!
I’m getting out of this hellhole with a big wave and hope to never, ever come back to New York.
New state, new me, or that’s what I’m hoping for anyway. One can dream, although I heard we can’t outrun our problems.
Oddly enough, I don’t have them anymore.
You should be graduating too, right? So, congratulations, and I guess you got wherever you wanted. Not sure if it’s here or once again abroad, but anyhow, school is over.
And the fun begins, or so all freshman students claim.
Enjoy all the sex (I assume that’s the thing you discovered based on your last letter) and have fun.
In the envelope, you will have a business card of my university and email, should you ever want to contact me. I figured in this age of technology, it’s time for us to move to a more… let’s say faster way of living?
Besides, no need to waste the paper; it’s not good for the planet.
Although you are a jerk and an asshole of epic proportions, and probably all our conversations were nothing but amusement to you… I figured we can keep the spark alive.
Wishing you the best in case this is our last letter,
P
P.S.: Still haven’t decided on my specialty, but I have eight years for that, right?
Two weeks later
P,
Ah, you got offended. And I wondered why I didn’t get your usual ramblings. (Insert me laughing and not regretting that, although I do find it interesting. You’re a breath of fresh air among all the other conversations I have in my life.)
So you settled on being a doctor, huh? That’s good and congrats on getting into the Ivy League. Always knew you were smart, excluding your mouth that won’t shut up even on paper.
Well I can’t say much besides good luck, right? Anyhow, it would have been a shame if my bitterness had kept you away from your dream.
I can’t complain about the sex. A guy has to find pleasure where he can, so if you expected my blushing apologies, you won’t get them.
That’s the thing really about apologies; I never make them. I consider them useless and a waste of air. If you do something and you regret it, don’t do it again. What’s the point of begging for forgiveness?
The person can see you have changed by your actions, surely not with your words. Or maybe I’m judging it all through my perspective?
I don’t give a flying fuck for apologies; people lie all the time, but if they work toward fixing the mistake, so to speak?
I might just forget about it. (Probably not, because I’m not that generous. Usually if you betray me or cross me, you are written off. Don’t see it changing in the future.)
Email sounds like a good idea, but I figured why not write one last letter for the sake of memories?
I’m studying business administration in London for the time being, but I plan to go back to the US in three years. Thankfully, Dad doesn’t have any prospects from his new kids, or he’d probably never allow me to touch the family business.
Which is laughable. I’m the only one who can expand it, but then again, he never wanted to see how smart I am.
In the box the letter is attached to, you will find a platinum necklace. That’s if no one steals it on the way, and in that case, too bad for you.
Consider it my graduation gift.
Best,
Zach
Phoenix
Somebody drops a blanket over me. I tighten my hold on the hot mug of tea in my hands and raise my eyes to see Zachary looming above me and adjusting the thing so it covers me entirely, almost blanketing me away from the world. “Thanks,” I whisper, relieved that at least my voice has stopped trembling, even though my hands still shake.
Pressing my lips to the rim of the mug, I inhale the minty scent to let it calm my nerves, but it fails especially with the countless red and blue flashing lights shining in front of me as police cars surround the place, searching for the killer who would be long gone.
He wouldn’t have called otherwise.
Rafe is on his way to the hospital where hopefully they will take care of him.
One of the paramedics congratulated me for taking such good care of him and joked, asking if I was a doctor in another life. His laughter still rings in my ears, and a humorless chuckle slips past my chapped lips from this cold weather.
“I’d like to know what’s so funny.” Zachary’s voice washes over me like silk, sliding around me before wrapping tightly around my neck and almost depriving me of oxygen from how husky and deep it is. And his green eyes blaze at me, trying to burn me alive.
“You wouldn’t get it,” I say, and then my brows furrow. “What are you doing here anyway?” I expected him to hightail his ass out of here the minute the cops showed up and the message popped up, but he stayed almost glued to my side, answering all their questions and then walking me outside to where I sat on a bench as the police asked me to be here in case they have any more questions.
Apparently, someone wanted to talk to me, so they prevented me from going with Rafe to the hospital. At least I managed to learn where they went and will be able to visit him once this is all over.
Only then can I call Sara and inform her about this disaster, and I won’t be surprised if she tells me to get the fuck out of their apartment.
“It’s called cooperation.” Not this word again. “Like it or not, we are in this together.”
I huff in exasperation, taking a large sip, and almost cough when the hot substance burns my tongue. “We are not, and didn’t you see the message? I’m his best friend, so if I were you, I’d stay away so you won’t become collateral damage like Rafe.” My voice hitches on his name, and guilt assaults me, making it impossible to breathe for a second, because Sara trusted me with him.
And at the end of the day, one more person suffers because of me.
Maybe I should have just stayed in prison until they caught this guy. That way the destruction around me would have stopped.
Twenty-four hours of freedom, and someone got hurt. I have to deal with Zachary’s company and Sebastian’s guilt.
Not to mention I blew my first day on the job, so yeah, as far as good starts go… mine sucks.
“Or like my wife?” he says, and I freeze, the tension rising around us while I gulp for breath, turning my head away from him, not wanting to see his pain or remind myself of the courtroom three and a half years ago when such deep hatred filled hi
s gaze. It’s a wonder he didn’t kill me with it. “Fuck. This is not what I meant.”
My hollow laughter echoes in the night. “Oh no. This is exactly what you meant. But that’s okay. Because this”—I point between us—“proves you blame me as much as the killer, and in this, there will never be a collaboration. I could never work with someone who thinks I’m guilty.”
“I didn’t say that,” he snaps, his jaw ticking as he pulls at his hair with a growl. “Stop putting words in my mouth and fucking listen to me.”
I lift my chin, finishing my tea and placing the cup next to me on the bench while burrowing deeper into the blanket. “Why? I’ve had enough of your insults to last me a lifetime.”
A clearing of a throat tears our stares from each other, and as if on command, we shift our heads to the side to see two people standing a few feet away from us.
One of them is a man who has a buzzed haircut; his muscled body, encased in a black suit, emphasizes his strength and dominant energy, clearly the boss of something. He has empty, brown eyes; you probably couldn’t guess his emotion if you tried.
He smiles at us, although it barely lifts the corner of his mouth, and extends his hand toward me. “Ms. Hale. My name is Agent Noah Willson. This is one of my team members, Agent Ella Gadot.” He motions with his head to the woman standing slightly behind me, her eyes flashing with kindness that go well with her dark hair.
My brows furrow when his title registers in my mind, and I open my mouth to comment, but Zachary does it for me. “Agents, as in the FBI?”
Noah’s assertive gaze settles on Zachary for a brief second, as if he dissects him into pieces and quickly studies his character before he nods. “Yes. Profilers to be exact.”
“Criminal psychologists,” I conclude, still confused what they’re doing here. “Are you the people who wanted to talk to me?”
“Yes, we were informed about a new lead in the case and came right away.” Ella finally speaks up, her voice gentle yet firm. “Would you mind if we ask you a few questions?”
