The Land Where Sinners Atone

by Mason, V. F.

  Then again, by the beast roaring inside me, I prefer not to think what Phoenix did and didn’t do with her ex-husband.

  “The owner went all-out on this one,” she says and then blinks. “My God, is that chandelier made out of diamonds?”

  “Expensive crystal, but according to a legend, sure, these are diamonds,” I tease her, trying to see the establishment through a newcomer’s perspective.

  It has beige furniture scattered all around the perimeter of the rectangular space on the roof of the building. Pink vases holding tulips sit atop the round tables, which are surrounded by four chairs.

  A glass covering serves as the roof of the place, allowing for streams of sunshine to brighten up the place, making it almost glow and giving it a sophisticated look from an earlier century when such designs graced every luxurious house.

  The waitstaff wear black and white uniforms with leather shoes that are soundless on the parquet, not disturbing the customers with their constant clicks as they run around delivering all the orders.

  One of them, the one who usually serves my table whenever I decide to come here, sees me from far away and waves, rushing toward me before anyone else can show us to a table.

  Usually, you have to have a reservation weeks in advance to get inside; it’s always packed with people no matter the day or the hour. Besides, the restaurant is not that big. The enclosed space creates an even bigger sense of urgency, because people’s desire to get in is even greater as they feel special and important by snagging a table.

  This restaurant is all about brilliant marketing. I should know, since I invested millions when one of the owners came to me with a proposition.

  “Mr. King,” Betty greets me and then shifts her gaze to Phoenix for a brief second, surprise flashing there, but she quickly schools her features. After all, I’ve never brought a woman here before, besides my wife. “I’m so happy to see you again. Please come in. Your table is free as always.”

  Phoenix’s brows rise at this, but she doesn’t say anything. Walking behind me as we pass by all the onlookers, I don’t miss a few quickly taken photos before we sit at our table. From the right corner, the view opens up to the city panorama, showcasing the magnificence and beauty of it all, and being so high up, we almost seem to be floating in the air.

  Betty puts menus in front of us and asks, “Would you like to start with some drinks?” She addresses Phoenix in this case, because my order never changes.

  “Yes, I’d like a cup of tea please.”

  Betty nods and rushes off to get it for us as I rest back on the chair and watch her avoid my gaze, picking up the menu and reading through it with feigned interest. “They have delicious pastries here,” I decide to start the conversation, fucking fed up with the silent oath it seems she took in the car.

  She didn’t even question where we were going; that’s how much the desire to get away from Leiken was, and it makes me wonder what the fuck happened there.

  Or was it another apology she didn’t want?

  You can’t leave this woman for five minutes without vultures wanting to snag a bit of her soul, and she still questions why I came after her?

  Phoenix might not know it, but she is extremely fragile. If she’s not careful enough, the breakdown will happen. Her losing it in the FBI office proved this much. When a person holds the pain inside for so long… it’s only a matter of time before it all explodes, and it’s not going to be pretty.

  However, I’ll stay by her side through it all, holding her hand tight and giving me a reason to live.

  She doesn’t react to my suggestion, flipping the pages to pastas, and continues to study it.

  Well then, if she wants to play it dirty, I don’t mind.

  Anything but this fucked up silence that grates on my nerves, taking me back in time to the beeps of a machine echoing in the house as Mom lay unconscious in her bed, because medication wouldn’t help.

  “We had sex last night. You can’t erase that from my or your memory by ignoring or avoiding me.” She stills; her harsh intake of breath fills the space between us before her furious eyes, which remind me of molten chocolate a person can get addicted to, meet mine. “You can deny it all you want, but you got off. Punishing us both for phenomenal sex seems a bit extreme, don’t you think? Especially when we need to discuss our little situation.” Although in this moment, I crave nothing more than pulling her toward me and sinking my fingers in her hair as my mouth feasts on hers, which submits the minute our lips connect.

  Even if having nothing but insults to say to me when they’re not.

  She throws the menu down, placing her elbows on the table, and leans closer so I don’t miss any of her words. “Let’s make something clear. We had sex, and that’s about it. It had nothing to do with what I truly wanted. My body wanted it. Anyone would have done, Zachary, so if I were you, I wouldn’t be so cocky or flaunt that fact in my face. Don’t be pathetic.” With these words hanging in the air, she waves the menu at Betty who is coming along with my black coffee and Phoenix’s tea, putting them on the table quickly. “I’d like penne pasta. Just bring any you consider the best.”

  “Sure. Your steak will be ready in about twenty minutes, Mr. King.” With one more polite smile, she goes to the next table, taking their orders.

  “You keep telling yourself that, darling,” I say, and Phoenix’s cup of tea pauses midway to her mouth. “It was me who got you off with my tongue, fingers, and dick last night, and I know when a woman wants a man.”

  “Stop it,” she hisses, and I lift my coffee to toast her, my voice dropping a few octaves.

  “I haven’t even started, darling.”

  She groans in frustration, slamming her cup on the saucer, and it rattles loudly, spilling a little of it on the dish. “Okay, you know what? For the sake of my sanity, let’s call a truce.” She exhales a heavy breath before continuing, “We have a problem that we need to handle, and unfortunately that involves spending time together.”

  I swallow the bitter taste of coffee, smacking my lips together. “It’s unfortunate only to you. I’m having the time of my life.”

  She ignores my statement. “I can’t function like this. Always waiting for the shoe to drop with the unsub hunting us. So let’s agree to not intentionally anger one another, okay?” She lifts her index finger when I want to comment on that. “No talk about sex or my hate toward you. It gets us nowhere, and the so-called cooperation you want? It won’t work in the current environment, okay? Just stop, please.” I don’t know how to react to that.

  Maybe because I haven’t met a woman who resisted me or my charms, going out of her way to point out that she despises me. My wealth, my looks, or my good-for-nothing generosity doesn’t seduce; instead, it repulses her. Granted, I never gave her any reason to like me, but how fucking fascinating is that?

  Wooing for the attention of the woman who hates your guts, gorgeous in her beauty and strength that radiates from her.

  No wonder Sebastian loved her like a madman.

  “Well?” she prompts when I stay silent. “Do we have a truce?”

  “Just to make sure I got it right. We can’t talk about sex. And that’s it?” Ah, this is just too good to be true, but I wonder if she catches on to the mistake she is about to make with me.

  I’m not called ruthless for nothing. If there are any kind of negotiations, I’ll be the winner who takes the highest prize.

  Even if I have to build an entire strategy with several decoys hidden in the most unexpected places.

  Her brows furrow and she bites her lower lip, confused by my question from the look of it. “Yes.”

  My mouth curves in a smile, while I lean closer so our faces are inches apart from each other, and I see how some women a few tables away from us gasp. “Then you have your truce.” She blinks, suspicion filling her brown orbs, and I lean back, picking up my coffee and inhaling the smell. “Now let’s talk, shall we?”

  She nods and takes out the phone I gave he
r from her pocket, putting it right in the middle of the table as she opens a writing app. “On the way to the hospital, I made a couple notes on all the things we have so far, to build a portrait of the unsub in our head so we can have some hints.” She scrolls through a couple of them; the majority match Lachlan’s observations.

  But then one point sticks out to me the most and I pause at it, my finger pressing on the screen to zoom in. “Might be a woman?” The fucking thought never crossed my mind, so I ask, “Why do you think so?”

  Phoenix folds her hands together. “Nothing has ever really hinted at the gender of the unsub. Statistically, there are more male serial killers; however, the way the deaths happen rub me the wrong way.”

  “He’s afraid to get to the victim. I know.” Thanks, Lachlan, or I’d show myself as a clueless idiot in front of this woman. Psychology is not one of my strongest suits, no matter how much I study serial killers. “There are a lot of men afraid to face their victims.”

  “That might be true, but the way he kills those women is… how to say it… kind.”

  “Kind,” I repeat, my hands fisting on the table when the image fills my mind of Angelica’s body lying on the sidewalk with her brain spilling all over the concrete and blood pouring from underneath and surrounding her body. Her neck twisted in a weird position, because it fucking broke.

  Remorse for a second crosses her face, and she squeezes my hand for the first time, but then she snatches it away quickly when sensations prickle our skin. “I’m sorry, Zachary. I know it’s hard to hear.” She licks her lips before elaborating on her earlier observation. “This unsub doesn’t let them suffer for long. When the accident occurs, they die instantly from the impact. I think that’s one of the reasons the speed of the car is always so high. The unsub leaves them no chance to survive and suffer from the wounds.”

  “And that’s what you call fucking kind?” I growl, rage burning inside me from reliving all those painful memories and the all-consuming fury that demands to find the fucker and make the unsub choke on his fucking kindness that has destroyed so many lives.

  “It’s a level of compassion. Usually seen in female unsubs. This unsub is a psychopath, probably nurtured in an abusive household. Yet he still feels sorry for his victims? Some things are just not adding up.”

  “Well, if he associates himself with them, it’s normal.”

  Phoenix shakes her head and sips her tea before replying, “To an extent, yes. I agree that he recreates whatever happened in his life. But he doesn’t get off on torture. On their suffering. The unsub is almost gentle with them.”

  A bitter laugh slips past my lips, and I swallow it with coffee, hating this fucker, whoever he or she is, with a passion so strong I don’t want the police to find him first.

  No, I want to be the one to find him, to dish my revenge that will be so fucking cold the fucker will wish he could die a thousand times over rather than face me.

  I’ll create a basement with all the best torture devices in the world and even take lessons from Lachlan if I have to, as long as it ensures the unsub’s constant suffering.

  “Zachary,” Phoenix calls my name, and I realize she’s repeated it a few times, and her soft, warm voice pulls me from my dark thoughts as I focus my stare on her. “I know this information upsets you, but when we discuss the unsub, you have to put all your feelings aside. Think about it as some separate case.”

  All this psychiatric tone spoken to me as if she tries to soothe one of her patients makes me snap at her. “Easy for you to say.”

  I regret the words the minute they are out. They stay in the air between us, hurt along with anger flashing in her eyes, and her nails dig into her palms, her hands shaking in barely controlled fury.

  “Right. Because you are the only one whose life he affected, and I’m just passing judgment in my fucking happy bubble,” she says and gets up swiftly, the legs of the chair scraping against the parquet, bringing even more attention to us from the tables close by. “You are—” She groans, fisting her hands in the air before muttering, “God, give me patience I do not possess.” And drops back onto her chair. “Stop acting like a dick, Zachary.”

  “I shouldn’t have said that.” I never fucking apologize, so I can’t give her the words she probably needs right now, but I promise myself to never, ever lose my temper in her presence again. She’s already suffered enough from it. “And you are right.”

  “That’s probably as close as you’ll get to the word sorry, huh?” she asks and locks her phone screen while drifting back to our conversation. “Based on all this information, we can’t exclude any gender from this investigation. That’s all I have for now. We can try going to my hospital and checking my patients, and then run all the names through your system to see if there is a connection. Although, we need permission for that, so the agents will probably be handling that.”

  Betty chooses this moment to come back, holding a heavy tray with steaming food that smells delicious, but I don’t give a shit.

  Right now, food is so far from my mind I wonder why I even ordered anything.

  Betty quickly empties the tray before running off again.

  Phoenix inhales the smells of her red pasta with seafood by the looks of it and digs her fork in. “Oh my God. I’ve missed the smell alone so much.” She puts it in her mouth and moans, closing her eyes and savoring every bite, while I can’t help but fucking remember her other moans and shift uncomfortably on the seat.

  Not only because she turns me on, I think I have to be ready that even small details about her affect me in some way, and isn’t that just fucking great?

  But also at the guilt rushing through me as I recall the last three and a half years have been hell for her where not only her basic necessities but also those things that bring her pleasure weren’t met.

  She was stripped of everything yet survived, and I don’t know that many people who wouldn’t have crumpled under such weight and pressure.

  The pressure I put as well, pressing and pressing, waiting for her to finally give up and maybe kill herself, too tired to fight against everyone.

  These are just some dark thoughts that played in my mind in the first couple months after Angelica’s death, thoughts I’m not proud of, and they disgust me right now.

  However, no matter what I do, I’m not sure I can make atonement to her for all the sins I’ve committed.

  If there was a land where sinners atoned, I would have taken her there and asked for forgiveness, hoping for the best.

  But forgiveness is like love; it’s either freely given or has no meaning at all. You can’t force the emotion out of someone.

  “I understand why you brought me here. The food tastes divine.” She digs her fork in again but pauses with it in the pasta, her brows furrowing. “So, I showed you all my cards. What’s your plan? How do you think we can lure him out of hiding by working together?”

  I take my silverware, cutting the steak, and wait for her to swallow her mouthful of food before I answer, “We’ll get married.”

  Ah, yes.

  The unsub formed a connection with her where I’m that dick who ruined her life, and he’s the fucking savior in his or her eyes?

  Well then.

  I will take away what he wants.

  And, in the meantime, claim what’s mine.

  Like I said before.

  What Zachary King wants, he gets.

  Unsub

  I stand still, watching Phoenix, my Phoenix of all people, having lunch with Zachary in a civilized atmosphere, with her nodding and agreeing by the looks of it with whatever he has to say.

  As if he’s not the man who hurt her so much. Who took away her baby and husband. Left so many scars on her body that nothing will ever be able to erase them.

  How can she sit with him? Hasn’t she suffered enough because of him?

  A voice from the past echoes in my ears, bringing up the familiar headache in my temples while the memories play vividly in front of my
eyes, dragging me back to hell.

  “Daddy, please stop. Please stop,” I beg, crawling on the floor, my knees and palms scraping against the glass crushed all around me, and I still the cry of pain ready to erupt when it digs into my skin. “Please stop.”

  Daddy doesn’t listen to me though and kicks me in the stomach again with his boot-covered foot before fisting my hair and tilting my head back, while he seethes into my face as he looms above me. “You fucking shit. How dare you touch my booze?” Another harsh kick, and the air stills in my lungs as pain spreads through me, awakening every nerve in my body, and I groan, coughing wildly, noticing blood on my hands from it.

  Daddy must have bruised my stomach again, and we’ll have to go to the hospital with him telling everyone I fell down the stairs.

  Again.

  “I’m sorry,” I rasp, needing oxygen, yet I don’t gulp for it, as it hurts so much that I’m afraid I might pass out.

  And I can’t do that, because when I did it last time, Daddy… he….

  “Your sorry will not bring my whiskey back, will it?” he asks and then lets go of me, and I quickly, as much as I can in my condition, crawl to the right corner of the living room and press my back against it, while I shake from head to toe.

  With a loud whoosh, he snags the belt from his waist, the metal buckle hitting his knee as he wraps the belt around his hand, coming closer and closer to me. The sound of his boots rock off the walls with each step, my pulse speeding up so much I feel it in my throat. “I’m sorry,” I repeat, although I don’t know why I’m apologizing for this. He pushed me against the table, because he didn’t like how I boiled his eggs, and because of that, the bottle dropped on the floor, shattering into tiny pieces with the liquid soaking the carpet.

  “Always a disappointment. You were always a fucking disappointment,” he shouts right before striking me with the belt. The pain sinks into every bone in my body, and I cry out, unable to hold it in anymore. “Fucking disappointment that I have to raise.” Hit, hit, hit, and I cover myself with my arms, hoping to evade at least some of the strikes, but it’s useless.