Killer

by Heather C. Leigh

  “She’s not home,” I explain. “And she won’t answer her phone.”

  “I see.”

  “I need… I need you to allow Roxie to show me her emergency contact.” I swallow nervously, praying Gabriel understands the importance of the situation. “I think something really bad is going on with her.” My voice cracks and I rub my forehead. “She saw something at my place, something… personal. It shouldn’t have meant anything to her, but she freaked out and left. Gabriel, it scared the shit out of me.”

  “You? You are scared? Meu Dios. Nothing scares you.”

  “Gabriel…” I’m becoming desperate, which makes me angry. It’s impossible to keep him from hearing the hostility.

  “Tell Roxie to give you whatever you need,” he says and I let out a long breath.

  “She’ll want to hear it from you. Hold on.” I catch Roxie’s attention and hand her the phone. Roxie nods and keeps saying “okay” over and over.

  “Here.” She hands me back my phone. “Let me get the employee binder.”

  Five minutes later, I’m clutching a scrap of paper with the address for Britt’s parents. It takes about twenty minutes to get there. If it were a weekday it would be more like forty-five and I’d be frothing at the mouth by the time I arrived.

  I pull into a long curving drive and stop out front. Gaping, I stare at the enormous structure. Britt is so quiet and understated, the house isn’t at all what I was expecting. In fact, it reminds me of the house I grew up in. One of those huge, cold mansions filled with expensive things and showy displays of wealth but containing no love or warmth. Nothing to make it an actual home. I don’t see Britt’s shiny red BMW. She’s not here.

  “Jesus,” I mutter, looking down at my shorts and shirt. I’m woefully underdressed to approach anyone who lives inside this house, let alone ask questions about their daughter. Money is all about appearance. That’s what my mom lived and preached. Fat lot of fucking good it did her.

  Fuck it. I climb out of the car and scale the stone stairs leading to the front door. The doorbell is loud and pretentious, once more bringing me back to my own childhood home. I guess if you know one rich asshole you know them all.

  The door opens, revealing a tiny woman wearing black slacks and a white blouse. Her eyes bulge and she closes the door some, blocking my view of the inside.

  “Yes?” she asks, her voice tinged with the hint of an accent.

  If Britt’s mother is anything like mine was, she doesn’t want her employees sounding foreign and likely forced the woman to modulate her speech. Can’t be caught mingling with riffraff, can we? Even if they are just the hired help.

  And right now, this woman is looking at me like I’m the riffraff, which I am.

  “I need to speak to Mr. or Mrs. Reeves. It’s urgent.”

  The tiny woman closes the door a little more, ready to slam it in my face.

  “They are occupied,” she says. Before she can shut the door completely, I throw out an arm, slapping my palm on the wood to keep it open.

  “Please. It’s about their daughter.” I give what I hope is a desperate look, and not a frightening one. I know with the tats and the clothes and the frantic way I’m twitching that I look like I’m crazy, but I have to talk to them. “Please,” I say again when it appears the woman is about to dismiss me.

  “One minute.” She steps back and closes the door, leaving me on the front step to freak out. I pull at my hair and pace back and forth for what feels like hours. The door opens again and instead of the tiny housekeeper, I’m facing a tall, well-groomed man of about fifty.

  Britt’s father. He has her eyes, blue and shimmering. The sight nearly knocks the wind out of me.

  “Who are you?” he asks, his voice even but in that no-bullshit tone I recognize from dealing with adults like him my entire life. He’s rich, powerful, and used to getting whatever he wants.

  “I’m Keller Bishop, I work with Britt. Your… daughter?” I ask, hoping I’m right.

  “Yes, she’s my daughter. What is it I can do for you, Keller?” The man’s eyes drift up and down my body, taking in my rough appearance. He’s too polite to grimace, but I’m sure he wants to.

  “Please. If I could just talk to you for a moment. Britt kind of… ummmm, freaked out last night and I can’t find her. I was hoping…”

  “What did you do to my daughter?” he snarls, stepping out of the house to get into my space.

  This guy has balls the size of coconuts. Not many people will challenge me so boldly. I’m glad Britt has him on her side.

  “I didn’t do anything, sir. She saw something and I don’t understand… Please, this isn’t a conversation to have out here. I only need a minute.”

  The man assesses me, calculating my sincerity, I’m sure. He gives me a sharp nod. “Follow me.”

  The man leads me into a grand foyer, taking an immediate right into a huge office. It’s exactly like the ones I’ve seen in all of my high school friends’ houses, including my own. Dark wood, dark walls, shelves of old books that are only for show. A bunch of pretentious art hangs on the walls and an enormous desk rich men like him use to measure their dicks. Like the bigger the desk the more important you are.

  “Sit,” he says, pointing at a leather chair. He takes the seat behind the desk, giving me the typical rich-CEO stare. Too bad years around my dad made me immune to it. “Tell me about Britton. All of it.”

  “This is uncomfortable for me to say, sir,” I admit. Just the thought of bringing up the shooting has my stomach churning. Britt’s father narrows his eyes, indicating I should get the fuck on with it. Fine. “Did Britt go to North Atlanta Prep?”

  The man’s mouth falls open and his all-business exterior vanishes. He slumps back in his chair and suddenly looks years older.

  “What are you really asking?” he asks, his voice wary.

  “I… my sister…” Breathing through my nostrils, I force out the rest of the words. “My sister died in the shooting, sir. Britt saw my invitation to the anniversary. I mean, there was a ten-year anniversary Saturday, and—”

  “I know. My wife and I went.” The man drags his hands down his face. When he makes eye contact with me, this time he looks less CEO and more human. Like a man worried about his daughter. “Yes, Britton was there. She was the only survivor.”

  Even though I suspected as much, hearing it confirmed is like someone reaching into my chest and pulverizing my heart.

  Gasping, I bend over, putting my head between my legs. Long-suppressed tears overflow, dripping all over the fancy Persian rug. “Fuck,” I whisper. Pain like I’ve never felt lances every inch of my body, like a hundred thousand stab wounds opening at once.

  Britt was there. With Kinsey.

  “She doesn’t remember it,” the man says. I wipe my face the best I can and sit up, still overcome with the agony of the truth. “Britton suffered a gunshot wound to her head.” Her father closes his eyes and swallows. “She lost all hearing in her left ear, and suffered cognitive trauma—forgetting how to do the simple things. She was quite the little fighter though, and figured most of it out pretty quick, eating, tying her shoes, stuff like that… but it took months of therapy for her to walk again.”

  “Oh my god,” I whisper. What Britt went through. It’s so horrific, I can’t even imagine. She’s not just strong, she’s stronger than anyone I know. “I can’t find her. She started screaming when she saw the invitation. She… she took off. She’s not at her apartment and neither is her car. I was hoping she’d be here.”

  “She’s not here,” her father says, his voice mirroring the despair in mine.

  “Could she be with a friend?” I ask, desperate for any lead I can get.

  He shakes his head. “Britton isn’t the same girl she was before the incident.” I grimace, but he continues. “She doesn’t trust easily. She’s scared all the time. She doesn’t have any friends I know of.” Her father sighs and stares out the large window that overlooks the front drive. “I
’m proud of how far she’s come. Most people would have given up a long time ago, but Britt still has a long way to go.”

  “I should leave,” I say, pulling up to my feet. “Thank you, sir.” I extend my hand, waiting to see what he’ll do.

  He clasps it firmly. “Thank you for coming here. For caring about my daughter.” I turn to leave, but he stops me, handing me a card with his cell phone on it. “Luke.” I stare at the man, not sure what he means. “My name is Lucas Reeves, but you can call me Luke.”

  Unable to manage a smile, I nod. “Thank you for your time, Luke.”

  Back behind the wheel of my car, my mind is going a mile a minute as I weave through light traffic on my way back to my condo. I probably shouldn’t be driving as distracted as I am. I hate feeling helpless. I hate knowing what Britt went through. I hate that I can’t see her, hold her, tell her I’m here for her no matter what. If I could take all of her demons and add them to my own, I’d do it in a heartbeat. No one as good and sweet as Britt should have to suffer so much.

  I pull into the parking garage beneath my condo, lean over the steering wheel, and allow myself to feel. And fuck, does it hurt.

  13

  Britt

  Even though I’m lying down, my head is spinning. I know what’s happening to me. There’s no clock but I know it’s been at least twenty-four hours since I’ve had my seizure medication, possibly longer. I’m going through withdrawal.

  “Max, please?” I beg for the hundredth time, too tired to even feel a sense of panic. My voice is raspy and ragged, too soft for him to hear. Max locked me in his bedroom while he’s doing god knows what out there. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here or where “here” is.

  Has it been one day? Two? A week? Whenever Max puts the rag over my face, which I’ve decided is some sort of chloroform or ether, I wake up wrapped in his arms wanting to scream. The daylight showing through the curtain is fading. Time means nothing anymore. Max just keeps telling me I’ll eventually love him. Right now, I’m grateful he hasn’t touched me, sexually that is. I’m pretty sure even if he knocked me out, I’d wake up and know if something happened. The thought sends a dark ripple of fear across my skin.

  The lock on the door turns and I tense up. I’m not sure if I’m better off alone or when Max comes in to chat with me. When he visits, he leaves the door unlocked, giving me a chance to escape. But I’m not stupid. How can I outrun him with my feet bound together? The knots in the natural fiber rope are too tight to work free and the room is stripped bare of anything I could use to cut through them. I can’t even chew through them—I’ve tried. Besides, my head feels odd, spacey—probably from all the chemicals Max makes me inhale.

  “Time to eat,” Max says as if it were just any old day and we were a couple, about to enjoy a normal meal together.

  “Max, you have to let me go. I need my medicine.”

  Max puts the tray down on the bed and stares. He studies me for so long with those cold, almost reptilian eyes that goose bumps prick my skin.

  “What medicine?” he asks.

  I swallow down my fear. “I have seizures, Max. I can’t skip my medication. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here.”

  “You had one seizure, Britt. At the fight in Vegas.” Those empty eyes narrow and another chill goes through me.

  “No, Max. I had a brain injury, when I was fourteen. If I hit my head hard enough or skip my meds, I can have seizures. If it’s a big enough seizure, I can end up a vegetable or brain dead.” As strong as I’m trying to be, my hoarse voice trembles.

  Max continues assessing me, unblinking. “How do I know you’re not bullshitting me?”

  “Check behind my left ear.” I tilt my head for him. “There’s a scar where I had brain surgery.” Max glances at the door and back. Fear jolts through me when I realize what he’s thinking. “You don’t need the cloth, Max. It might cause a seizure. Just look at me. I promise I’ll stay still.”

  He approaches slowly, his gaze predatory. It takes all my willpower not to scream or flinch when his cold hands sift through my hair, parting it to see my scalp. I feel his fingers slide along the twisted tissue where the doctors removed the bullet. After an eternity, he sits back.

  “I believe you.” I exhale in relief. Max moves back, standing over me. “I was whispering in your ear the entire time I was looking at your scar and you didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”

  I shake my head, too frightened to respond. He’s too close and his touch makes my skin crawl. With a sharp nod of his head, Max leaves the room, coming back a few seconds later with the cloth in his hand.

  “No, please!” I scramble back, pressing against the headboard, the sheets twisted up beneath my feet.

  “It’s for your own good, Britt. Until you love me back, it’s really the best way. If you want me to get your medication, you won’t fight me.” Max grips my head firmly and presses the cloth over my face. No matter how many times he does it, I still struggle against the pull of the fumes.

  At least one good thing comes from it. When I’m sucked into the blackness, I’m not afraid anymore.

  Keller

  I wipe my face with the hem of my shirt. Here I am, big badass Killer, sitting in my car bawling my eyes out like a fucking baby. But the thought of something happening to Britt… the realization that something did happen to Britt ten years ago… it’s too much to not let it hurt. Even for a cold bastard like me.

  With unfocused eyes, I stare out the windshield at the concrete wall of the garage, wanting Killer to make an appearance, wishing for the numbness I use to keep everyone out and emotions suppressed. Just a fraction of that strength could end the agony that plunges a fist into my heart, squeezing the organ in its icy grip until I can hardly breathe.

  Just as quickly as I wish for Killer to return, I change my mind. If I didn’t feel this way—feel the searing pain in my chest, know that I have an actual heart to break—it would mean I don’t have Britt in my life. And above everything else, I want her in my life. The thought of losing Britt, the possibility of already having lost her, cuts me down at the knees.

  My once dead heart falters at the thought. I can’t lose her. I love her.

  Fuck. I love her. How did I let that happen?

  It doesn’t matter. Right now, I can’t do a goddamn thing to find her and fix whatever she’s going through. It makes me want to tear something or someone to shreds. To break bones and shatter objects and throw a violent, rage-infused tantrum. The only thing that stops me is knowing it won’t help Britt. I take a deep breath and get out of the car. All I can do is wait for her to come to me, and I despise the feeling of helplessness.

  Mentally drained, I head for the elevator, my head so full of “feelings” I don’t notice the cherry red coupe until I’ve passed it by. Doing a double take, I spin around and hurry to its side. Granted, it could be anyone’s car, but a beacon of hope sparks like a flicker of light in a dark ocean. There are hundreds of red BMWs in Atlanta, possibly thousands. Yet, somehow, I know this one is Britt’s. Circling the car, I cup my hands and look through the window. It’s immaculate, except for a glint of metal on the front floorboard.

  I scan the garage for something I can use to break the window. Finding nothing, I pull off my shirt and wrap it around my hand. One hard strike and the glass shatters into a million tiny pieces. I reach in and pull out a silver chain with a purple crystal pendant.

  I’ve seen this before. Hanging around Britt’s neck.

  I know Britt was here, at my condo. It seems she drove, which she doesn’t do often. But she had a complete meltdown and left. So why is her car still parked in my garage? I circle the car again, this time looking underneath and all around on the surrounding pavement. Nothing.

  Britt wouldn’t leave her car here, no matter how upset she was. I live on a very busy midtown street with no sidewalks for several blocks. Unfurling my hand, I study the delicate chain. The tiny silver clasp is broken, as if the necklace were yank
ed off her neck, perhaps during a struggle. Fuck! I open the doors to the red BMW and climb inside, thoroughly searching the floors, seats, and every crack and crevice in between. When my hand closes around a set of keys with a BMW fob and a Souza MMA keychain, my newly awoken heart stops.

  Is she upstairs waiting for me? But the necklace…

  A car pulls into the garage, interrupting my thoughts. Not wanting to be seen, I duck behind Britt’s car. With the smashed window and me standing shirtless with the fabric still balled around my hand, it wouldn’t take a genius to put two and two together. The engine cuts a few spaces away and someone gets out, whistling as they walk my way.

  Shit. I glance around, desperate for an escape. Maybe the person won’t notice the glass on the ground. That thought dies when shoes crunch on pieces of the broken driver’s side window and the whistling stops dead.

  “What the—?”

  The sound of that voice makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Adrenaline floods my veins, pushing liquid fury to every cell in my body. I step out from behind the car, shirt around one hand, Britt’s keys and necklace clenched in the other. My eyes lock on to my prey, currently half inside the car with his upper body through the open window. The pure, instinctual violence inside me, Killer rises, shoving all other emotions to the side. He’s primed and ready to strike.

  The intruder doesn’t notice until I drop the shirt and clamp a hand on the back of his neck, yanking him out of the car.

  “What the hell?”

  The man stumbles, but my hold is too tight. I spin him around and slam him bodily into the frame of the small coupe, my palm pressed against his chest. He recovers his balance and I see the moment he realizes exactly how much danger he’s in. His eyes widen and his jaw drops. It gives me immense satisfaction to feel his body trembling under my hand.

  “Max,” I growl, leaning in until our noses nearly touch.

  “W-what are you doing?” he stutters.

  I move my hand to his throat and squeeze. His hands immediately go to his neck, scrabbling to remove the pressure of my tight grip.