As soon as he’d pulled his car into the driveway and seen a car he didn’t recognize parked in front of his house, he’d known something was wrong, especially since nobody was sitting inside the vehicle.
He hurried up the walkway toward the house. When he came through the front door he found himself face-to-face with Claire. She stood at the top of the stairs, frozen in place. Her hair was tangled, her eyes big and round and filled with panic.
He shut the door, slid the extra dead bolts into place, and then slipped the padlock through the chain and clicked it into position. “Where do you think you’re going?”
She screamed at the top of her lungs, but the sound that came out was a whimpering cry at best.
He had to stop her. He pounced, wrapped his arms around her waist, and pulled her close to him, her back to his chest. He clamped his other hand over her mouth to keep her quiet.
Just then, a woman appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Gillian,” he said, struggling a bit to hold Claire still, “what a surprise. What the hell are you doing here?”
“After our last conversation, I was worried about you. Reasonably so, it appears. Let the girl go, Zachary.”
The woman’s ability to stay calm under fire wasn’t lost on him. She was a rock. Sadly for her, she had a rock for a brain as well. “How did you find me?”
“According to files your parents kept on you, this was your last known address. I should have paid you a visit years ago. Your refusal to open a bank account should have raised a red flag.”
He sighed. “Having you make yearly deposits to Jake Polly’s account in the Cayman Islands should have also given you pause.” He shook his head in wonder. “I will never understand why my parents left you in charge of their trust.”
“They trusted me to look after you. Now, please,” she said, “let the girl go.”
“I can’t. She’s mine.”
“What do you plan to do with her?”
“What do you think?”
Claire had continued to thrash annoyingly in his arms, and now she managed to bite his hand. He squeezed her so hard, she gasped for air.
“When we first met,” Gillian dumbly persisted as if he actually gave a fuck what she had to say, “I asked you if you ever had dark thoughts about killing.”
“I remember every word.”
“I asked you if you ever entertained thoughts of killing your parents.”
“And I said never.”
“But you were lying.”
He grinned.
“Everything you told me that day and since was a lie.”
“Of course they were all lies.” He released one of his hands from Claire now that she was docile and used it to pull his hair in frustration. “Yes, Gillian, I killed my parents and every woman I could get my hands on. You are the worst fucking psychologist in the world. I killed a few children and an old man, too. I killed my own sister, and I can’t wait to kill you.”
Gillian’s eyes widened as if she finally understood her fate. The woman gave dimwits a bad name. She ran past him toward the living area. He couldn’t have her screaming from the balcony. Tossing Claire to the side, he went after Gillian, grabbed her by the hair, and whirled her to him, driving his knee into her stomach. She crumbled to the floor, and he dragged her toward the kitchen.
Claire, he noticed, had given up on getting out the front door. A smart move, considering the number of dead bolts, not to mention the padlock that would need a key to unlock.
He heard her clattering down the hallway. He wasn’t worried. She no longer had much of a voice. All that screaming had destroyed her vocal cords. She would have to jump nearly fifteen feet out the window if she wanted to get away.
Gillian wasn’t a big lady, but she was tall, which made her quite an unwieldy load. She clawed at his hands and arms, doing her best to get away, but frankly, she had no muscle and no drive. All in all, she was a bit of a dud.
He knew Claire wouldn’t jump, but he didn’t like the idea of her running loose in the house. Picking up his pace, he dragged Gillian to the kitchen. She surprised him when she twisted her body and pulled free, leaving a massive clump of hair entwined in his fist. Dropping the hair, he went for the sharpest knife he could find.
“Your sister and your parents have forgiven you,” Gillian cried as she staggered out of the kitchen and careened toward the front door.
She tried to open the door, gave up, and turned toward him. “It’s time to put a stop to this madness, Zachary.”
Knife clutched tightly in his hand, he walked toward her.
Before she could say another word, he plunged the blade into her chest.
He took one glance at her eyes and then guided her, by the knife’s handle—she was holding it with him now, gently, with both her hands—toward the kitchen, where her mess would be easier to clean up. He didn’t care about Gillian. He never would have gone after her at all if she hadn’t come for a visit.
The woman took her sweet time dying, standing before him in the middle of the kitchen, both hands still clutched around the handle of the knife. But the poor girl didn’t have the strength to pull the blade from her chest. Bored, he watched her until she fell almost gracefully to the floor.
He released a long laborious sigh, leaned over her, and removed the knife with a good, sturdy yank. “You never should have come. If it weren’t for you, Gillian, my parents would still be alive. As much as I wanted to kill them over the years, I refrained. They were my parents, after all. But then you came along and stuck your nose into my affairs.”
With the bloody knife in hand, he turned back the other way and made his way down the hallway. “Claire, my dear, come out, come out, wherever you are.”
He stopped to listen.
Silence. Not a peep.
He walked quietly into the master bedroom.
The window was open, as he suspected it would be. He poked his head out and took a moment to breathe in the fresh air and enjoy the lovely view. If his finances hadn’t been controlled by Gillian, he would own the house. He would have added on to the balcony off the main room, so it swept around the entire house. A shame really, to waste such a beautiful view with one useless window. If he did a good job of disposing of her body and car, it occurred to him, he might just have that balcony, after all.
He looked straight down at the hard-packed soil directly below the window. No sign that Claire had jumped. Turning about, he made his way into the bathroom. His fingers curled around the shower curtain. He jerked it back, expecting to find Claire, shivering in fear.
No such luck.
“Claire,” he called again. “Come out now and I won’t punish you for trying to run off. It was Gillian’s doing. We both know that.”
He crossed the room. Blood dripped from the sharp blade of his favorite carving knife.
“Don’t make me search for too long. I’ve had an exhausting day.”
Before opening the mirrored closet doors, he stopped to admire his reflection. He was quite a good-looking fellow, if he did say so himself. His teeth were straight and white, no stains at all. His eyes were piercing. His nose, although crooked, was not too big, not too small. He had yet to paint a self-portrait, but he could not lie, the idea intrigued him.
His fingers touched the edge of the closet door and slowly, almost lovingly, he slid it open. Anticipation filled him with excitement.
But then his heart sank.
She was sitting in the corner. And she wasn’t even going to bother putting up a fight. Instead, her arms were wrapped tightly around her knees, which were pulled up close to her chest.
“Claire,” he said. “Did you really think you could get away from me?”
Her head was bent forward, and she seemed to be sniffling like a baby.
“This was the best you could do?” He’d expected more from her, his little fighter. “Don’t be a coward, Claire. The reason I like you so much is that you’re a bit sassy and unconventional.”