Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Oh, what I’d give for Franklin’s omelet with goat’s cheese and a sprinkle of fried garlic… Right now, the sheltered life I’ve complained about in my mind so many times feels like a distant dream. A golden cage doesn’t seem so bad when you’re stuck in one made of iron.
I stiffen and back into the corner when I hear footsteps on creaky wood, but my blood goes cold when I hear the Christmas Killer’s voice.
“Ho ho ho!” he says cheerfully like the deranged maniac that he is.
I stand straight, wrapped in the ugly Christmas blanket and try to keep calm as the door opens and the tall, handsome guy strolls in holding a neat little basket, and yet another blanket, even more garishly festive than the one I’m using. I would have dreamed about flirting with a man like him at the club. If I didn’t know he has blood on his hands.
I open my eyes, but the stress eating me from the inside is so overwhelming I can’t push out a single syllable, and stare at him, wordlessly begging, Please, don’t kill me.
Yesterday (or is this still the same night?), he wore a soft long-sleeve that wouldn’t restrict his movements, but now he’s in a well-fitting burgundy shirt with one button open at the collar to reveal his neck tattoo. Several snowflakes. How appropriate.
His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow as if he were trying to distract me with his sexy forearms instead of cutting me up like he did my earlier abductor. Am I catnip for kidnappers? What the fuck?
He puts down the blanket, the basket, and cocks his head at me. “This is quite the pickle, isn’t it?”
For a moment, I see myself marinating in a huge pickle jar, like one of those deformed fetuses preserved for prosperity, but I shake it off and clear my throat, because this is my chance to gain this man’s sympathy, and even serial killers aren’t immune to others stroking their ego. “T—thank you for saving me,” I tell him just before my stomach makes a low gurgle that goes on and on, filling the silence between us.
He makes a concerned face. “Poor thing. Did you not see I left you cookies—” he pauses and his eyes widen when his blue gaze settles on the plate “—raisins. Of course. I didn’t think you might be particular about that, I was in such a rush to prepare the space. Lots of people dislike raisins, I should have been more considerate about it. Any allergies?”
Does he want to… kill me via anaphylactic shock?
It would be an unorthodox but efficient and discreet way of disposing of someone who now knows this man’s secret. And since I did go out to party last night, it would be plausible for me to accidentally ingest something I shouldn’t.
But I shake my head. “Just dust mites.”
He nods and his smile wanes as he looks around. “I know the space is not ideal, but I will spruce it up in no time, and it’s well-insulated, so there’s no damp here.”
He’s mad. In a world of his own, and I’m an unwilling participant in whatever unhinged fantasy of his this is. Then again, I should have already known this, since he is the Christmas Killer. No one sane rips people’s teeth out then wraps their decapitated heads in ribbons.
But he isn’t trying to scare me, and he didn’t threaten me yet so… maybe I can make him like me? I’ve made podcasts about victims who managed to endear themselves to their captors and survived. Could this be my chance?
“I’m just so scared,” I tell him, desperate to appear younger and more innocent than I am, so he pities me. That’s right, Christmas Killer, I don’t deserve to die. I’m a nice boy, who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I think back to last night’s party, and the thoughtless way I accepted a drink from a stranger, just because he was hot, makes me cringe. I know the methods criminals use to victimize people, and I should have known better. As it turns out, reading about crime is very different from actually dealing with manipulators trying to spike your drink. If my life experience wasn’t so limited, I would have known that.
And now here I am, trying to make the most prolific killer in my state like me.
Fuck my life.
Trying to pressure him into releasing me would backfire, so being ‘nice’ is the tactic I’ll be sticking to for now.
“I understand. The situation is new to me as well. I’ve never had a witness before. Or survivors.” He opens the basket to reveal a thermos, cups, plates, and food. Does he want to have a picnic with me, or something?
As much as I want to deny it, when he pours hot chocolate into the cups, my stomach demands to drink it right now.