“Was that necessary?” I asked her.
“No, but it was fun,” she replied as she came into the front room and threw her gun on the sofa. I raised my eyebrows once more at her actions and she simply shrugged.
“I’m not going to prison for killing the father of my child,” she said, folding her arms.
“You wouldn’t go to prison.”
“Fine. If you want to be pedantic about it, I don’t want to be murdered by your club in retaliation for killing the president.”
“That might happen.” I grinned at her.
“Mm,” she pursed her lips. “How is presidency treating you, by the way?”
“I’ve no complaints. It has its perks.”
“Oh. I’ve seen the perks. Two of them, in fact. Isn’t she too young for you?”
“You mean Vicky?” I laughed. “She’s no one important.”
“Didn’t look that way to me.”
“Looks can be deceiving. You look like a sweet, lovely person. You’d never know you’re a serial killer.”
She rolled her eyes so hard I was surprised the greens of her eyes came back into view. “That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?”
“Have you lost track?” I started counting on my fingers. “Alex, Macbeth, Ben—”
“Hey! You had already tortured Ben to the point he never would have survived.”
“You delivered the final blow, though.”
“Fine. Fine. I get your point.”
“I wasn’t finished,” I grinned.
“I said I get it!” she snapped, glaring at me as though she’d like to add my body to her kill count.
We both grew silent for a moment before she asked, “is she your old lady?”
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t. It’s called making polite conversation. You should try it sometimes instead of this bullshit lawyer technique you learned from watching Eastenders. Answer a question with a question. You’ll go far in life,” she finished her rant by mockingly putting both her thumbs up.
“Are you quite finished?” I laughed. “And I don’t know how to answer that question, because it all depends.”
“Depends on what?”
I paused before I answered and took a moment to take in her appearance.
She looked a little pale, but that was no surprise, considering she had been roofied the night before. But other than that, she was as glorious as ever. Her body had changed slightly, with her hips being slightly wider, and her tits being that little bigger, but other than that, she was the same Rachel I had once worshipped.
Except being a blonde once again. Her safety colour.
I had spent weeks watching her on camera, watching her every move. It became an obsession. Every moment I was awake, I had to be looking at those cameras, seeing what she was up to. I watched her so much; I knew her routine like the back of my hand. There had been comments, of course there had, but I told everyone that I was only doing this because of my son. I even had myself convinced for a while there. But the truth was, it had become enjoyable. Familiar.
We all knew it was a lie, and we all knew the same possessive obsession I had felt towards her had never really disappeared. It was simply buried. Laying dormant. And the minute I saw her again, it came rushing back tenfold.
I had to see her. Ineededto see her. Even if it was only through the cameras, it was better than nothing. It’s why I madeHacksaw install cameras in every room of her house. That was over the top and unnecessary. I didn’t need that level of access. But to me, that was the bare minimum necessary in my need to control her.
