Prologue
TREY
Iwon’t burden you with the entirety of the tragic backstory of this tale’s hero. To be honest, I don’t remember much about the abuse, physical or verbal. I was a child, not yet old enough even for preschool, and Mother always took the brunt of it in her efforts to protect me.
But I do remember the day she’d had enough.
“Mother?” I’d peeked into the room where I’d been hearing the usual commotion, and then the strange, eerie, satisfying sound when it suddenly stopped.
Mother stood over the still sprawled out body of Father on the floor. One strap of her nightdress was torn, hanging limp. Sheheld a brass candlestick by the neck, an old family heirloom, with its heavier base dripping red.
Yes, I have had the same thought as you are now.Mother in the study with the candlestick.The novelty still makes me smile.
“Trey…” she’d gasped upon seeing me, as the heavy brass murder weapon fell to the floor with a thunk. She’d clocked Father quick and clean, one killing blow to the back of the head, and he was gone. I remember how frightened she’d looked when she motioned me to her. Not of Father. Not anymore. Not even of consequences to come. She was frightened for me and how this might change me. How it might ruin me.
Maybe it did. I was barely four years old, but I knew what the red and stillness meant. I understood the permanence of death and that Father deserved it. But was I made that night into what I became, or had I always been destined to become this and nothing could have changed it?
I honestly don’t know. I also don’t care. But if you don’t want to meet me some night with an unknowable weapon in hand, in a dark corner of your home, to be left where no one will ever find you nor question why you’re gone…
Be a good parent.
Be a good partner.
And you can pretend I don’t exist.
“It’s okay, Mama.” I’d hugged her, summoning tears I didn’t feel the need to cry, but I knew she needed to see them. “Papa was bad. It’s okay he’s gone. You’regood. And I’ll be good. And we can be happy. Right?”
“Oh, sweetheart.” She’d hugged me back tighter, relieved I think that I sounded so normal. I knew then that to keep Mother happy it would be best if I kept pretending I was normal, even if, long before I’d seen my first murder, I doubted I’d ever been like the other children.
Bless her heart, because she’d dried my tears, dried her own, collected herself, and disposed of the body. I don’t remember the specifics, but it couldn’t have been easy. Maybe as a nurse she was just that clever. Maybe she got lucky. Maybe the cops on Father’s missing persons case were slacking or knew better or just didn’t care. Regardless, from then on, Mother and I were free.
And the real me was set free too.
Chapter one
TREY
That’s how I remember it anyway. Maybe I was a monster in training from the beginning. Maybe I was made, forged by the trauma of that night. It doesn’t matter now, twenty-five years later. I am what I am, and I have no regrets.
If it’s any consolation, the people I kill almost always deserve it—just like dear old Dad.
If that “almost” gives you pause, I sympathize. Well, not really. But I’d prefer it was only ever the deserving who ended up as my victims. Unfortunately, reality isn’t any kinder than I have to be. If someone catches me in the act, rare as that is, or begins to get too suspicious, self-preservation takes precedence. Who else would clean up the world’s filth if I was gone?
The police? They never helped when Mother called about Father. They’re of no use to me. So I take care of the filth myself.
“Yes, Mother. Safe and sound. Oh, just setting up the camera for some city shots. I’ll send you a few from my phone. The view from this room is spectacular.”
It is but I’m not taking shots of the city from where I have set up my tripod. While I chat with Mother using my wireless headphones, I adjust the camera’s focus on the building across the street. I have been in this city for less than twenty-four hours and already I have a promising target. But I do have standards. If I killed everyone who raised my hackles, I’d never go a day without blood on my hands. Much as I wouldn’t mind that, keeping out of prison would be far more difficult with a constant trail of bodies in my wake. One has to be particular.
“The magazine pays plenty, Mother. You know I don’t need much. They cover my stay and meals within reason. My only splurges these days are on clothes. No, no. Not much time for dates lately either. I promise, if anyone catches my attention enough that they’d be worthy of being introduced to you, I will bring them straight home for your approval.”
That would likely never happen, but she always sounds happy to hear the lie.
I find people attractive. People of all kinds too. My type is malleable and far more about some spark within the person than anything physical. Although certain elements of the physical are more titillating to me than others.
The dimples in the backs of a curvier woman’s thighs. The hip grooves on a man that are more pronounced not because of an overly chiseled physique but being proportionately plump. I prefer a little softness in my bed partners. Enough to grip or gently sink my teeth into. Not to draw blood. I’m no vampire or deviant. Notthatsort of deviant. But a good nip and suckle on the fleshier parts near someone’s navel, their backside, or theirthighs beneath the curves of those cheeks… I could be tempted to distraction from my work for days with someone like that. But never longer.
I inevitably lose interest in the people I court. Even if someone keeps my interest for longer than usual, that comes with its own dangers. Travel writing for a high-end publication is the perfect cover for why I am always on the move, camera in hand. But the guise of my temperament cracks after so long, and the cleverer of my companions start to notice the mask slipping. They see my coldness, my strangeness, my detachment, and either grow impatient with me or afraid.
