Page 48 of The Castle (Endgame 3)
Chapter Twenty-Seven“It was you, all along.”
“I don’t know why anyone didn’t realize. When they found the equipment in the walls, I was sure they’d guess. Why would I only talk to the beautiful Helen James when her lovely little daughter slept under the same roof every night?”
“Because they don’t think like you,” I whisper, horrified.
Not only horrified at the man hanging in front of me, but at myself.
“Don’t blame yourself,” he says, sympathetic. “Repression is a powerful instinct. Much like fight-or-flight. You thought you could forget me.”
“Until you reminded me.”
I’m a little surprised that Gabriel left me here, even believing I needed a doctor. But I still won’t have much time. Maybe fifteen minutes? Until Gabriel reaches the Den and finds it in shambles. He might find Anders, still waiting on an ambulance, or only broken glass.
Either way, he’ll come right back here.
“I had hoped that you would come to me on your own. And then Gabriel Miller took an interest in you. I knew I had to act or I would lose you forever.”
“You never had me.”
“Didn’t I?”
“Never,” I say, shocked by the sharpness of my voice. There’s rage inside me that I never even knew about, never dreamed about. Even in my nightmares I was afraid.
“Who taught you about your body? About your pretty nipples and the other places you were pink?”
My teeth clench together. “Shut your mouth.”
“Who told you to touch yourself to make it feel good? Which parts were soft and hard, which parts to pinch or draw little circles around?”
“You’re disgusting,” I hiss, my body remembering each pinch, each circle.
“You didn’t think so at the time. You said it felt good.”
“I was a child.”
He lifts one shoulder, arms still tied above his head. “What’s wrong with teaching a child about her body? What’s wrong with showing her pleasure?”
I pick up the poker, pressing it into the small bed of hot coals. They don’t look as red as when I came in, but they’ll have to do. Steam rushes from between the coals, nudged aside by the iron I hold. It’s heavier than I thought, but still not as hard or as sharp as I feel inside.
“Are you going to show me pleasure?” he asks, his voice low.
He wants me to hurt him. We’re linked enough for me to know that about him. It feels like a loss, to give him what he wants, but it also feels like winning.
“I wasn’t afraid of you,” I tell him, holding the iron poker in the air.
“And I loved that about you,” he says, earnest, coaxing. “Little girls and boys run away from me. They know, without me ever speaking a word.”
My bitter laugh echoes off the grimy tile. “I guess that makes me a fool.”
“Don’t pretend,” he says, fierce. “Don’t pretend that you didn’t know what I was. You knew it was wrong. You knew enough to keep your mouth shut when you talked to your mother. She never knew that we talked.”
“I’m glad she never knew. Because she loved you.”
“She didn’t love me. Is that what your jealous father has you thinking? Or maybe that was you, coming up with tales. You always were a romantic.”
“Based on what I told you as a child?”
“Yes, based on that. It’s everything, those innocent words. So pure. But your mother only loved herself. Looking in the mirror, having the world fawn over her. She didn’t love me. She didn’t love your father.”
“Stop.”
“And she didn’t love you.”
“You would say anything to hurt me.”
“Come, little girl. You knew that already. You’ve always known.”
I hold the iron poker with both hands, ready to swing like a bat. “How much damage do you think this will do? How many times will I get to swing it? Five? Six? Or will you be dead on the first one?”
“Mama never pays attention to me,” he says in a strange, soft voice. My voice, I realize. “She only looks at me when I’m wearing a new dress. And then says I look just like her. But she doesn’t seem happy. She seems sad.”
He’s repeating my words back to me. Entire conversations a little girl might have had with an imaginary friend at a tea party. And I spoke with the voice in the wall, the disembodied man who told me he cared about me, who whispered things to try in the cover of night.
My hands grip the iron bar tighter, palms slick with sweat. “I really can’t decide whether I want to aim for your head or your heart. I mean, you deserve whatever will be most painful. Head, I think. But I should get satisfaction, too.”
“Satisfaction?” His gaze sharpens, looking so much like Damon Scott that chills run down my spine. “Satisfaction for hurting the one man who cared about you most?”
“How dare you.”
“How dare I? It’s the truth. Stab my eye out if you want it to hurt the most. Jab the pointy end in my ass. There are countless ways to hurt me without killing me. I’ll walk you through them as long as I can talk. I’m excited for it, actually. It’s the first time we’ll be together like this.”
