Page 3 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 2

He glances up toward the bag, where it hangs above me. “I’ve become very proficient at inserting IV’s, but I’m not accustomed to using something so benign as saline. Most times, it’s a drug to keep a person still while I work.”

Mother of all the unholy, he is a psychopath.

“And the patch?”

“Catapres. Helps you calm down. Keeps you from shitting yourself.”

Under any other circumstances, I’d be mortified, but I don’t give a damn about this man. I hope I repulsed him enough to leave me alone. “Did you kill that woman? The prostitute? Where is she?”

“If I did or didn’t, what concern is it of yours?” He pulls a chair propped against the wall and positions himself at the foot of the mattress.

Pushing my knees together, I attempt to keep him from staring at my crotch.

It brings to mind a question I don’t want to ask, but the bastard seems cocky enough to tell me anything, including what I don’t want to hear.

“Why did you remove my underwear? Do you … plan … are you …” I can’t even say it. Not while his eyes seem content to roam my bare legs. The real question in my head is did he?

“You’re eighteen. Are you not?”

“Does that give you license to rape?”

He runs his tongue across his teeth again, those devilish eyes studying me. “I don’t take from a woman, Dylan, but know that if I decide to pursue you, you won’t be able to say no.”

“Duct tape is a beautiful thing, isn’t it?”

His lips stretch into a more enchanting smile, and I’m ashamed to admit that if I were in a club or coffee shop with the asshole, I’d probably find him attractive in a rough and rugged way. Many killers are, though. That’s the nature of their success—snaring their victims with an angelic smile that hides the devil behind it. His charm, his voice, it’s all practiced and serves one purpose—to lure the innocent. Not that I’d flirt with such a dangerous-looking man, but the way he consumes a room, it’d be impossible to avoid his hypnotic presence.

“This is what fascinates me about you. Doesn’t matter that you’re tied to a bed in a basement, facing all variety of gruesome outcomes, you never lose that spitfire attitude.”

“You don’t strike me as a man who follows through …” If my hands were free, I’d slap one across my mouth right about now.

He leans forward, elbows resting against his thighs, still toying with his blade and shakes his head. The man is going to kill me. I’m going to be his worst victim yet. I not only smart-mouthed him, but bitchslapped his pride by referencing his anticlimactic encounter with the other woman, all in a matter of seconds.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Again with the ‘didn’t means.’ It’s all bullshit. Own what you say or keep your fucking mouth shut.” His voice maintains a deadly mellow tone with a jagged slice of danger. “I removed all of your clothes to clean you up. You’ve been mostly sleeping for the last four days.”

Four days? I’ve been down here four days? The thought spurs a soft pattering in my stomach, like butterflies. Four days. I don’t even remember him bringing me down here, and only flashes of what must’ve been more recent. So many things could’ve been done to me in four days. Things I’d probably never remember if I walked out of here, until they hit in horrific post-traumatic replays. I don’t even want to ask if he’s touched me. I don’t want to know. Knowing would only put me in a state of fear and self-loathing, and I need to stay sharp and detached. “Are you going to kill me?”

The bored sigh that he lets out sends a jolt of anger through my muscles. Like my life is a choice between whether he wants rye or wheat toast today. I cap a snarky comment behind my clenched teeth.

“I don’t think I’ll kill you, no. But I have a gift for making people surrender to death. Kind of my thing. Some call me The Ripper, based on my modus operandi.”

“Thought it was Rip.”

“Rip, if you’re already dead.”

“Your mother must be so proud.” My mouth is on kamikaze mode and at this point, it’s not even worth trying to hold back. If he’s going to torture me, make me beg for death, I’m not sparing him my fucking graces.

“My mother died giving birth to me. Told you,” he says, leaning back in the chair. “It’s a gift.”

“Then get on with it. Quit drawing it out.”

“I want to know how you found me. How you broke into my house without setting off my security system. And how you knew where I kept that key.”

In truth, I only know the answer to one out of the three questions. The key was sheer luck, and I have no idea why his security system didn’t go off. In fact, I’m a little disappointed that I never bothered to consider he’d have one. Doesn’t matter, though, I’ve no intentions of telling this man anything. “I was high. I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember,” he echoes. “Not only do I have a problem that you stole from me, I have a problem with you knowing where I live.” He slides from the chair, his knees hitting the mattress between my splayed legs, and my stomach flips on itself. “I have a problem with you not remembering.” He’s still holding the knife, and all I can visualize is this guy raping me with the sharp end. The thought makes me wince, my knees jerk in response, and hell yes, I’d beg for death.