drunken little bitch froth
mine hate spewing lust sweat
mine
you deserve it filth
rage ask for it
ask for it whore
filth filth filth FILTH FILTH FILTH
The blurry tangle of booze and skin is almost too much for me to handle. Okiku mercifully shields her thoughts from mine, and the relief is instant. When I come to, I’m lying on the floor and don’t even recall falling over.
I can make out McNeil’s shadow looming over me, and I shove his hand away, angry, when he tries to help me stand.
“Jesus, Halloway. What’s wrong with you?”
“Did you rape them?”
“Huh?”
“Marjorie Summers. Abby Thorpe. Isabella Santiago.” I saw them all in my brief exchange with Okiku, the things she’d seen McNeil do to them. Winning their trust, plying them with alcohol, taking advantage of their drunkenness. Taunting them to find anyone who’d believed them, secure in the knowledge that no one would.
There’s a sick little psychopath lying underneath that golden boy image of his, and for all my experience with serial killers, even I had the wool pulled over my eyes. I now understand Okiku’s hatred every time McNeil wanders into her vicinity, and part of the hate now festers inside me. I want to scrub my eyes from the inside out.
And the expression on those girls’ faces. I’ve seen that same look on all the ghosts Okiku saved.
“Trish Seyfried. She’s next, isn’t she?”
McNeil hasn’t gone as far as he had with the others, but he’s been harassing her. Cornering her in the girls’ bathroom. Shoving his hand up her skirt when Sondheim’s not around. Telling her it’s her fault for dressing provocatively. He’s no longer taking the time to win her over like he had the previous girls, which tells me his violence is escalating quickly. From what I’ve seen of his mind, I can no longer doubt his intent.
The way Trish jumped from McNeil’s touch when he reached for the beer, her obvious unease when he’s around…she’s frightened.
There’s only one reason why Okiku would single him out.
Even in the darkness I can make out his smile. His voice is almost patronizing, convinced he can persuade me to believe otherwise. “Who’s been telling you those lies? One of those girls? They can’t prove anything. The way they dress all the time, it’s like they’re asking for it anyw—”
My fist connects with his nose, muffling the rest of his words, but I hadn’t taken into account that he is made of granite. I step back, flexing my hand, quite happy to risk a little more pain if I can throw another hit. For his part, McNeil looks more shocked than hurt.
Why do I hunt down these assholes? Because I was born three hundred years too late to get revenge on the man who’d killed Okiku.
Because like hell I’m angry.
“I know what you’ve done to them,” I snarl. “If I have to make it my life’s work, I will find all the evidence I need to see that you serve time for every girl you’ve hurt and thrown away. Count on it.”
The couple hadn’t bothered to draw back the curtains. From what little light comes in from outside, I see the smile freeze on McNeil’s face. His mouth curls into a cruel snarl.
You never really know how much of a mask someone wears until they peel it off.
Strip off the good looks and the confidence, and underneath that layer of skin there’s a monster lurking inside Keren McNeil, one he hides from everyone else.
A six-foot-tall, one-hundred-ninety-pound quarterback versus a lean Japanese kid barely pushing one forty-five? Not much of a contest and not something I’d considered when I threw the first punch. McNeil’s swing catches me right in the stomach, and I’m on the ground before I know what’s going on. I dimly hear yelling, but I’m having trouble hearing, as if sounds are coming out of second-rate speakers with a cheap bass. Pain blooms along my sides, and I realize in between the spurts of hurt that McNeil is kicking me, so I put my hands out to block him.
McNeil is roaring at me too, but my mind doesn’t process the words. I don’t need to hear them to know what he’s shouting.
And then the onslaught stops.
I crack open an eye to find McNeil staring over me. He’s no longer angry. Quite the opposite; he looks like he’s about to wet his pants. His eyes bug out of his head, his mouth open in stark terror at something no one can see but him.
And me.
Okiku shuffles toward him in her full diabolical glory. Her hair hangs low, and she is making soft, gurgling sounds at the base of her throat. This is her death rattle—the last sound she made before she died and the last sound her prey hears before they do.
“No, Okiku,” I croak out, but she doesn’t listen. When she gets worked up like this, she never does. I try to get up again, but my ribs protest my movement and I double over, trying to will more air into my lungs.