“Why do you do it?” I ask, the words spilling out of me faster than I can put a filter on them. His predatory gaze flickers to me and there’s something vulnerable in his expression that I can’t quite describe. “I like it.” I don’t know why I expected his answer to be something profound, but even murderers have a story. I want to know his. “Why?” He scoffs. “If you’re expecting me to tell you some sob story to justify what I do, don’t.”
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