Obsession

by Harleigh Beck

“Why would Robbie Hammond, one of the most notorious serial killers in the country, refuse to be interviewed by anyone else but her?” He waves in my general direction. “Why her?”

However, I’m also flattered, which is alarming as hell. Who wants to catch the attention of a killer?

When I showed up for the interview, James looked surprised, claiming he knew nothing about an advertisement, but admitted he could do with someone as seemingly eager as me.

headline news. “Don’t let yourself be charmed by him. He’s a serial killer who murdered fourteen women,”

His baritone is rich and smooth, like caramel, and soothing in a way I never expected. Not for a man who slaughtered women in cold blood.

Where’s this idea coming from that serial killers are sleazy, socially awkward, balding middle-aged men? Robbie Hammond is attractive, in good shape.

“Reporters usually come prepared.” “I am prepared,” I argue.

There’s a flutter between my legs. A flutter that shouldn’t be there.

“Simple. Why did I request you specifically and not one of the countless reporters at your paper?”

“I think you asked for me because I fit the profile of the girls you killed,” I reply bravely. His lips twitch. “Is that so?” “Yeah…”

“You’re too meek to resemble my mother.” “Meek?” I don’t like that I find his opinion insulting. “How am I too meek?”

On cue, I look down. Sure enough, there’s blood on my thumb. I lift it to my lips and suck it clean. Robbie tracks my every movement.

“Do you feel like this is a suitable punishment for your actions?” “You’re eager,”

“Who said anything about the death penalty? I was talking about the sun.”

“You like to outsmart.” I skate my eyes up to his. “So do you.”

“Did you feel like you were different from others from an early age?” “Bog standard question. I’m disappointed.”

“I have to keep my boss happy. Ask the questions the masses want answers to.”

I’m reminded once again that the man in question, who’s commandeered every beat of my heart for the last hour so effortlessly, is a condemned killer.

“He’s just a man,” I whisper. But I know he’s not. Robbie is the closest I’ve been to tasting the sweetness of death.

I was so close to freedom I could feel its soothing caress wrap itself around my fragile heart.

“You’re only one person, Savannah. Looking after your father by yourself is a big responsibility. It’s okay if you need more help.”

The killings should scare me, but I’m strangely intrigued—a morbid fascination that spells trouble.

don’t know, Elliot.” It’s a lie. A serial killer like Robbie Hammond is nothing if not calculating.

Maybe Robbie Hammond has done me a favor.

The way he sneers, how his eyes darken, making no secret of his resentment.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” His smoky voice makes me shiver, and I tear my gaze away from his drumming fingers when they pause.

“Nothing is wrong.” Every muscle in his body stiffens, and my heart skips a beat as if my body is finely attuned to his.

“We’re running out of time here, Savannah. You either tell me what’s wrong, or I’ll have to carve the truth from you.”

“There are more ways than physical to carve open a mind. You think I don’t see you, Savannah?

You think I can’t tell that a wisp of breath dances on your lips right now because you won’t dare inhale a breath.”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle.” My voice shakes. His gaze remains steady, focused on mine. A muscle clenches in his cheek. “Then why are you drowning?”

“You’ve been drowning from the moment you set foot in here. I may be the one headed for the needle, but you’re already dead.”

“Convince me you’re not drowning and that the look in your eyes is not one of despair.”

“I’ll answer any question you want if you answer mine.”

“Fine,” I reply with a tired sigh as I place my phone back on the table. “I have a colleague, Elliot. Let’s just say, he’s not happy I have been assigned this story.”

“He cornered me in my cubicle today and told me you imagine killing me during these…sessions.”

The intense way he holds my attention never wavers. Not a single emotion flickers across his face. “Did he touch you at all?”

“Not really. He pulled my hair.” Robbie remains silent as a muscle works his jaw.

“I think anyone can be made into a killer given the right circumstances.”

“Are you trying to justify my actions, ma’am? Find a reason behind them?”

“Do you enjoy psychoanalyzing me, Savannah?” he purrs in a heated tone I feel down to my toes.

“I could ask the same of you. What have you noticed about me since we sat down?” “Are you brave enough to find out the answer, Savannah?”

For reasons, unbeknownst to me, you never feel good enough.”

Those sinful lips reveal a hint of a smile, but there’s nothing sweet about it. “I know a lot of things about you.”

“I’ll see you next week, Savannah.” The promise in his drawled statement sends my heart skittering to unhealthy levels.

“Is that what you’re into, sweetheart? Dangerous men who would cut you into pieces and enjoy it?” “Fuck you,”

There’s nothing I can do about the sinking stone in my stomach. No matter how intrusive it feels, I have to tell a dying man’s story.

“There’s something intriguing about a plain woman like you, who somehow manages to catch the interest of a notorious serial killer behind bars. What is it about you?”

“I’d bet my yearly salary he knew about you long before he agreed to interviews. And it makes me wonder who has the real story to tell.”

If you lived in the shadows long enough, you soon called them your home.