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He came to kill a weak woman, only to find he was really the prey who ran into the lion’s den.
And I watch with her as the Boogeyman dies by his own knife. At the hands of a woman. The hands of a victim. In a way, it’s poetic justice.
The course of true love never did run smooth. —William Shakespeare
I turn off the music, removing my iPod from the dock. Asshole. I hate my things being touched by people. Now he’s gone and bled all over my floor too. It’ll take me forever to clean all that up.
When he’s around, I don’t feel like I have to be so invincible. When he’s with me, I feel like I can just be cared for without being weak. Like it’s okay to be vulnerable, because he’d never use it against me.
If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? —William Shakespeare
Shakespeare was one of the few philosophers who believed in revenge. Then again, he was a romantic. Romantics always believe in revenge, because romantics love harder, suffer loss more painfully, and hold onto a grudge that has shattered their hearts. Their hearts are of the greatest importance, above all else—body, soul, or mind.
Hearing it is processed differently than seeing it. The mind is more delicate to sight than it is to sound.
“The mind is a fragile and delicate thing,” I repeat. “Hearing it from a letter or from a killer has less of an impact than hearing it from someone who has been dying on the inside from holding in the secret. Several people know the story, Hadley. Find one to tell it. Not to mention, I need that town to feel haunted. The longer it takes for the story to be told, the more questions you and your team will ask. And the more people will start to tremble in fear.” “You want that fear,” she states, studying me. “I can’t kill them all,” I say with a shrug. “But terrorizing them will remind them to
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“Because the mind is a fragile thing,” I say once again. “It’s easier to pretend the words you hear are just rumors or lies. It’s not so easy to ignore something you can see. And the sheriff has plenty he doesn’t want anyone to see.”
I now know why my father could never move on after my mother’s death. He was a romantic. And a true romantic would never recover from losing his love.
“They say the most painful way to die is by fire. I wonder who volunteered to find out that information,” I chirp cheerfully.
“We profiled this town as religious, but with a cult mentality. Look around. They’re all terrified over something this small. In DC, this would have people snapping pictures and rolling their eyes—and that’s if they even noticed it to begin with. But here? It’s already terrifying them.” He appraises the situation, processing the same thing I am, even though he’s not a profiler. “He’s fucking with their heads.” “His endgame isn’t just murder. He wants to terrorize the town,”
“Voltaire said, ‘Those who can make you believe absurdities, can make you commit atrocities.’
“I’m back, motherfuckers,” I say quietly as we pass the town hall. “And I’m going to make your life hell before I paint your town red.”
The timing of our arrival is perfect. Halloween is just around the corner. There’s a reason I picked Myers as a surname.
My lips find hers again, and I kiss her like it might be the last time. It’s the way I’ll always kiss her, because she’s lost love once—the love of her parents. I never want any lingering insecurities to dwell in her about us.
“Ain’t a life you can save that needs saving,” she says bitterly. “This whole town needs to burn. Only reason I’m still here is because I knew this day would eventually come. One day, someone would want to hear them babies’ story, and finally give them justice.”
