The Locked Door

by Freida McFadden

He is a narcissist and a psychopath, who likely killed at least thirty women without a trace of remorse. He is insane. He is a monster. He is also my father.

It’s a prickling sensation that starts in my scalp and crawls its way down to the base of my neck, then drips down my spine.

A long time ago, I decided relationships wouldn’t be a part of my life anymore. There was a time when it made me sad, but now I’ve accepted that it’s better that way.

One that I have not infrequently when I’m in difficult situations: What would my father do?

I always have that thought, as much as I try not to. I don’t want to know what my father would do. And I certainly don’t want to do the same thing he would do.

Mom places one hand on each hip. She is such a mom. Like if you were reading a book about a mom, she’d probably be like my mom.

I thought it would be fun to help Dad in the workshop. Not that I like woodworking that much, but I like hanging out with my dad. But he said that doing woodworking is his alone time, and it helps him relax. I don’t know why he can’t relax with me around, but whatever.

I already feel the phony smile spreading across my face, but it doesn’t look phony. It looks real. It’s the same smile Aaron Nierling used to lure girls into his car. My father had a lot of charisma, and he could really turn up the charm when he wanted to. And so can I.

His whole body is frowning.

I don’t want to get greedy. Look what happened to my father.

Dad always says that if you’re going to do something wrong, at least be smart enough not

to let anybody see you do it.

I pause at the basement door, inhaling that familiar whiff of lavender. And then, while I’m standing there, I hear something.

I frown at the door. Dad isn’t home yet, so why is there noise coming from the basement? It

sounds like something banging. It’s soft, but I can definitely hear it. And then something else. Almost like a muffled s...

My father is an incredibly dangerous man, who has done unspeakable things. He has committed evil, terrible acts, without even the slightest twinge of remorse. He’s the sort of man you wouldn’t want to run into in a dark alley. Or the street. Or anywhere.

And as they say, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

The walls of the basement are made of brick, and the dull gray paint covering the ceiling is cracking. The only light in the room is a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, which flickers slightly as I walk across the room. This basement looks exactly like a dungeon.

But as I look around the room now, I wonder if perhaps that’s exactly what I wanted when I chose this house. After all, my father built a dungeon in our basement.

My father had an M.O. All of the bodies of his victims that were found were missing their hands. He severed them and preserved the bones in a chest in our basement. That was why they called him the Handyman. Partially because he had been claiming the basement was his workshop, but also because of the missing hands.

My father takes a long swig from his Old Fashioned. It’s his favorite drink—he has one every night with dinner.

I loved how Brady put in an effort. I loved that he wore an uncomfortable tie because he wanted to impress me. Most college boys wouldn’t have bothered.

“How long did it take you to recognize me when I came into Christopher’s the other night?” “About two seconds.” “Really?” I raise my eyebrows. “I think I look pretty different.” “Not that different. Anyway, you’re hard to forget.”

He even comes around and holds the driver’s side door open for me. Even though it’s my car. Someone raised him to have good manners.

“You need to be careful around Brady,” she hisses at me. I blink at her. “Excuse me?”

“He is dangerous.” She lowers her voice another notch. “I hear screams coming from upstairs at night. Women’s screams. Crying for help.”

I can’t believe that an hour ago, my biggest problem was Philip hitting on Harper. And then after that, my biggest problem was a patient threatening to sue me. This is so much worse.

Two of my patients were murdered in the span of a week. There’s no way that could be a coincidence, could it?

“Out of everyone in the world,” he says, “I thought that you would understand. You’re like me, Nora. I see it in you.” And now I finally get it. He didn’t forget to lock the door to the basement. He wanted me to come down here. He wanted me to see this.

My father never had a reason why. Well, technically he had a reason why. He did it because he enjoyed it.

Not every man is a psychotic killer, Nora.