The Dark Places by R. Whitfield (novel24 TXT) 📕

“Then this new body turns up, Jessica Moroe. Seven years, three years, one year; either we had missed a lot of bodies or this guy had amazing self-control and is only now showing signs of escalation.

“Of course, I went straight to the chief, and as predicted, he told me to go away until I had more proof. Screaming out “serial killer” isn’t exactly what any chief of police, in any town, wants to hear. So, I started working in my own time to try to find a connection, any connection, and that’s when the next body turned up.” She opened one of the files and passed it to Parker. “Eva Kerridy. Exactly the same MO as the previous girls, but just different enough that only I seemed to be making any connections.” She ran a hand through her long hair in frustration. Parker leaned forward and placed his mug down.

“I just can’t find what’s tying them together. How is he picking them?” She looked down at the ground, lost in thought.

“Elliott, show me what you have got, and we can go from there.”

Surin looked up at him and smiled. She picked up the same file she had showed him in the car and tossed it gently onto his lap.

“Here, start with this.” She sat back, hands behind her head. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”

7

Day two was always his favourite day, and Isabelle certainly wasn’t letting him down. Day one was all about confusion. Why me? Who are you? Et cetera, et cetera. Then there’s always the “I will escape this and survive” mentality, but that doesn’t last long. Once they have shared their first “special time” together, the crying begins. Not loud, desperate screams like when they are first taken, but quiet, shameful sobs. This is the evolution he loves to witness, like a wild animal being broken. The sheer repulsion when he first touches their skin, licks and nibbles at their breasts, reaches between their thighs. Then the ultimate panic when he finally sits astride them, their bodies bucking like rogue horses trying to free themselves from restraints, the wide-eyed looks of pure fear. Then, owning them, again, and again, and again.

Day two is when the begging begins: “I’ll do anything, I won’t tell.” That is the exquisite moment he cherishes — total control, total ownership, absolute power.

Day three is different again; it’s what he calls “The day of acceptance.” This is the day when they realise, with total certainty, that they are going to die, painfully. Their eyes begin to glaze over, the fight is gone, and it’s almost no fun at all. This is the day when he likes to play the most, endeavouring to obtain some meagre reaction, some fight! It’s almost, well, boring.

Day four, that day is called “Taking out the trash”. He was always sad when it came to this day; it all ends too quickly, the fun, the pleasure, the control.

But today, today was only day two, and he had so much time ahead of him with this one. He opens the door, which creaks loudly, alerting her to his presence; he sees her cringe as he enters the room.

She tries to make herself small, invisible. He notices that her wrist and ankle binds have cut deep into her flesh and are oozing a small amount of blood and fluid. The air is frigid, and it is almost pitch black, but he can see her perfectly.

“Isabelle,” he sings and bends down to brush a lock of damp hair off her forehead. “Did you miss me?” he whispers softly into her ear.

“Please,” she sobs, “I’ll do anything you want, just let me go home.” The anguish takes over, and she begins to cry quietly.

He smiles in the dark. “Oh, now, now, shhh,” he breathes as he runs his hand slowly down her neck and over her breasts, reaching between her tethered legs. “You’re not going anywhere.”

8

Madison stared at her computer’s blank screen, the glow from the flashing cursor taunting her for every second she failed to type.

I have nothing, she thought. Six hours to publish, and I don’t have a single word.

Right, pull yourself together, Maddy, look at your notes. OK, one winter-themed wedding at Owens Park? Ugh, boring! Surprise multiple birth in the back of a minivan? It’s been done. Murder at Serenity Towers? That’s the one I want, she thought. Damn Surin Elliott. Never had Madison regretted a one-night stand like she did the night she went home with Grayson Withers.

It had been one of the most depressing days of her young life. She had just been turned down for a promotion at the paper; they opted instead for a fossil named Norman who had worked there for twelve years covering births and deaths. How he had managed to achieve anything short of feeding himself was a mystery to her. On the drive back to her empty, lonely apartment, her rust bucket of a vehicle ran out of petrol. After slamming her hands repeatedly on the steering wheel, begging her Pulsar to start up again, she finally decided to go for help. It was absolutely pelting down as she began the two-mile walk to get gas She was saturated, crying like a baby and ruining her only pair of Jimmy Choo’s when by chance she came across a quaint little tavern. Inside, the inn was warm and inviting. There were only a handful of patrons scattered around at the various mismatched wooden tables, the jukebox was playing an old David Bowie favourite, and chatter was barely a murmur. There were old license plates bolted to the walls from all over the country and large mason jars filled with tea candles lined the shelf behind a friendly-looking barman. She wiped her tears on her sleeve, removed her sodden shoes, and made her way to the bar.