I had a most uncharacteristic urge to poke his eyeballs out, then snap his jaw with a backhand so his teeth would sink deep into his tongue. Lucky for him, I’m a man of restraint.
I check the time. An hour since the text on my phone.
Delivery completed.
I turn off the laptop. Everything’s calm and orderly in the world of the Four. I walk out of the office and hit the button for an elevator. It takes a few moments to arrive, which is fine. My little fawn needs every moment to get into position.
It would be awkward if I got to my car before she did. But I don’t want to stay in the office much longer. Tchaikovsky, Stravinsky and Mussorgsky are waiting. And I indulge them as much as possible because they’re amazing animals. Loyal. And obedient.
As I approach my car, a sensation very much like fine needles on my skin ripples over me from head to toe. I can feel the weight of a gaze following me. Nothing as cold and lethal as a hidden killer. No, it’s that of a small animal, breathing slowly and shallowly.
Come on, my little fawn. I’m ready.
“Mr. Tolyan.”
Ah. There. I make sure to erase my small smile and set my face into a placid expression before turning to face her.
She’s a little wan. There are beads of sweat along her hairline, although it isn’t particularly hot in the garage. Her hands are quivering—probably with nerves. She doesn’t seem to realize they aren’t steady. Most people hide their hands or curl them into fists to hide that reaction.
“Mr. Tolyan,” she says again.
“Tolyan is fine.” Mr. Tolyan makes me sound like my grandfather. I’m far too young for that.
“Okay. Tolyan, I need your help.”
I raise an eyebrow, like this is unexpected.
She clears her throat and takes a small step forward. “I know we barely know each other. But I feel like you’re it.” You have to be it, her eyes say.
“It?” I roll the word in my mouth. I don’t enjoy it when people presume I’m the solution they need to make their problems go away. Perversely enough, I expected it to be the same in this case, even though I engineered events to make her think exactly that. But somehow it doesn’t feel as offensive. Or entitled.
Reassuring words swell in my chest, but I catch them before they can come out. Deviating from a plan without a solid reason is never a good idea. I have multiple contingency scenarios, but my delivering reassurance isn’t one of them.
I frown slightly at my unusual urge. The only explanation is that I must be more tired of waiting for her to come to me than I suspected.
After all, I only have one name left on my kill list. And I’m so very close to crossing it off.
But she must be interpreting my reaction as annoyance or rejection. She steps forward and puts a hand on my forearm. I despise people touching me without my permission. Normally I’d shake her off.
I look down at her slim hand, the fingers flexing like they want to cling but aren’t sure if they’re allowed. She’s afraid of my answer. And she smells of desperation. If I pull back, even a little, she’s going to tighten her hold.
Is she going to cry, too? Maybe get on her knees to beg?
For the briefest moment, I want to step back and watch her shed tears.
Another odd reaction. I don’t, as a rule, kick people when they’re vulnerable, unless they deserve it. This little fawn hasn’t earned a kick.
But she bothers me. Not like a pebble in one’s shoe. More like a small, round pearl underneath a mattress. It’s not obvious, but you can feel it when you shift or when you think you have everything under control and want to relax your guard.
I know the fairytale says it’s a pea, but that’s idiotic. The original writers screwed up because they were too poor to realize a pearl was an option. Peas aren’t strong enough to withstand the weight of a fully grown and well-fed adult. Plus, peas rot easily. A pea would turn into a mush before anybody noticed anything underneath the mattress.
“Look, I know I sound crazy, but please. I’m not.” Her words come out fast and desperate. “My stepbrother’s a psychopath. He’s been harassing me, and the police say they can’t do anything until he does something more physically threatening. Apparently, playing mind games doesn’t count. He has to do something concrete.”
That’s always the case. Mental torture is far superior, and it’s much harder for law enforcement to deal with, especially when the target keeps moving. It’s virtually impossible to build a case among so many different jurisdictions. That’s one reason the most prolific serial killers generally kill across state lines.
Roy Wilks is a cunning little jackal. It’s so simple to break a person. And you don’t even have to touch them to do that.
Just look at this girl. She wouldn’t be asking a man she barely knows for help if she hadn’t been driven almost to her breaking point. For all I know, she might be broken already.