I grip the knife tighter, hoping it will mask the way my hand is still shaking. He looks at it with feigned disinterest and says, “Am I supposed to feel threatened
by that? Because I don’t.”
“I honestly don’t care how you feel.”
It’s the truth, although slightly overstated. I do care. I do want him to feel threatened. But I also know it doesn’t really matter. The most important thing is getting him to talk, and if matching him in indifference will do the trick, then I’m willing to go there.
I return to the other bed in the room, putting down the knife and picking up the glass of bourbon on the nightstand.
“I thought you were going to make coffee,” he says.
“Changed my mind.” I hold out the glass. “Want some?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I want to keep my mind clear.”
I take a sip. “More for me then.”
“You might also want to think about keeping a clear head,” he says. “You’ll need it during this battle of wits you seem to think we’re playing.”
“It’s not a battle.” I take one more drink, smacking my lips to let him know how much I’m enjoying it. “And we’re not playing anything. You’re going to tell me what I want to know. Eventually.”
“And what will you do if I don’t?”
I gesture toward the knife sitting next to me on the bed.
He smiles again. “You don’t have it in you.”
“You say that,” I tell him, “but I don’t think you fully believe it.”
Just like that, the smile disappears. Good.
Outside, the wind remains at full howl as rain continues to pummel the roof. The storm is supposed to end by dawn. According to the clock between the beds, it’s not quite midnight. Even though there’s a lot of time between then and now, it might not be enough. What I plan on doing can’t be done in broad daylight, and I don’t think I can remain in this situation until tomorrow night. I might go mad by then. Even if I don’t, I suspect Wilma Anson will be coming around again first thing in the morning.
I need to get him talking now.
“Since you refuse to talk about Katherine,” I say, “tell me about the girls instead.”
“What girls?”
“The ones you murdered.” “Ah, yes,” he says. “Them.”
The smile returns, this time so twisted and cruel that I want to grab the knife and plunge it right into his heart.
“Why—” I stop, take a deep breath, try to gain control over my emotions, which hover somewhere between rage and revulsion. “Why did you do it?”
He appears to think it over, even though there’s not a single reason he could offer that would justify what he’s done. He seems to realize this and gives up. Instead, with that twisted smile still intact, he simply says, “Because I enjoyed it.”
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