Page 27 of Madness Blooms
I say nothing and remain still as I digest his words. Time slows to a crawl, its passage a mystery to me now. A silly idea pops into my mind. “Could you turn on the radio over there?” I ask, weakly nodding towards the shelf on the wall near him.
“Since you were so fun, I suppose I’ll grant you this last request.” He gets up and switches it on, even tuning it to my favorite radio station. “I usually don’t do these sorts of things, you know. Accommodating my victims and all that.” He sits on the edge of the tub and gazes at me. “So, any last words?” he asks, pulling out his knife from its sheath.
I look down at my arms, watching the flow subtly slow and continue coloring the water crimson. I’ve given a lot of thought to how I want to die. Slitting my wrists, jumping off an overpass, overdosing on medication or painkillers. But to be granted death at the hands of a serial killer—that’s something I could never have imagined.
Not me, a target too boring, too unremarkable.
He leans closer, and I feel the razor’s edge of his knife on my neck.
This is it.
“Thank you,” I murmur, closing my eyes. “Even if it all meant nothing to you.”
He runs the blade across my throat.
Sweet dreams, Bunny.
Epilogue
HIM
Igrab the last box of granola bars from the shelf and toss it into the cart.
I wonder if the supplies I’ve gathered will last through the trip. When traveling, I prefer to minimize the number of stores I visit to replenish my supplies. Refueling at gas stations is risky enough—too many cameras, for one. It’s just safer this way, in case law enforcement becomes suspicious.
In small towns, shelves are often bare or picked over by the time you get there. Maggie’s Grocer in Ashburn is no different. Over the years, I’ve learned to make do with less, so I am prepared for the challenge.
In search of more nonperishables to add to my supplies, I push the cart down the aisle. I’m about to round the corner—when I hearher. Halting dead in my tracks, I eavesdrop the best I can over the obnoxious music playing from the overhead speakers. God, the least the owners can do is turn on the top forty radio stations instead of this utterly insipid shit.
“You can’t keep running away from your problems,” an older woman scolds.
I risk a peek around the shelves—and theresheis, the one I’ve been pursuing all this time. She crosses her arms, brow furrowed, her hair as red as her flaring temper.
Fucking beautiful.
“I’m not running away from my problems, AuntMaeve,” my obsession snaps.
“Stop being so disrespectful, Gwendoline, or?—”
Not-Kyla visibly bristles, her face burning crimson. “Don’teverfucking call me that again. I’m not her anymore.” Her voice lowers. “Gwen Cirillo isdead.”
There it is, confirming what I already know. I can’t help but grin ear-to-ear. I’ve been hunting Cameron Cirillo’s daughter, tracking her movements across the northeast United States. She swaps names and identities almost as much as I do. But she can’t fool me, nor can she escape me.
Not this time.
“You can’t run away from your past,” her aunt warns. “It always has a way of catching up to you. Believe me.”
“I don’t give a shit,” Gwen says icily, walking away. Maeve tries to grab her arm, but she hastily steps out of reach. “Listen. I’m exhausted. They had me in that goddamned interrogation room for hours.Fourtimes in only three days. Do you know what it’s like to be labeled a potential person of interest in the murders of both your boyfriendandyour closest friend?”
Maeve adjusts her glasses, sliding the bridge up her nose. “While I may not have been labeled a person of interest before, I certainly know what it’s like to have my life torn apart by a serial killer.”
Gwen falls silent for a moment and bites her lip, chewing on barbs—anything to make this woman cease needling her. But she holds back and departs the aisle, leaving Maeve to shake her head and mutter something under her breath as her niece heads for the store exit. Before she turns around, I push the cart down the same aisle and feign interest in whatever is on the shelves. She ignores my presence, appearing distracted as she shifts the basket to her opposite hand and passes by.
I gather more food and toiletries before heading to the checkout. I greet the cashier with a wave and start placing my items on the conveyor belt. Just as I’m about to retrieve the case of bottled water, something catches my eye on the shelf to my right. Among the trashy tabloids and gossipy magazines, I spot the local newspaper with Bunny’s face on the front page. I quickly grab a copy, place it on the belt, and lift the water for the cashier to scan.
She glimpses the headline and makes atsksound. “What a tragedy. And at such a young age, too,” she says, scanning the barcode of the water and quickly inputting a code into the register. “I know Diane, the girl’s mother. She’s absolutely devastated. Hasn’t left her house since the …incident.”
I shake my head and put the case back in the cart. “It’s such a shame, isn’t it? Seems to me like things are getting worse and worse around here.”