Mirror Me Page 19

She glanced up at him. “I’m just getting started, old man.”

  “Really—we’re going there?” He laughed. “You think I’ll have trouble keeping up with you?”

  “I guess we’ll have to see.”

  “You don’t know what I’m capable of. I don’t even know…at least I didn’t…” she whispered.

  “And now?”

  “Now I’m willing to find out.” She bit her bottom lip.

  “I definitely know what you’re capable of,” he told her, his voice husky, his cock already hard for her again. “But if you want to try to surprise me, go for it.”

  She gave him a shy smile…but he knew there was something devious behind it. “Has anyone ever tied you up?”

  “Sure.” He paused, then frowned. “Wait—you mean in bed?”

  That made her smile. “That’s what I was thinking of, yes.”

  “Oh. Then no.” He frowned. “That’s what you want?”

  “You said to surprise you.”

  “That’ll teach me to be talking in bed instead of fucking,” he muttered. Then, before he could back out, he grabbed for the ropes he’d tied her with and handed them over to her.

  She hesitated—briefly—until he forced them into her hands.

  “Come on,” he said roughly. “You’re not going to get this chance often. I’d take advantage of it while I’m feeling generous.”

  “Suppose I end up liking it this way?”

  He had no doubt she probably could. He could always see the wild girl hidden behind the shy one—the anger only served to tuck that wild side away, because Kayla was ashamed of it, assumed that the wild girl was the reason for so many of her troubles.

  It was exactly the opposite—that part of Kayla had been what helped her survive.

  She bit her lip as she straddled him and tied his wrists together, and then to the headboard, just like he’d done to her. It took him extra concentration—and a few internal curses—to make sure he didn’t rip his arms from the bonds.

  “Are you going to be okay?” she asked as she watched him.

  He glanced up at his arms, stretched out overhead. “You didn’t tie them too tight.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” She flipped her hair so it hung heavily over one shoulder. Her voice was a little husky—a little excited seeing him tied, and he got that. That’s what it was all about for him. “You don’t let this happen often.”

  “At all,” he corrected. “It’s not my thing. But if you want to experience it from my side, I’m okay with that.”

  “Good. God, I can see why you like this.” She ran her palms up his arms as she thrust against him, like she was reveling in her power. “Why aren’t you scared of me?”

  “Why should I be?”

  “Hoss trusted Mara—he trusted her over me.”

  “Don’t really care to discuss either one at the moment.”

  “Don’t you see? He trusted a serial killer over me—he believed I could hurt people.”

  “You’re no different than anyone, Kayla. We can all hurt others. But in the part of your life you remember—from the hospital after the fire onward—you haven’t killed anyone, have you?”

  “No,” she managed.

  “You’re thinking too fucking much instead of taking this opportunity to fuck me. Because trust me, if you don’t start doing something, I’m going to turn you over my knee—” She stopped his talking mid-breath by squeezing his nipples with her thumb and forefinger—hard—and then bending down to bite one. Then she was alternately biting and sucking them, and his chest, his neck…leaving a trail of wet red marks…

  She was marking him. There would be bruises when she was done, but the pain/pleasure line had always been finely blurred for him. He was hard. He wanted more. He wanted her—and only her—and he’d beg for her in a way he’d never begged anyone.

  “Come on, babe, just fuck me,” he growled as she fisted his cock in her cool palm, teasing him, sucking his balls, biting the insides of his thighs until his muscles screamed at the tension.

  Finally—fucking finally—she was giving in, sliding herself down on him, rocking back and forth, lost in the pleasure of the moment…but never breaking his gaze.

  Hell, he loved her. He was tied up, with a knife on the table and he was vulnerable as fuck. And he stayed like that, although he stilled when she leaned over to grab the knife. She opened it, and the blade hovered above him.

  He was still inside of her when she cut the ropes off—and she was still moving as she told him, “I want you to hold me when I come.”

  She didn’t have to ask twice. He tugged her chest to his, held her tightly as she lost it in his arms, milking his cock with her orgasm until he came hard…and this time, he was the one yelling her name.

  *

  Mara picked the biggest knife out of Abby’s butcher block, much in the way Abby always imagined the Black Magic Killer doing. She found it ironic, of course, that her father had been killed with his own kitchen utensils, but that hadn’t stopped her from putting her own identical butcher block in her kitchen. She’d figured it would balance karma.

  Abby, zero; karma, a true bitch, was the winner.

  “You don’t want to do this,” Abby told her, because it was the only thing she could think of. It was also the stupidest. Of course, Mara wanted to—was compelled to—and the only way to stop it would be if someone got here in time.

  “You’re wrong about that,” Mara said flatly as she stared at herself in the thick, shiny blade before putting it down on the counter she leaned a hip against, then crossed her arms. She noted Abby’s glance between her and the knife and simply smiled. “You watched your father get killed by the Black Magic Killer.”

  “Yes. I watched it happen.” Abby couldn’t tell for sure, but that might’ve actually gained her a certain level of respect in Mara’s eyes.

  “You didn’t look away?”

  “Not once.” She’d wanted to, but the Black Magic Killer told her it would go easier on her father if she listened to him.

  Of course, it had all been a lie. The killing couldn’t have been any more brutal, but looking away would’ve made Abby’s father die alone and she couldn’t have that.

  “Was it messy?” Mara asked as she picked up the knife and approached.

  Abby stiffened. “It’s blurry—like it happened very fast and somehow very slow too.” As Abby spoke, Mara leaned forward and began to unbutton Abby’s shirt. She pushed it back away and off Abby’s shoulders, exposing some of the scars on her belly, remnants from the Black Magic Killer that would never fade completely.

  “And he almost killed you,” Mara continued as she ran a fingertip along the scars, tracing them like they were a map, and then she ran the tip of the knife along one. Abby stared, watching the blood swell up from the cut.

  At first, she felt nothing and then Mara dug the knife in harder, literally opening the old wound.

  Abby’s mouth opened and a sharp cry escaped. Mara smiled, and followed the scar with the knife to the one that led up to Abby’s shoulder. She used the knife to rip open the arm of the shirt, then repeated, “And he almost killed you, right?” She jabbed the knife into Abby’s shoulder and Abby jolted.

  “He tried his best.” Her belly was wet with blood, and she was numb. Even so, she could practically feel his hands on her ankles, yanking her back. She smelled the smoke, the blood, her voice raw from screaming…

  Mara was bending down, lifting Abby’s pants up to look at her ankles and calves, where there were scars from his nails—she had divots in her skin from him digging in to hold her and pull her toward him. Scars that proved she’d fought for her life—and won.

  Would she be that lucky again?

  Mara dug the tip of the knife into Abby’s ankle a few times, then glanced up at her. “How did you escape?”

  Abby tilted her head back, letting a sob that came out more like a hiss escape. “We all have our stories.” She forced her gaze to Mara’s. “Why don’t you te
ll me your story, Mara? I could record it all, for posterity. It would be a bestseller.”

  They both knew that was the truth. Mara shrugged but she looked pleased.

  Abby held her breath, knowing she had to buy time. It was the only thing she had in her control. “I think Claire was wrong about you.”

  Mara sat on the floor, holding the bloody knife. “Why? What did she say about me?”

  “She talked about you all the time. How you took all the blame for everything.”

  “She remembered that?”

  Abby nodded. “And she wasn’t planning on doing a damned thing about it.”

  Mara picked up the knife as she stood, then grabbed a flashlight off the counter. She shined the light directly into Abby’s eyes, a cop move for sure, and Abby lost track of the knife immediately.

  “Did you ever wonder if you’re wrong?” Mara asked slyly. “Claire’s been running from me, can’t remember anything…she’s in your good graces…”

  Abby was tied too tightly to move. She blinked against the harsh light Mara shined directly into her eyes and tried to stave off the impending panic Mara was intent on causing. “What are you trying to say, Mara? I’m not in the mood for riddles.” She didn’t bother to hide the irritability in her voice from Mara.

  Mara, not Kayla—Abby had to focus on that, not let Mara make her question her instincts. It didn’t matter how alike they looked and sounded, how many times Mara told her that she and Kayla were in on this together, from the start.

  Abby locked her mind against Mara’s head games and tried to play one of her own. “Why are you so interested in the Black Magic Killer?”

  “Ah Abby, don’t disappoint me now.” Mara sighed. “The Black Magic Killer was my father.”

  Abby swallowed hard. There was no goddamned way that was possible—none at all. The dates didn’t match up, according to the records Abby had seen on Mara’s early family life, but the Black Magic Killer hadn’t been heard of again after the night he’d almost killed Abby. One theory was that he’d died of smoke inhalation after the fact, but had escaped far enough away for the body not to have been tied to the scene or recovered.

  When Abby spoke again, her voice was calm, almost condescending. “Your father was an old drunk, not a famed serial killer. I have DNA proof that he’s not,” Abby lied.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mara said firmly, but there had been the very briefest of falters when she spoke. “You know, I’ve never loved the slow bleed-out method, but I can see it has its uses.” She ran the knife along Abby’s shoulder scar again, digging in deeper and following it down to Abby’s belly and even so, Abby couldn’t see a damned thing because of the light, could only feel the burning, unable to tell exactly how deep the knife was cutting.

  She forced herself to ask, “Did you start killing because you thought you’d make him proud?” in hopes of distracting her.

  Mara laughed, almost manically out of control—and extremely chilling—and for a moment, Abby regretted asking. She shut the light off, and Abby blinked to find her leaning across the table, the knife inches from Abby’s face. “I guess there’s no harm in telling you. It’s a shame that you won’t be able to travel the country, lecturing about this, right? But don’t worry—I’m writing my own book. I’ll make sure you’re immortalized properly.”

  “Doing things properly is important to you.”

  “Very. If more people did things the way they were supposed to, if people acknowledged what they were supposed to…”

  “Like Kayla?”

  “It’s cute how you insist on calling her the wrong name. She can’t stand it.”

  Mara was so completely, utterly believable.

  “Anyway,” Mara waved her hand. “My father deserved the fame he got. If he’d been able to continue, well, those were circumstances that couldn’t be helped. I kept up his work. It’s not something I’d expected to do but…” She shrugged. “I guess it’s in my blood.”

  “What are the circumstances?” Abby pressed.

  Mara glanced up at her slyly, rising to the challenge. “There are things you don’t know.”

  “I know you’re angry at Kayla—you keep telling everyone she’s a murderer. Is that simply wishful thinking? Guilty conscience?”

  Mara went to Abby’s fridge, poured herself a glass of iced tea and sat across from Abby to drink it. Just two old friends, having sweet tea and gossiping. “It freaks you out, how much I look like her, right?”

  “Does it freak you out?”

  “Can we just converse without you trying to turn everything around on me?” Mara sounded exasperated, like a mother lecturing a child. Not like a killer who’d tied up a US Marshal.

  “You’re right.” Abby nodded. “Tell me about the secret Ka—Claire’s not telling anyone.”

  Mara nodded approvingly at the name change. “Claire’s a very good secret-keeper. She’s kept up the amnesia story quite well. I’m so proud of her for that. At times, I almost think she believes it herself.”

  “I think you’re right. So you think she hasn’t been honest with us?” Abby lowered her voice conspiratorially, figuring she’d get Tased again for being so blatant.

  But Mara was so concrete—and thrilled to be discussing Claire, and getting her own story in there. Abby knew the jurors probably wouldn’t have cared to discuss any of this. Not that it would’ve saved them anyway.

  What’s going to save you?

  She shook that out of her mind—no reason to go there. Don’t worry about what you can’t change, just change what you can, Dad would say. “I know you’re stronger than Claire. She’s had a tough time these past years.”

  “Claire’s always needed taking care of. But she’s definitely got our dad’s blood in her. She didn’t realize it. I’m sure she regrets it, now that she knows how much power Dad had.”

  Abby nodded diligently.

  “So she’s really never mentioned this?”

  “Just the amnesia.”

  “Right.” Mara shook her head like she was getting confused. “Do you have any Advil? I’m getting a terrible headache.”

  “Cabinet next to the fridge.”

  Mara got the pills, took several and washed them down with more sweet tea. Then she smiled, leaned in too close for Abby’s comfort before sharing, “Claire killed Daddy.” Abby was still trying to process the fact that Kayla might’ve killed her own father when Mara said, “I didn’t see it happen,” very matter of factly. “If I’d been there, none of it would’ve happened, so I definitely take responsibility for it.”

  “You’re sure? Why would she do that?”

  “Daddy always visited my bedroom. That night, Claire was in my bed but he didn’t know that.”

  Abby’s stomach recoiled at how easily Mara recounted what seemed to amount to sexual abuse…and seemed to be acting as if it was somehow consensual on her part. Or, at the very least, not something that bothered her. “Did Claire know?”

  “No, I didn’t think she needed to know. She wasn’t as strong as I was, or as close to Daddy. But I think she got upset. She told me that Dad touched her, and then said she stabbed him because it was the only way she could think of to stop him. She’d been cutting out some paper dolls, so the scissors were on the nightstand.” Mara shrugged. “He was dead. She stabbed him in the neck—just a lucky break on her part. I needed to save Claire from getting in trouble, so I took care of everything.”

  Abby felt the bile rise in her throat. She wanted to ask more, but she couldn’t put words to the horror that Mara had unfolded for her.

  Fortunately—or not—she didn’t have to say anything else. Mara was comfortable now, only too happy to talk. “So I killed Mom—that wasn’t a hardship. I used Daddy’s gun and then I set the piece of shit double-wide on fire. I saved Claire and then watched her become damned ungrateful for it over time.”

  Abby caught on to that immediately. “You said Claire worked with you.”

  Mara looked at h
er, a gaze so chilling that Abby knew, once and for all, that Kayla was Kayla and Mara was Mara…there was no way Kayla could’ve hidden that inside of her for so long.

  Mara stood now, Taser in hand. “You all think you’re so smart, but trust me, you’re not. Not at all. Claire will learn to appreciate what I’ve done for her, and she’ll learn to love honoring our father’s legacy.”

  “He’s not the Black Magic Killer. I’ve seen the Black Magic Killer, Mara. I was face to face with him. Do you think I’d ever forget that man?” Abby’s voice shook, more anger than fear as Mara came closer. “I saw pictures of your father. I know the whole story,” Abby lied, recalling the queries in the CPS report and hoping to hit the nail on the head. “Your father was a alcoholic pedophile who fucked you because you were too stupid to know the difference between a renowned serial killer and a drunk.”

  Harsh words she would never say to any other victim of childhood abuse, unless they were complete psychopathic monsters, like the woman in front of her.

  It got Abby the reaction she’d been hoping for. Mara lunged and, at the same time, Abby slammed up and head-butted her, hard enough to knock herself, still in the chair, to the floor and Mara backward. Mara stumbled, hit her head on the corner of the table and went still on the ground.

  She was knocked out, but it wouldn’t be for long. Abby was still trapped. She thumped the chair over to the hallway, where her phone was, used her nose to type something to Teige. Three numbers—and it took her typing an entire string of them. With no way to delete, because of time, she sent the string, hoping he’d see what he needed to.

  Because Mara was stirring. And she’d be pissed—and wouldn’t fall for the same trick twice.

  “Mara, if we make a call, we can get you on the news,” she promised as Mara rolled onto her hands and knees, then grabbed for the edge of the table.

  “You don’t even believe in my legacy,” she pointed out.

  “Convince me.”

  Mara came up to her and smiled, a sweet smile, right before she put the Taser on the side of Abby’s neck again.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Teige stared at the phone, still in a post-sex haze. That ended the second he saw the old code texted from Abby and he was in full command, throwing clothes on and out the door, yelling for Kayla to get in the car and getting Jacoby on the line.