Playing Dead_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [91]
He could protect her from himself for only so long. With the discovery of Oliver Maddox’s body, there was a chance he could be exposed. He listened for the telltale police cars in his driveway, one ear cocked to the police scanner.
There was no way he would go to prison and leave Claire to someone else. It physically hurt knowing other men had slept with her, but he’d allowed it because he hadn’t been ready yet. Self-preservation drove his actions for years.
But if decades of secrets leaked out, he would have to kill her. Better to have her dead and buried than for him to be locked behind bars knowing another man had her body and her heart.
There was all the difference in the world between killing the runaways and killing Claire. First, no one missed the runaways. Claire had people who would look for her if she disappeared. Her employer, her friends. That made taking her dangerous.
But with Tom O’Brien on the run and the stress of these last months on her, coupled with the newly discovered information about her boyfriend, taking her now and making it look like she’d killed herself . . . or run away . . . was tempting.
He’d think about that.
For now, he needed to take care of the girl in the shed.
He left his house and crossed to the back of his property, protected by rows of trees that were a windbreak, as well as a sound barrier. Even if the girl screamed, no one would hear unless the wind was just right.
The evening was still warm after the hot day. Another reason he couldn’t leave the girl for long. Without food and water in this heat, she’d die and start to decompose. Flies would lay eggs and maggots would infest her orifices and her skin would get slimy and start sliding off.
He hated the dead.
He unlocked the shed. If it hadn’t been shaded by the trees, the girl would likely have died from the heat. She was kneeling where he’d left her early this morning chained to the wall. The white gown he’d put on her was dirty from sweat and the dust in the shed. He cleaned the place weekly, but still dirt accumulated. Her arms were bolted to the wall, body sagging to the floor. He had no desire to torture the girls, but he found that if he restrained them in a prone position they regained some of their strength. He didn’t want to have to explain any scratches or bruises she might inflict, and he couldn’t take sick time now.
“Hi, Claire,” he said. He never knew the names of the girls. They may have told him, but he never remembered. In his mind they were all Claire.
She whimpered, straining against the tape secured across her mouth. Her chest and neck were bruised. He felt bad about that. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her, but it was inevitable when they had sex that she’d get hurt. It was something he was working on; he didn’t want to hurt Claire when he made love to her.
But if he wanted to feel anything, he had to hold them tight. Squeeze them. And like a treasured insect in a young boy’s hand, sometimes the life got squeezed out of them. It wasn’t his fault they were too fragile.
He touched her black hair. Longer than Claire’s, the way Claire used to wear it. Long and flowing.
He took scissors and cut it off. Held it to his face. He’d washed the girl’s hair in the same rich shampoo Claire used. He walked across the large shed and tied a pink ribbon around the thick lock of hair, then placed it in a drawer next to more than a dozen others.
He unlocked the restraints and brought the girl to her feet. “Claire, I’m sorry, but this is good-bye. I promise, you won’t suffer.”
He had wanted to bury her last night, but he’d kept her in his bed too long, until dawn, and he didn’t trust that he wouldn’t be seen. Even on his large property, it was better to do this task under the cover of darkness.
Her grave had already been dug.
His aversion to dead things held true. He had, two or three times, accidentally killed his girls