When a strange advertisement appears on the local newspaper asking for compliant females willing to interview and connect with the minds of the worlds worst serial killers, Aria Black thinks it nothing short of an exaggeration. She applies for the j...
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- John Haigh
TWENTY ONE
I HAD NOT GOTTEN a second of sleep after Frank had shut my door and I was certain that my fatigue was evident in my features. My eyes dropped at the sides and my walk was begrudging. The second I had seen the brightness of day, I pulled out my phone and called Diana. I left her 27 missed calls, and a text filled with worry.
Once I walked into the clinically white backroom, I noticed that Frank was absent. In his place stood Hank and the two other team members who I usually saw.
Hank had on a wry smile on his lips and gauged my grey demeanor. "You look very well rested, Miss Black."
My eyes focused on his smile. "Well, you look awfully depressed."
Hank winked at me. "Touché." And then he gestured at the door. "Your dark prince awaits."
I ignored his sarcastic comment and gaped at the metal doors. God, was I tired. "He's already in there? I thought I was supposed to go in first."
"Since we're all switched things up, I did so myself." He smiled smugly, his body rested against the white wall like a stain. "I even made him wait a little."
I turned to the assistants who had been pretending to be invisible. I recognised them both instantly. "How long is a little?"
Glasses glanced at Hank when he replied. "A little over two hours?"
"Make that three." Hank corrected, glancing at his watch.
I pushed open the doors before anyone could say another word. I wasn't eager to have this meeting because I knew now that Banshee was trapped inside my head. He had got in. He had manoeuvred his bulky self into the folds of my brain and I was now open to his manipulations. I hated that. I hated this. I hated him.
But I didn't want him to have to wait for me.
When I walked in, however, I sagged against the door from a cross between fear and shock. Jesus Christ. My hands flew over my mouth to hide my gasp but it was too late. It had escaped, and now, Banshee had looked up.
Hollow eyes.
He was a mess. I was used to him striding in with bruised arms and a scowl etched on his face. Today, however, he was unrecognisable. Someone had touched him. No. Someone had wrecked him. His hair was matted against his forehead, smeared with dried blood and residue. His eyes were blackened and swollen, and there was a gash above his right eyebrow. His cheeks had been hurt too, a nasty bruise kissed his hollow cheek.
I was certain it wasn't just his face that had been marred because he sat at a weird angle. Like he had slumped on the metal chair. He wasn't like Atlas today, he held no one's world. He struggled to hold his own self up.
