Delicious - Page 15

He looks up at me again, searching my face, then gestures over his shoulder to the counter where I see a few different pots and pans, and a weird, square-like appliance with a handle on the side. “It’s not that hard,” he assures me, before I can say a word. “Pasta doesn’t take long to make. And I could make Alfredo sauce in my sleep. It’s not…” He looks around again,as if he doesn’t know what to say. “It’s not a big deal, Saylor. Promise.”

I can’t answer. How can I, when my mind is blown at the idea of this man, thismurderer, just casually cooking me dinner completely from scratch like he’s trying to impress me or…or….

Like this is a date.

The thought makes my fingers go numb, but I clench my fork harder and wind noodles around it again. “My meals consist of microwavable dinners, popcorn, and Lunchables,” I inform him at last, finding it a bit easier to meet his gaze this time when his eyes flick up to catch mine.

God, how are they soblue?

“Lunchables?” he repeats, his eyes narrowing. “You mean the fancy kind, right? Wheat crackers, better cheese, meat not processed completely to hell?” His brows rise by increments, like he’s building hope with every movement. “Right?”

“Wrong.” I point my fork at him, then stab it into a strip of chicken. “We’re talking turkey and cheese on crackers with a Nestle crunch bar. Pizza with sauce lacking, probably, real tomatoes.”

The disgust on his face is priceless, and I fight the small smile that twitches at my own lips. But this shouldn’t be so…easy. It shouldn’t feel like he’s my friend. Like I’minterested.Because I’m definitely, irrevocably, not interested in anything other than getting the hell out of here.

But even that thought isn’t enough to turn the food to ash in my mouth, so I keep eating. He’s content enough to eat quietly, though every time I look at him, his eyes flick up to mine like he’s just waiting for me to do or say something.

“I guess you, uh…locked up the chainsaw, huh?” I ask at last, when my bowl is two-thirds empty. “Along with all the knives?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, giving my question a few moments’ thought. “Yeah, I did. Sorry, Saylor.” I have no idea why he’sapologizing to me, but I watch as he sits back with a soft huff, his plate empty. “I figured the knives you actuallycouldandwoulddo damage with. And I don’t want to wake up with a slit throat.”

“That’s…fair.” I sit back, having picked out all the chicken, most of the noodles, and some of the broccoli from my bowl. I can’t help wondering if he’s a good cook across the board. Not that I intend on finding out. “But umm.” I suck in a sharp breath, close my eyes, and barrel onward. “I want to ask?—”

“You want to know why you’re here. Why I didn’t kill you. What I’m going to do with you?” He taps his fingers on the counter as he speaks, in a rhythm that threatens to get stuck in my head. “And I’m more than willing to answer all of that. As long as you do me one favor.”

I open my eyes sharply, lips parting, but he cuts me off before I can say a word.

“I want you to listen to me explain what happened at the swamp, and why you really shouldn’t be afraid of me, or feel sorry for him.”

Chapter

Eight

My brain rockets, thoughts soaring through my head at a million miles an hour. Delicately I pick up my napkin, worrying the paper through my fingers as I stare at him, wide-eyed and quiet.

I don’t exactly have another option. And…he did just feed me. Literally made me ahomemademeal instead of just popping something in the microwave like I would’ve done, even if my guest were the president himself.

“Okay,” I say finally, my voice quieter than I’d like it to be. I clear my throat lightly, like that’s the problem instead of the overwhelming fear and anxiety thrumming through my veins and making me a little nauseous. God, it would be such a waste to not get to keep custody of the food I’d just eaten. A crime, actually. Not just a waste.

So I suck in a breath and swallow the bad feelings in the back of my throat before meeting his eyes and saying, with more conviction, “I’m listening.”

I don’t expect the flash of approval, of satisfaction, on his face. But it’s too clear for him to hide, even when he looks away and folds his hands, leaning his chin on them before he takes abreath. “His name is—or was—Tyson Miller, and he killed four girls over the span of a few years. He killed themhorribly,Saylor. I saw pictures of the last one, from last month. It was…” He shakes his head from side to side, obviously lost in the memory. “If you knew my family and what I saw growing up, you’d know how hard it is to unsettle me with murder or gore..” He unlaces his fingers like he’s nervous, tapping the knuckles of one hand against the counter under us.

“So you’re Batman with a chainsaw?” I ask, disbelieving. There’s no way he’s some vigilante going around punishing those the law doesn’t. And if he tries to make me believe that, I’m going to start looking for the chainsaw again.

“No,” Jed shakes his head fervently, the look on his face incredulously amused. “No, not at all. I’m not very nice, and my friends aren’t either. Though…if they would’ve talked me through explaining this to…” He looks up at me, his blue eyes wide and doe-like, as ifhe’sthe one caught in searing headlights instead of me. “Well. Anyway, no, I’m not. And I’ve killed people who don’t deserve it, which won’t help this conversation, I’m sure.”

He searches my face, looking for anything, and whatever he must see there causes his gaze to flick back to his empty plate. “But I’m trying to explain aboutthisman and why I couldn’t wait for you to leave first before I did it. Normally, I’m sure there are no witnesses, unless I need there to be. But he was leaving soon. That swamp? He used it for uh, a disposal site once. Pretty sure he was visiting it before leaving, and I couldn’t let him leave.”

“How do you know all this about him?” My curiosity gets the better of me, and the words pour out of my mouth before I can stop them. “If you aren’t Chainsaw Batman with an infinite list of resources and informants.”

“It’s a small world.” Jed just shrugs. “A friend of a friend told me. Even for my friends and I, killing children, doing whathe did to them?” He shakes his head. “It’s not right. If I hadn’t done it, one of them would’ve. It was just unlucky timing that you were there and saw. Though…” He finds my eyes again, pinning me in place and not letting me look away. “I’d be lying if I said I regret meeting you. I just wish it was under better circumstances.”

My mouth opens, then closes. I swear I have a million things to say, from insults to one-liners to unfunny jokes that even I won’t laugh at. But all I can do is look at him, as the admission zips around my brain like a trapped fly, and watch those ice-blue eyes stare at me with anything but a threat in them.

“Okay,” I say stupidly. Because I have no idea what else to say to that admission from him. I, for one, regret being there. I regret not getting out of the swamp when he’d told me to, though I have gotten a fantastic dinner out of it.

I just don’t want it to be mylastdinner.