Marcus would wait at the marsh cottage, the thousand-foot structure that was his personal fuck den. Have his time with the girls, take as long as he needed, get his fill, enough to last a few months, possibly even a year. They’d struggle. The more hours that passed, the more the drugs wore off, the more they fought. Some more than others. The worst were the ones who failed to break. He’d only had one, a girl seven years ago. That girl hadn’t made it through alive, was the one black mark on his record. He didn’t like that ending—all the work of a fight without the reward of them yielding and pliable. The rest of the girls had all ended up there; he’d broken them, he’d won. It was what he was: a winner. Always had been, always would be. And the girls had each learned that. From his fists. From his belt. From his cock. They’d all eventually quieted down. Begged. Offered him anything and everything, then given him even more.

He’d take his fill and leave. The longest session had been seven hours, shortest was two. He’d leave and Thorat would return. Give the girl a dose of forget-me and then dump them on the street. The ending the whores deserved. The lucky ones woke up and found their own way home with no clear memory of what had happened. The unlucky ones got found by someone else. Someone different than Marcus but after the same thing. The countless other breeds of animals that roamed these streets.

Thorat’s system worked. It had been well planned, weaknesses examined, kinks worked out. Gave Thorat job security and the chance to exercise his old skills. Gave Marcus the fix he needed without the risk. And he hadn’t been greedy, had regulated himself. Made each experience last, holding him over for months, even years, at a time. He and Thorat had had fourteen perfect exchanges over the course of ten years. Katie McLaughlin had been the bitch who brought the system down.

CHAPTER 12

I SIT ON the window ledge, the glass open, the cold air refreshing on my face. One leg dangles out. Dangerous. I love the danger. Love the risk. What if I fall? This height would probably kill me, but maybe I’d get lucky. Broken bones, damaged organs. An ambulance ride, strangers’ hands along my body. Touches. Interactions. Conversations. An adventure. I watch the convenience store at the corner. Thirteen people have entered and left in the last forty-five minutes. Some drove up, some walked, one individual, skinny and white, has paced before the front for the last twenty minutes, looking more jittery than I do at one a.m. on a killing night. The sun is settling over rooftops, moving lower, night falling. I should be camming. I’ve taken too long for dinner. But as night falls, the interior lights illuminate the store and it glows. Like a beacon. I can now see inside. See the rows of food. If I squint hard and imagine a lot, I can see the slow spin of the hot dog turner. I roll away from the window, swing my leg inside, and stand, sliding the window down, the tracks sticking as if reluctant to obey.

I locked myself up for three years before I stepped out of my apartment for one long-ass day. That day, when I felt the foreign weight of shoes moving me up and along the grit of concrete? When I took a breath and registered scents, breeze, sunshine? It terrified me. I worried that I was facing an adversary I might not be able to resist. Normality. It is a tempting and crafty bastard. I worried that I would take that short trip, then not be able to return. Not be able to shut myself back inside, relatch the lock on my world of isolation. I worried that I would paint over my situation and convince myself that I can handle the outside world. Lie to myself because I would want normality so badly that I would risk others’ safety to get it.

Is that what I’m doing now? Lying to myself? Telling myself that I am strong enough because I am not strong enough to resist it? Is my will to be normal greater than my thirst to kill?

I let my brain ponder the question for one short moment, the length of time to properly dress, then I pull open the door. Stuff my hands into the pockets of my jacket, and step, one tennis-shoed foot before the other, along the orange carpet.

CHAPTER 13

I CAN DO this. I can handle this. A snack, that’s all I want. There is a taped poster on the glass window. One that advertises Good Humor ice cream bars. I’ve been thinking of ice cream all night. An ice cream Snickers Bar. That’s what I really want. One just soft enough that the caramel runs into the ice cream, and one bite creates a delicious combination of chocolate, caramel, nuts, and cold cream on my tongue. Wash it down with an ice-cold can of Dr P, and I just might orgasm all over myself. I push on the stairwell handle and pound down the stairs.

Baby steps. Ice cream Snickers Bar. Dr Pepper. Return home. I can handle this. I can prove that I can handle this. Fuck you, Dr. Derek. Fuck you, killer instincts. Ice cream. Dr Pepper. Home.