The Serial Killers Guide to Love (Deadly Darling #1)

Chapter 3

3

Sam

Sharp blades cut deep.

After the episode with Lilly, my ability to decipher human behavior was challenged and overwhelmed.

I brought coffee.

Coffee was always welcomed, that and some sort of pastry. Pastry said “Hi, we are friends, I like you and I am willing to make an effort by raising your blood sugar and shortening your life expectation.” Coffee was the juice of life for many people, myself included.

As I returned into the house, I opened my laptop and watched her. She looked put off by our encounter. Was it too much, too little?

Was she scared of me? This is weird, because not many people are. I fit perfectly into the serial killer stereotype, if I would ever be caught, even though I do everything I can to avoid such a tragic destiny. I know that people would say something like “Sam, oh, no, he was perfectly nice, there’s no way he would have ever done anything like that. He smiled, bought coffee and his lawn was always neat . “

Lilly hit her van with her head and talked to herself. The sound was hard to catch from the outside cameras, especially in the morning when traffic was loud. All she was doing was mumbling. I am not good at reading lips, but her mouth formed the word fuck again.

“Appearances are important.”

With that, I made my way to my laundry room and took my stained slacks off.

I can’t run around with stains on my clothes. How would that look?

My clothes, as my overall appearance, are spotless. I am clean shaved. I wear just the right amount of expensive aftershave to smell nice, but not overly so. My shirts are always clean and my shoes are polished.

I am a model citizen. Never would I run around with crumpled clothes.

Before allowing the slacks to soak, I am adding some stain remover to the spot where the coffee touched them.

What was it with Lilly that scared her so much?

Because I made no mistake when it came to fear, and what was painted on her face the moment she saw me was deep, all-consuming fear.

I made my way down into my soundproof basement. It had a cage right in the middle, and no, it was not for my bloody hobby. It was a temperature, humidity, and light controlled room where I kept a few extremely expensive books.

The generator was acting up and I made a mental note to get to the store and replace it before the end of the week. It was not that the room wasn’t connected to the central grid, but Florida could be unpredictable when it came to the weather and the last thing these books needed was to be in the moist hot Florida weather without the necessary protection. Like me.

Would I melt like a snowman under the sun, if all the layers I put up to cosplay a normal guy would be stripped away by some sort of mysterious circumstance?

Could I ever allow anyone to see me and live?

One of the reasons I enjoy the moment when my victim wakes up and looks at me is just that, they see me. They see the darkness and I can truly be myself if only for one moment.

A nagging thought came back to me. All I could find out about Lilly was connected to the last two years. That is why a part of me is almost sure that this is not her real name, but my data highway ran dry.

The last resort is DNA.

Would that be considered an invasion of her privacy, or would it be in some way romantic?

I want to know her better. All I know about life and romance is from books. I know the heart in a more realistic way as the muscle that pumps the blood in our body that makes this machine go.

Could I take the next step and look her up on the FBI data bank thanks to a pass code I took form one of the men I killed and who was a hacker?

Maybe.

But not today.

After putting on a new pair of slacks, I drive down to my store.

As always the store was populated. After so many wannabe booktokers posted about it, I had a steady crowd that came and browsed, took pictures, and purchased books.

Joe wasn’t bothered if they filmed him and I was OK with them filming their silly Tiktoks as long as they didn’t bother the other clients.

It was all good.

I walked up to my office and made a point out of making myself a fresh espresso right before clicking on the surveillance cameras in the store.

My code is simple, I only kill other killers, but that doesn’t mean that I am not fascinated by human nature. They are like fish in a bowl, forgetting that there is glass all around them, consumed by their want to become beautiful or famous.

Fame is easy, I always made sure to avoid it. I had a point in my existence when I considered playing around with the police, throwing them a bone now and then, but the mess wasn’t worth it.

I like it the way it is. I am operating alone and in the shadows.

A woman who wore a pair of jeans that are three sizes too large, tried to look smart with a Descart book in her hand.

Weird choice.

They usually go for Salinger or Plato when trying to attract attention to themselves.

Clicking on some forms for the store, I forget myself. Each day I get offers from other book sellers and I look for rare and unique books.

One of the most exquisite and rare books I ever held was a Bible from the 14th century, written by monks on human flesh.

It was even creepy for me.

I don’t like trophies. I do not take them. I don’t need anything that reminds me of the kills. I recall them, each and every one of them.

All 62 people that I unalived since the day I turned 14 and killed the abusive and rapist fuck that was my foster father.

Sure, my first kill was less elegant. But I read since then. I made a point out of studying forensic reports and police work. What are they looking for? What details are bringing others like me, my colleagues to the fall?

There is a pattern mine would be that I only kill other killers and the occasional rapist or pedophile. As a kid that grew up in the system and knows how it feels to be utterly and totally powerless, I can’t close my eyes and turn my head away when children are molested.

Not that I like children. I don’t.

They are messy, loud, sticky and I never want any of my own, but they are also helpless. Lost. I have never been a child, not mentally. I could watch others and copy their behavior, find allies between the adults but I was not like them. I couldn’t feel the way they felt because I don’t feel like that. I make plans, I scheme and I think about my next step. It is a game of chess for me, but I like to be five steps ahead of everything, even myself sometimes.

And as such, I don’t understand why it is so difficult to calm Lilly. Why is she so nervous and skittish in my presence? There is something about her that is setting me on edge, a burn in the back of my head.

She’s like an acid burn, it hurts even after you cleaned the wound and are sure that it’s gone. That was this woman.

Way more beautiful women stepped into the store and I sometimes considered that I could use a long distance girlfriend. I don’t think that I can play the grieving widower any longer, but even so, people got used to seeing me alone and a woman sooner or later would expect sex.

Touching.

Kissing.

Just thinking about all the germs that are hidden in the human mouth makes me want to rather lick the sidewalk but in the other side today when I was so close to Lily.

No.

I wasn’t trying to kiss her. It was just her presence, wanting her to like me, but not cosplay Sam, or pretense Sam. I wanted her to like the real me. The man that knows the difference between the right and the wrong plastic garbage bags for a body and that loves the feeling of sticking a blade inside an open chest.

That me.

How could she?

How could I ever lean the burden of my truth on another soul?

They would think I am mad, they will be afraid of being tainted by association and I understand that, even though being a serial killer is not a contagious disease. It is not anything anyone gets.

You don’t sneeze and want to grab a blade and cut someone’s head off.

That is just wrong and barbaric.

I had to giggle slightly at my own joke before a knock at the door interrupted me.

“Hm, boss, the lady from yesterday, she’s asking for you.”

“Who?”

My mind was blank, between the feeling of being saturated after a kill and the short and awkward interaction with Lilly, I couldn’t recall who Joe talked about.

“The woman that started the conversation yesterday. Blonde, pretty. If you like, I can tell her that you are not available. “

“No, it’s fine. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Joe is not like me. He was excited to witness what was happening here. I suspect him to be a romantic, a true believer in twin souls and whatever the internet is spewing these days. I am not.

There is no such thing as deep love.

Humans are capable of vile acts, of betrayal that is so horrible and dark that they even shame me and I consider myself a monster.

A pleasant half smile rose on my lips to greet the woman.

She leaned against one of the shelves, holding a book and playing with her hair, the perfect cultivated picture of seduction. No, really.

She played all this out in her mind.

I sometimes forget that women and some men find me rather attractive and that they crave my company. The more closed off I appear, the more they try to get to know the real me. They would run screaming if they would.

I take in her appearance.

She’s wearing a blue summer dress with pretty golden accessories that bring out her blue eyes and light gold hair. She is a beautiful specimen, and if I would be interested in this sort of thing I would be honored and excited, but as I try to analyze myself I feel absolutely nothing.

She sees me, but she acts as if she’s engulfed and captivated by her lecture until I am close to her.

“Hi, my colleague said that you asked to speak to me. Is there something wrong?”

This is me being professional. She asked for the manager so she will get the manager.

She lifts her head in my direction and throws me a full on smile. Veneers, expensive ones but a touch too white. They make me think about Lilly’s teeth that are natural, and a touch crooked, but so unique in their own way.

“Hi,” she tries a fake laugh. She’s not that young, she should know how to pull this off.

“Do you remember me?”

“From yesterday. Sure.”

“Oh, see, you left so fast yesterday. And I was hoping.”

She makes a break and puts her hand on my naked arm. I hate this. I hate it when people touch me. It makes my skin crawl. It didn’t crawl this morning, replied a mocking voice inside my head.

Well no.

She moves her hand on my arm, and smiles again.

“I was hoping that you wanted to ask me out, but the fact that you didn’t have my number stopped you.”

I lift my left hand, and show her my wedding ring, moving my ring finger a bit.

The fake smile pops up. It’s that smile that pushes people away. I can do a genuine warm smile that would have her tell me all her dark deep secrets.

But this is the last thing that I want.

She eyes my wedding ring and keeps smiling.

“If you don’t tell her, I won’t.”

Oh god, I don’t often want to casually kill people but I hate it when women invade my space and touch me.

Taking a step back, I reclaim my personal space.

“I am flattered, but I will refuse. If there are other issues, I am sure that my colleague will be able to help you with them.”

She’s not used to rejection. She’s stiff. Her eyes are blank for a second.

“That’s a pity. I am sure that we would have had a great time, you and I.”

“I have some urgent business to attend to.”

I turn away from her and walk up to my office. The door closes automatically and I pull a large tube of hand sanitizer and rub the spot she touched me.

It’s compulsion. Some of the first memories of my childhood are about sleeping in a filthy room. I can’t deal with dirt. I need things to be clean, orderly, and neat.

Even though I am aware that my background makes me do certain things, I can’t shake them and I end up asking myself if it is worse to be aware of the things that make you tick and not want to fight them or if it’s better to forget about the strings that pull at us?

After I feel clean enough and my nose burns slightly from the hand sanitizer, I click on the code that allows me to watch the feed from Lilly’s house.

She’s not home, but I feel a deep need to see her.

Jumping up, I make my way to my car and drive up to the market.