The Hand that Feeds: Serial Killer Romance by Mixon K.M

Author:Mixon, K.M.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-10-13T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TEN

Neo

The guards leave my newest plaything tied to a chair in the living room, right on the plastic drapes I’d placed down before Lyla arrived with my meds. She’d walked right past the setup twice, only seeing what she wanted to.

Stupid girls are that way, though.

“Let’s see what we’re working with here, hm, Tracy?” I tease the blonde bitch, who then lets out a shriek around her gag.

I roll my eyes.

Opening my laptop, I open the file the governor sent me, sifting through all the bullshit from the court system that I don’t care about, looking for the meat of what brought her to my humble abode.

“Ahh, there it is. Now we’re talking,” I mutter more to myself than to my guest.

She’s sobbing, and it’s grating on my fucking nerves. I hate when they cry.

It seems Tracy here isn’t from Crows Hollow. No, she’s from the neighboring city of Moss Bluff. She was tried, but not convicted, of human sacrifice, involving minors.

I look over toward her, and she screams again.

“Go head, cunt. Scream all you fucking want to. They’ve reinforced my walls, so that what I do in here is damn near private. Though, your screams will get lost in this place, hm? For you’re not the only madwoman here.” I chuckle, and she bristles.

My laugh has that effect.

She breaks into sobs again, and I take a steadying breath. Turning back to my screen, I scroll down to the good bits of the file. The part where she’d been the prime suspect in the murder of three teenagers in Moss Bluff. They’d been tied to a rock in the middle of a graveyard, on separate occasions, and filleted in such a way that the cops suspected cults or those in the surrounding cities who think themselves witches.

But upon asking around, they’d been led the doorstep of one Tracy Hunter. High school teacher and Choir leader in her church.

It’s always the church-goers.

She’s so on brand for the others I’ve dispatched from this world that it’s despicable.

I don’t let my own bullshit bleed into moments like these. No, I read the facts, make sure the kill is warranted, and then dispel of the subject so I can move on with my fucking life.

I’m certain somewhere there’s a psychiatrist who’d say I’m some kind of sociopath, using my own abuse as a child to fuel some fucked up killing spree. But they’d be wrong. There’s no way to read me. No way to sum me up in a few words in a fucking file like this pleb who’s screaming for her life before me.

I’m not remorseful for killing how I do. And while I have a type, I’ll admit, I think the high would come after the kill, either way.

“Please,” Tracy begs as I storm over to her and wiggle my blade under her gag, cutting it in slow slices as she shudders against how close the tip of the blade is so near to her eye.

All of the sudden, she’s got self-preservation and she’s sitting still.

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