I Live For The Chase

Chapter 9

The rest of the drive is a blur of tension and silence. I focus on the lights passing by, counting them to keep my mind from spiraling. One, two, three... Anything to keep from thinking about what he said. Anything to keep from admitting that he might be right.

The radio plays a low, melancholy tune, but it does nothing to ease the tension. He hums along absently, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel in time with the music. I steal a glance at him, his profile sharp against the dim light. There's a calmness in his demeanor that infuriates me.

"How do you do it?" I blurt out. "How do you kill all those men?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"I want to understand how someone can do that. How you came to do that."

His darken, something conceals them—as if concealing the truth. "It's not just about the act itself. It's about control, power, and necessity. I don't have a choice."

"Everyone has a choice."

He doesn't move, his gaze intense and unwavering from the highway. "Not me."

I swallow hard, my mouth dry. "But don't you feel anything? Guilt, remorse?"

"When you're in my position, you learn to compartmentalize. To separate your actions from your feelings."

"What position is your position?" I'm begging for any information about his life at this point.

His expression softens just a fraction, a hint of something almost human flickering in his eyes. "Life pushes you in directions you never thought possible. You adapt, you survive. And sometimes, survival means making choices you never imagined.

I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, a mix of fear and a twisted sort of empathy. "So you truly had no choice?"

"Come to think of it, your right little killer, there is always a choice," he admits. "But sometimes, the choices are between bad and worse. And you do what you have to do."

The car suddenly feels colder, the air heavier. I look at him, trying to see past the facade, to the person beneath. "Do you ever wish things were different?"

His gaze falters for a split second, and I see a flash of vulnerability before it is masked by his darkness. "I stopped wishing for things a long time ago."

I dare to push further. "And what about now? Do you still believe you're doing what you have to?"

"That's enough questions."

Finally, we pull up to my house. I sit there for a moment, silence stretching out between us.

"How come the people haven't started asking questions about my dad?" I ask, the question has been looming every second of my being for the past fortnight and I have a very strong suspicion that it's because of him somehow.

"People will only start asking questions when they notice he's missing—clearly your dad isn't that popular. No one is missing him yet."

The killer's words make me want to cry because they are true, no one is really going to miss him. Besides his work and the so called friends he had there (which I don't even know if they exist truly as I have never once met them) my dad did not have connections with many people.

If he has a funeral, no one would be there.

A tear spills down my cheek and I quickly wipe it away.

"Okay." I say.

"But they will." He says with more seriousness. "And when they do, you will have to get your story straight."

"Okay..." I whisper.

I have been lucky this far, my actions in killing my father have had no consequences—well besides the obvious murderer sitting next to me who won't leave me alone. However I know that this time if temporary, as the killer said, people will find out and when they do I have to be ready.