It's Complicated

Chapter 22: Kacey Eton

“So, why don’t you tell me how you came to find us?” the man asks. I glare at him, not even thinking about responding. I owe this man one thing and one thing only: a death sentence.

We are in a small office that could have been the old manager’s office. The door is open, though I don’t see anybody outside the door. But I know someone is there. I can feel it.

The man sits behind a desk in a comfortable swivel chair. He leans back in it, his hands folded in front of him. I sit in an old plastic chair against the opposite wall, my hands handcuffed together on my lap. I hate not being able to use my hands. They are my greatest weapon, and now they’re useless. Actually, I’m working on that. One of my first lessons was how to get out of handcuffs. It took me days to learn, and I only successfully did it once. But I’m aiming for that to change.

Upon closer inspection of the man, I see he is possibly in his late thirties, early forties. His brown hair is a bit longer than the last time I saw him, but it is still short. His eyes are not an inky black, but a very dark brown. And the scar going from the tip of his eyebrow to half way down his right cheek is exactly how I remember it. It’s exactly how I made it all those years ago.

“Why don’t you tell me how you evaded us for so long?” he asks. He seems genuinely interested, which makes me even more obligated to not answer him. I just continue glaring at him. “Come now, Kacey. What have you to gain from this? You’ll be dead soon, anyways.” Even though I already know it, hearing him say I will die sends a fresh stab of fear through me. I never thought this was how I would be done in. “Why not share your story with someone?” I glare at him still. He is the last person I would ever share my story with. “No? Is that how this is going to be?” I reply to this with a slow blink. He leans forward and folds his arms on the desk. “What if I tell you something in return? You tell me your story, I answer your questions.” I lean forward and hide my hands between my legs, trying to make it look like I’m interested in his offer. He seems to buy it. But I need to buy myself time. Eventually, he’ll grow bored with me, and he’ll send me out, and I’ll lose my chance to kill him.

“What’s your name?” I ask him. He smiles, probably glad he finally got something out of me.

“Monroe,” he says. “Just Monroe.” He motions with his hand that it’s my turn to speak. To tell my story. I work to maneuver my fingers together, trying to make my hands smaller. All I need is one hand free.

“My name was Kacey Emerson. I died at age nine from a gunshot wound to the head. But I guess you know about that.” I move to twist my hand out of the handcuff. I almost get it free, but my hand is a little too big. “I got foster parents. Your men came, killed them, and almost got me. I got away.” I twist my hand again. So close. “So, of all the people out there, why take Travis? There are richer people out there.” He taps his fingers together.

“There are,” he says. “But none of them would lead me to you.” I stop working my hands for a second to absorb that. So, it’s my fault. I feel my throat tighten, but I force the tears away. Taking in a deep breath, I start trying to free my hands again. “I’ve been watching you ever since the day you ‘died’, Kacey. Even at times when you didn’t know it. I’ve been waiting for the opportunity to get to you for a while. When I learned about Travis, well, that just made my life easier. I knew you would come for him, and play right into our hands.” So, all of this was a set up. All of it. He knew what would happen before I did. “It was always about you Kacey.”

“But why me?” I ask, pulling my hand again. I almost feel my hand slide out. “Why are you so desperate to kill me?”

“Simple,” he says, all smiles. “It’s because of what you are. What you’ve been since the second you were born.” He pauses. “What your father made you into.”