Raising a Psychopath

NINETEENTH

In the raw chill of dawn, my emotions were a mess of dread and apprehension. The morning light revealed the harsh truth: Frances was no longer among the living. Under the cover of night, Roman had taken it upon himself to rid us of another burden, depositing Frances's lifeless form in some forsaken place—perhaps alongside his father's.
The specifics were a mystery, one I wasn't eager to unravel.

All that remained now was one final act—one last person to confront. Another life to be extinguished before we could even think of closure. This was assuming that Roman started with his second rapist because he didn't want to harm or face the first. Which, of course, didn't line up with his need for complete justice, but I was assuming the best.
Maybe he skipped to the second, was planning the third, and that would be it. Maybe the first was already dead or long gone somewhere else.
Despite my efforts to penetrate Roman's thought process, he remained a fortress of secrecy.
Each time I pressed for the identity of the third, he rebuffed me, insisting that any disclosure would unravel the fragile tapestry of his plans. Reluctantly, I accepted my role as merely a spectator, an imposition that chafed against every instinct I possessed.

Amidst the turmoil, I reached out to Greg.
He agreed to meet the following day, after a conversation where I clumsily explained my abrupt departure—a necessary escape from my spiralling sanity. It had been ages since our last meaningful interaction, and although I had begun to distance myself, I recognized the folly in turning away from him. Not when he represented the mundane stability I so desperately needed.
After the storm passed, I harboured no illusions about Roman's constancy; his path was his own to choose, and while part of me yearned for him to stay, I knew better than to try and tether him to me. That left Greg as my fullback, a steadfast presence I could rely on, even if it relegated him to being merely a safety net.

Who was I kidding?
In the grand theatre of my life, Greg was undeniably the understudy, waiting in the wings should the lead ever falter.
It wasn't Roman.
It could never be Roman.
One day, he'd leave. Likely sooner than later. And then I would have no one.

Over the remains of a half-hearted breakfast, I brought up the subject I had been dreading. "The tape," I started, hesitating as I caught Roman's guarded look. "Frances..."

"Avery didn't know he was filming," Roman replied, his voice flat as he absently pushed his food around on his plate. "I had a hunch it ended up somewhere. Got sold, passed around, eventually surfaced on the deep web," he added, dropping his fork with a clatter that seemed too loud in the quiet kitchen. "Shame I didn't turn into a Kardashian from it. Maybe then I could have been a bit more merciful with him."
I rolled my eyes at his attempt at dark humour and gathered our plates, both nearly as full as when we started. The tension had stolen our appetites.

Standing at the sink, I let the water run as I gathered my thoughts. "Who was it..." My voice trailed off into the sound of running water.
I could feel Roman's intense gaze drilling into my back, his body language screaming reluctance. "The first...uh, the first rapist." The words were heavy, loaded with fear of Roman's potential reaction.
"There's absolutely no need for you to know that," he answered sharply, a hard edge to his tone that made me flinch. "What difference does it make?"
Turning slowly, I met his glare.
His eyes were like flint, sparking with a silent fury.
"I'm curious," I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Knowing doesn't change a fucking thing," he snapped, his face set in a mask of anger meant to intimidate. He didn't move away, his stance rigid, as if daring me to push further.
"Was it Johnny?" I ventured, my voice steadier than I felt.
"Dad never knew about Johnny," he dismissed with a terse shake of his head.
"Then who?" I pressed, unable to let it go despite the warning bells going off in my head.
Roman stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. "Are you going to let this go?" His voice was a low growl, a clear warning.
I shook my head stubbornly.
"Does it matter?"
I nodded.

His expression softened for a split second, a hint of resignation flickering across his features as he mirrored my nod, acknowledging the weight of my question.

Roman exhaled slowly, his fingers raking through his tousled obsidian hair as he fought to maintain control—a facade erected for my benefit.
He opened his eyes, the intensity within them piercing the dimly lit kitchen where the morning light barely filtered through the half-closed blinds.