Wicked Games: Book Two of The Psychopath Series

Chapter 50

"Can I at least see your face?" Isabeth tried to yank her arms free from the rope that tied them to the wooden chair. She heard a noise scraping along the floor beckoning her head to turn to the left. Another noise called out and she turned her head to the right. "Let me at least see where I am. I'll be calmer if I could see where I am." She tried to push the blindfold up with her shoulder.

"You don't need to see me." A heavy voice broke through the silence. "Only I need to see."

"See what?" Isabeth asked wrapping her legs around the chair's uneven legs.

"See you." The heavy voice whispered and she could tell it was a man.

She felt his breath course in her ear sending a shiver down her back.

Isabeth rocked the chair, "Why do you need to see me?"

"To finish my masterpiece." His voice seemed further from her. "You are my muse." It sounded like he was in another room. "I've been looking for you." She felt a rough finger graze along her cheek.

Isabeth quickly jerked her face away, "Is that why you killed Fiona?"

"She was a copy." He popped something open. Isabeth tried to place the sound. Was it a can of soda? "A delusion." Something hit against the wall. Was it a ball? "A fake. You are the original." His warm hand wrapped around the back of her neck.

Isabeth's shoulders up on their own. She tried to pull away from his touch but he locked his hand onto her firmly. "There's nothing fake about Fiona! She's more real and original than anything in your head!"

"She didn't call to me the way you called to me." He kissed the top of her head, breathing in her intoxicating redolence.

Isabeth sunk down in the chair cringing, "I've never called to anyone in my life."

"In Germany." He slid his hand to the front of her neck, feeling the delicate muscles of her throat flex.

She clenched her eyes digging her nails in the hard, wooden arms of the chair, "I haven't been to Germany in years. I was I teenager the last time I was there."

"And I was a college student." He brushed his hand down her luminescent hair. "An art student failing because he was in a rut. And then I saw you. Standing in front of an art gallery window. You smiled and I felt your presence all the way across the street. You woke something up in me." He coiled one of her curls around his finger. "I followed you. I saw the hotel you were at and I waited. I waited all night drawing. Sketch after sketch." Something faintly tapped against her legs; it felt like feathers swiping across her loafer-covered foot. She stepped her heel on it testing it out. Paper. It was paper. "Then in the morning, you came out. Or I thought it was you. I wasn't sure because there were two of you."

"Two...of me." She whispered under her breath. People always said it; at parties or benefits. They were always called by each other's name; people yelling them down only to find out they've been chasing the wrong person. Once Isabeth had to pull out her driver's license to prove she was who she said she was.

Maybe it was their radiant henna complexion or the million and one curls that dangled down their backs. It was the illusion of distance that threw every stranger off; the way they walked, the way they moved, they way the light bounced off their eyes. It was almost identical.

"The girl I saw that night had curly hair but the girl I saw getting into the limo had straight hair but...." He inhaled deeply. "Then there was a girl that looked like the girl I seen last night...with the curls that I saw last night. I didn't know which girl was mine. So, I wanted and I watched. Then she told me where you were. She gave me a plan to bring you to me." He tugged on the blindfold and it fell off.

Isabeth let the light hit her eyes. Her irises absorbed colors, a world wind of colors exploded on the wall-size canvas; blues, reds, greens, browns. Then they picked up an array of strokes. Frenetic strokes. Ecstatic strokes. Ireful strokes. Her pupils grew, her mouth dropped and her shoes stuck to the floor pushing the chair back. His face was one she knew. One she trusted. It was him.

"Santiago." Isabeth closed her eyes. They had to be playing tricks on her. Maybe it was the pounding headache distorting her vision. Her chest quickly rose up and down.

"Open your eyes." He lifted her chin, kneeling next to her. "Look at me. Read my soul once more. I've been waiting." He caressed her supple cheek. "I've been waiting for you to tell me how to finish."

Isabeth opened her eyes trying to hold back the pain that pooled in the wells. "How gave you a plan?" Her voice quivered as her eyes scrolled open

Santiago grazed his fingertips along her lips, "The Psychopath—"

"You showed her your face!" A voice came from the hallway. "You asshole!" The man walked in the room.

"She's the one." Santiago stood. "We can trust her, Aaron." He frantically nodded.

Isabeth blinked as her hand loosen up their grip of the chair, "You two....you're twins."

"Now." Aaron tapped the pistol against his leg. "We definitely have to kill her."

Isabeth's eyes went black. She couldn't see them anymore. Her eyelids stretch out as far as they could go but she couldn't see them anymore. She couldn't see them through the dark.

"Someone followed you?" Isabeth turned her head to the voice, who was that? Santiago or Aaron. Their voices sounded alike. They were true twins and not peculiar resemblances like her and Fiona.

It was always their voice that gave away their true identity; Fiona's was light and whimsical and hers was mellow and melodic.

"No one followed me, Santi. But Fulton's alive."

"Is he coming to take us back?" Urgency hung in Santiago's words as he paced across the floor. "I won't go back. Not to the room. Not to the cage."

"No one's taking us back." The pacing stopped and then like the sun hanging in the sky Isabeth felt their energy burning, glowing in the middle of the room. "No one is taking us anywhere!" Aaron declared. 

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