My Darrling (3 page)

Our arms brushed, and I shuddered.

I just brushed arms with a cold-blooded killer.

It felt electric.

“Where are you headed?” he asked, his voice low and sleepy.

Shoot. I hadn’t thought this through.
Oh, just following
you.
Yeah, that would be a fantastic thing to say.

I cleared my throat. “I’m heading up town. You?” I figured
it was best to keep my response vague, and to answer it with a question to
distract him.

“I don’t know yet.” He said it like there was somehow more meaning
tucked behind his words.

I nodded and we lay in silence for a few minutes, our arms
brushing together every time the bus came to a stop or took a turn. Isaac
reached into his plastic bag, pulled out a Twix bar and tore open the wrapper.

“Here,” he said, handing me one of the two chocolate sticks.

“Thank you.” The sugar felt good after my run.

As passengers loaded onto the bus, I wondered if any of them
had any idea who Isaac was, that they were sharing a bus with a killer. I
recognized him almost instantly—surely someone else could see it was him
despite the changed hair and eye color and the hood over his head. But then
again, people ride public transit like zombies; everyone walks on and off with
their heads down and headphones in their ears as they try to avoid eye contact
at all costs.

I started to shiver so I popped the last piece of chocolate
in my mouth, then pulled my sleeves down and hugged my arms around my torso.

Isaac turned to examine me. “You cold?” He was already
removing his jacket. He draped it over me before I could answer him. It had a
faint smell of coffee mixed with the sweet, woodsy cologne he wore.

I didn’t want to wear his jacket; I wanted to take it off
and tell him I was fine. But his body heat lingered in the coat and warmed me. “Thank
you,” I said over the loud squealing of the bus. The thing sounded like it was
about to fall apart.

Isaac pulled his hood down and it made me annoyed, anxious.
Sure the way his damp, blond hair flipped and curled across his forehead and
framed his angular jawbone was enough to send my hormones into a tailspin, but
if someone recognized him, that would be it. He’d be gone.

Why did that matter to me?

He was sick, ruthless.

He was cruel.

It didn’t matter that he paid my bus fare, or that he shared
his stupid Twix with me. It didn’t matter that we loved the same band—lots of
people listen the same damn bands—and it didn’t matter that he gave me his
jacket, or that he was so beautiful that it made me ache. It didn’t matter that
thinking about him, studying him, and now sitting next to him—like this was
some sort of twisted fate—made me feel high. Isaac felt like a dangerously
addictive drug to me; he had been from the second I heard about his case, from
the second I saw those sky-gray eyes on the Interpol website. But none of that
mattered, because everything I felt for the volatile boy was wrong, sick.

Isaac traced his tongue across his upper lip before
speaking. “What’s your name anyway?”

I cleared my throat. “Sophie.” Now I had to pretend that I
had no idea who he was. “What’s yours?”

He hesitated. “Harold Harte.”

Liar
.

Of course he wouldn’t divulge his real name, but his made up
name was a little too old for him—not many people from my generation are named
Harold. And if he was trying to disguise himself, he was doing an awful job.
The hair dye and contacts didn’t do much to alter his appearance. It almost seemed
like Isaac was confused, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be captured—and
get it over with—or if he wanted to keep running, to see how much media
attention he could get. I could sense that he was starting to give up, though.
He was beginning to wear out.

I nodded. “Well, Harold”—I had to put a great deal of effort
into not calling him Isaac—“what stop are you getting off at?”

“There’s a coffee shop on Twelfth Street that I always go
to,” he said, voice as smooth and creamy as warm caramel. “Can I buy you a
coffee, Sophie?” He smiled. “Or maybe some type of fragrant girly tea?”

I
was
cold.

A hot drink sounded like a winter night under a quilt in
front of a crackling fire. But coffee with Isaac sounded more like tightrope
walking over a roaring fire with the promise of falling to my death.

Still, something pulled me in, pulled me toward Isaac
Darrling, and the thought of parting ways with him didn’t feel like an option.
I thirsted to be near him, I craved his presence. Somehow I deemed him worthy
of the gamble—as insane as that sounds.

“They don’t happen to have a fireplace, do they?” I asked,
my lips curling up as I caught his smile, like it was something contagious.
“I’m freezing.”

“As a matter of fact, they do.”

We had to do one transfer before we arrived at the Cozy Cabin
Café. I had never been to this place before; it was beautiful. Plush, maroon-velvet
chairs skirted rustic, dark-wood tables. An electric fireplace was plunked in
the floor-to-wall stone, orange light generously spilling out from it. Mason
jars with twinkle lights in them hung on long wires from the vaulted ceiling,
glowing with serene luminance. The menu was written artfully in multicolored
chalk behind the counter, and on the restroom doors hung coffee mug plaques
carved from wood that had Garcon and Fille—French for boy and girl—etched into
them.

This was my kind of place.

I planned to escape into the washroom to call my mom with a
fabricated story about how I ran into Alex, then call Alex and ask him to cover
for me if my parents called to verify said fabricated story. Or maybe I’d call
Alex first.

“Let me guess,” Isaac began, “you’re a large, soy, decaf,
sugar-free, vanilla latté with an extra shot of vanilla type?”

I winced. “Not even close. I’m more of a small vanilla latté
type, but thanks for pegging me as an obnoxiously picky person.”

He laughed, an awkward laugh. “I do apologize, it’s just
that most girls I’ve met—” He stopped speaking abruptly, shifted his eyes
around. “You know what, never mind. I’m sorry Sophie. You definitely don’t seem
like most girls I’ve met.” He pulled out his wallet.

“I have some cash,” I offered, but he shook his head.

“No, don’t worry about it. It’s my way of apologizing for
that stupid comment.”

I laughed it off. “No worries, Harold. I know you were only
kidding. Are you trying to say that I have a bad sense of humor too?”

“No, I—”

“I’m joking Is-
Harold
.” I pressed my lips together
tightly after my almost slip up. Gauging Isaac’s reaction, I could see that he
didn’t catch it—or he was good at pretending.

Everything about this felt normal. It felt like I was
getting coffee with a long lost friend, not a sadistic killer on the run—who
obviously was not trying very hard to run. Maybe, since he knew he was getting
closer to being captured, he wanted to enjoy his last bit of freedom. Perhaps he
didn’t want to spend his last free days constantly looking over his shoulder.

I put my water bottle and iPod down on a table, then took
Isaac’s coat off and wrapped it around the chair. “I’m just going to the
washroom,” I told him.

He ran his fingers through his hair then trailed his eyes
over me. He glowed like an angel under the dim lighting. This murderer somehow
had so much love in his eyes, so much humanity.

“I’ll be here when you get out, and I’ll have a piping-hot
vanilla latté for you.”

He grinned and pulled his hood up over his head before
walking up to the barista. For the first time, I saw a slight flicker of
nervousness in his eyes as he scanned the café. He kept his head down as he
ordered.

Once in the washroom, I called Alex. I told him the truth—kind
of. I let him know that I met someone…but, of course, I left out the fact that
the boy I met was currently the country’s most wanted killer.

He agreed to cover for me.

I quickly called Mom and told her that I was with Alex and
that we were seeing a movie.

She bought the story.

I turned around to look at myself in the mirror. The girl I
saw looking back seemed normal; she didn’t look like a girl with a death wish.
The warm, golden lighting did my complexion justice. My face was flushed and my
auburn hair looked a little on the messy side, but otherwise I appeared healthy
and happy.

But if I was happy, then why was I at a coffee shop with a
boy who would be arrested for twenty-four counts of murder? I thought of the
victims again: their families, their friends….

My stomach lurched.

I opened the door and walked out.

Isaac looked disgustingly beautiful bathed in the glow from
the fireplace.

I pulled my chair out and sat down across from him.

He plunked my latté down in front of me. “For you.”

“Thank you,” I said, wrapping my hands around the paper cup.
A shiver shook its way out from what felt like the middle of my bones.

He smiled crookedly. “So, Sophie, where were you headed
tonight?”

This question again. Was he onto me? I got that transparent
feeling you get when you know you’ve been caught, when it feels like someone
can see right through you.

I bit my lip, hard. “Uptown…to see a friend, but I
cancelled,” I lied.

“You cancelled on a friend for me?” I couldn’t tell if his
surprised expression was genuine or an act.

I nodded and brought my cup to my lips, blew lightly and
shrugged. “Yeah.”

I was an awful liar.

Isaac took the lid off his coffee and stirred in a few
packets of sugar, took a sip, winced, then stirred in two more packets before
pressing the lid back on. “Well, thank you. That was awfully kind of you.”

Why did I see nothing but warmth when I looked into Isaac’s
now-brown eyes? If I looked closely enough I could see the rim of his contacts;
I so badly wanted to see the gray eyes that I had grown to know from his
photos, though.

“So are you from New York?” I asked, even though I already
knew the answer. There’s something about knowing so much about a person before
even meeting them that makes you feel like a complete creep.

He shook his head. “I’m not, no. I’m actually from
Illinois.”

Lies
.

I pressed my lips together to remind myself not to say
anything stupid. “I like Illinois,” I blurted out, pathetically. “My family has
been a few times.”

I couldn’t picture this boy butchering human beings.

He shrugged “I like it better here in New York.”

I couldn’t picture him with a bloodied knife in his hand.

“Have you been here for a while then, or…?

I couldn’t picture Isaac taking a human life.

He contemplated, looked like he wasn’t prepared for
spontaneous questions anymore than I was. “Not long. And actually I’ll be
leaving any day now.” His eyes darted around the café and he dragged his chair
in closer to the table. He lowered his voice. “I’m going to go stay in Seattle
with a friend.”

 He was making it all up as he went.

“Oh.” Before I could say anything more my cellphone buzzed
with a text. “Do you mind if I check this?”

He smiled and his eyes crinkled at the sides, and for the
first time I noticed that he looked terribly exhausted. Beautiful, but tired.
“No, not at all.”

It was Alex.

BAD NEWS. SOMEONE REPORTED SEEING ISAAC DARRLING BOARDING A
BUS NEAR YOUR AREA
.
NOT KIDDING
.

Great.

I texted back.

DETAILS PLEASE?

I looked up at Isaac and forced a smile. “It’s my mom
wondering when I’ll be home,” I lied, yet again, certain my expression deceived
me. “I asked her to give me an hour.”

“Sounds good,” he said fiddling with his empty sugar
packets.

I swigged back a large, hot gulp of my latté. “It’s going
right through me,” I told him. “I’m just going to use the washroom—then do you
want to go for a walk or something? It’s hot in here.”

I fanned myself theatrically. I was only hot because I was
freaking out on the inside while trying to remain composed on the outside.

My phone went off before I got into the washroom. Once
inside, I leaned my back against the door and slid down until my bum met the
floor. Washroom floor—gross, I know, but my mind was in a million other places.

I checked my text from Alex.

SOME LADY SAID SHE SAW HIM BOARDING A BUS TONIGHT AROUND 5. SAID
HE HAD LIGHTER HAIR. SHE’S ALMOST CERTAIN IT WAS HIM.

So it was before I’d run into Isaac, about two hours before.
I let the air out of my lungs slowly as relief set in, relief that the lady
hadn’t spotted Isaac while he was with me. The last thing I needed was my
description all over the news. Then I realized that this meant they were close
to capturing him. This should have made me happy—happy that the show was over
and that justice would be served to that sick monster.

That beautiful, gentle monster
.

Happy that the victims’ families would finally get some sort
of closure.

Instead, my heart sunk into my stomach at the thought of
never being able to see Isaac Darrling again. I pinched the bridge of my nose.
Stupid,
stupid. You’re so stupid
, I told myself.
Why are you fascinated with
this pathetic, heartless bastard?

I stood up then thumbed a quick message back to Alex.

THANKS FOR THE DEETS. TXT YOU LATER.

Then, like some sort of sick joke, he texted back as I
shoved the toilet lever down with my foot—just in case anyone was listening.

WAIT! NOW THAT WE KNOW THE KILLER IS CLOSE I THINK U SHOULD
MAKE SURE THAT GUY U R WITH DROPS U OFF RIGHT AT UR DOORSTEP. IF U NEED ME TO
COME GET U I CAN GET MY DAD’S TRUCK.

Irony in its sickest form.

THANKS ALEX. I’ll TXT YOU IF I NEED YOU.