True Evil_A fast-paced psychological thriller that will keep you hooked Page 2

  That must be another of my neighbors, I thought. A far grumpier one. I shrugged and walked up the stairs, my mind back on Mom and her never-ending tricks.

  I was no longer the naïve child who’d let her set me up, thinking a mother would never do something like she had done to her child. I had to be extremely careful when I embarked on my new life outside of prison. As nice and caring as she pretended to be these days, I was not about to let my guard down. I didn’t care how much she tried. Someone as sick as she was didn’t have the ability to change.

  I could never allow myself to forget that.

  3

  I wasn’t sure what I expected to find in my new apartment, only that I expected something to be wrong with it. I highly doubted that my mother would have gotten me a place that was nice and perfectly normal. There had to be something up, a trap hidden somewhere. A poisonous snake curled up in a cabinet or cupboard, waiting to lash out at me and fill me with venom. A burglar in the middle of emptying the place and killing me for interrupting him. Maybe a tiny gas leak in the kitchen that would result in an explosion once I turned on the stove or lit a match.

  But as I cautiously walked inside the pleasant-smelling, furnished one-bedroom and looked around, nothing or no one attacked me. I continued into the eat-in kitchen and discovered that there was an electric stove under the yellow-painted cabinets, not a gas one that you usually found in older buildings such as this one.

  I did open the door to the walk-in closet in the bedroom very slowly. Once it was fully open, I jumped backward in case a cobra was bunched up on the linoleum floor. Not that I really thought Mom would plant a snake to kill me as that would be hard to explain later, but you literally never knew with her; she might have a perfectly plausible explanation for it. Better safe than sorry. I shined the flashlight on my new smartphone into the closet and couldn’t spot anything that looked strange or out of place. Cautiously, I walked inside and pulled the thin cord that hung from the ceiling and the light bulb above went on. Rows of clothes hung from the hangers on one side of the closet, and on the other were shelves filled with folded sweaters, socks, and underwear. Underneath all the clothes sat a collection of shoes, ranging from shiny professional male leather shoes to athletic sneaker-style ones in various colors. There was even a pair of military-green rain boots.

  I ran my hand through the row of neat clothes on the hangers, then continued through all the folded stuff. Mom had been serious when she’d told me she had bought me clothes to wear. There was plenty to choose from among all the stuff – a few suits, lots of casual wear and athletic gear.

  Well, I suppose that, these days, she can afford to dress me well, I thought.

  I pulled a pair of oversized athletic shorts from a hanger and a dark sweater from the pile in the middle of the closet shelves. I would wear those after I had taken a shower, washed off all the prison grime that still covered my skin.

  I spent a minute making sure nothing strange came out of the showerhead before I stepped into the hot sprays. I wasn’t about to take any chances; as mentioned, I didn’t think for a second Mom had forgiven me for accidentally shooting her husband. The crazy woman actually believed I had gone to take the gun from his storage box—somehow managing to undo the lock—and then aimed the weapon at his forehead with the intention to kill him. Did anyone really think a six-year-old child was capable of such premeditation no matter what the victim had done to the child?

  Anyone except for my mother, that is.

  My father, a nice, tall, handsome man who had loved to play soccer and worked as an accountant at a hospital, had been not only a pedophile but also a murderer. Like with my mother, no one had known about my father’s dark side. The world still believed that Tony, his older brother, was the person who had sexually abused me starting when I was only five years old. In reality, it had been Dad himself who had touched me inappropriately, made me do things to him that no dad should ever do, and then also sodomized me with different objects. At some point, he must have feared that I would tell someone, because he had gone ahead and killed his brother, made it look like the depressed man had hanged himself not being able to live with the fact that he was a pedophile any longer. A pedophile who took advantage of the little nephew he was supposed to babysit and protect. Those reasons had been clearly stated in the suicide note Tony had supposedly left behind on his pillow before taking his own life.

  From what I could remember, Uncle Tony had been a great guy. Yes, he had been melancholic and quiet, but I had always been able to tell, even at the tender age of six, that he was a kind, good man. A man who would never, ever lay a hand on a boy in an inappropriate manner.

  When I asked Dad why Tony had killed himself, he had brought me close to him in a hug, then whispered in my ear that it was because he didn’t agree with what Dad and I were doing at night sometimes. He had also explained to me that if I ever complained to anyone—anyone at all—that I would die in the same way that Tony had, dangling from a noose attached to the ceiling fan. So I’d better keep my mouth shut.

  I suppose it is possible that I had subconsciously wanted to see Dad dead, and that was why I had pulled the trigger; after all, what he did to me had been painful and degrading and wrong. But I sincerely can’t remember thinking that aiming that gun I had found in the closet at him would make the abuse stop. All I had wanted was to play Cowboys and Indians with Dad.

  At Ramsdale, the diversions had been of a far more sinister variety. I was raped and beaten, forced to find a way to defend myself if I wanted to keep my sanity. I eventually aligned myself with two older dudes who were not only strong and muscular, but also good people deep down. They watched my back in exchange for me teaching them good English. They were from South America but determined to succeed in America once they got out and school behind bars wasn’t great. No one cared if you actually learned something.

  But what had really made me survive was not Carlos and Paco’s unwavering defense of me. They weren’t around my last year. No, it had been the fact that I’d barely slept at night. Basically, I learned to sleep with one eye open, never feeling rested in the mornings. But it was either that or risking guys attacking me while I was asleep and vulnerable. That happened far too often in Ramsdale’s large dormitories filled with bunk beds. No guards were around to break up the fights then. Some would have called what I did self-inflicted Chinese torture, but it wasn’t so bad once you got used to it. Besides, there was always coffee, which I learned to love. The thought of the revenge I would get on my mother once I had served the minimum part of my prison term sure helped to keep me going, too.

  As I stepped out of the shower now and got ready to go to bed, I honestly didn’t think I’d be able to get truly restful sleep. I may be out of prison at last, but the person who’d put me there was still free and eager to send me back. I couldn’t allow myself to fully relax before Mom was no longer able to hurt me or anyone else.

  4

  When the alarm clock on the bedside table said seven thirty, I decided it was time to get out of bed despite still feeling groggy. I was pretty sure I had slept some because I had a vague memory of a dream in which Sophie was stripping for me, and there was no way that could have happened in real life. Not yet, at least, I thought and chuckled to myself. Anyway, that would have to be enough sleep for today. I didn’t have time to stay in bed. I needed to comply with my parole conditions as well as work on my plan of attack in regard to Mom. The sooner I could get her, the better. God only knew what she was up to these days.

  In juvie, I had spent the days thinking of ways to prove that she had set me up, but I hadn’t been able to come up with anything I thought would work. Which wasn’t strange; I had already spent tons of time turning the matter inside out with my lawyer while awaiting trial. We hadn’t been able to glimpse any cracks in her plan.

  I swung my long legs over the edge of the bed. It would of course be awesome if I could make her talk about the crimes, brag about them and get the confession on
tape. I could use my new smartphone for that. The challenge with that approach was A. I had to spend lots of time with her, and B. she had to actually start talking about it. Mom was anything but stupid. She probably suspected I’d be up to something like that and be extra careful, never say anything truly incriminating.

  It seemed my best bet to get her off the streets was to follow her around and catch her doing something illegal, attempting another murder perhaps. I had no doubts she’d killed more people earlier in her life and would keep it up. There was another reason than the skill she had displayed when killing the psychologist and the librarian that made me feel so certain of that. Unfortunately, I couldn’t put my finger on why exactly. Maybe one day, I would. Anyway, someone was bound to piss her off. I could use my cell phone to film her actions then. Of course, given my non-existent experience stalking people, it would be better if I could have someone else trail her, a private investigator who knew what they were doing. She might spot me following her and lead me astray. Plus, I’d be at my job a good chunk of the day, missing lots of opportunities. Sadly, there was no way I’d be able to pay for a PI right now, though.

  Using technology was a possibility. If I could get into her computer somehow, I was bound to learn all kinds of stuff. Unfortunately, Mom wasn’t one of those naïve people who’d open an email from someone she didn’t know, and then click on a link that would plant spyware. I would for sure add a GPS to her limo, but I didn’t think she’d have herself driven to most places where she’d do something illegal. I could be wrong, though, so it was worth trying. Also, I’d try to get into her computer or phone the second I had access to either. I could ask to use them and possibly plant some spyware that way. I was pretty good with computers.

  Either way, now that I was out and could learn more details about her life, I’d figure out a way to get to her, I thought. One way or another, I’d get her. Stretching my arms over my head, I yawned big, then cracked my knuckles. It was a habit I had picked up at juvie that I found oddly satisfying.

  After I had dragged myself into the shower and gotten some strong coffee and three Pop Tarts into my system—that was all I found in the cupboard next to the fridge—I felt almost human again. Well, there were also some bananas and apples on the shelves, but I wasn’t in the mood for fruit.

  I checked the weather through the kitchen window and it looked like a typical early May day in New York—sunny and on the warm side. I had learned that blue skies and bright sunshine could be treacherous, however. For all I knew, it was thirty-five degrees out even though it looked like shorts weather.

  I should go outside and check to be sure, I thought and walked over to the front door. I tied the towel around my hips a little tighter and walked out into the stairwell. There were two apartments on each floor and no one was around. Did I dare walk outside the building wearing just a towel?

  No, that would be dumb, I decided. Why risk it? With my luck, I’d bump into some uptight old lady who’d call the cops and have me arrested for indecent exposure. Or the grumpy dude from yesterday would do it. I laughed to myself; wouldn’t that be tragic? I’d be back behind bars before even getting to spend an entire day in freedom.

  I went into the walk-in closet and put on a T-shirt and a pair of checkered athletic shorts and stuck my feet into the nearest pair of sneakers. Then I hurried back out into the stairwell.

  Jogging down the stairs, I pushed open the entrance door and nearly walked into my hot neighbor Sophie. I stopped dead in my tracks before our skulls crashed into each other.

  She gasped at the sight of me, then giggled when she realized it was me.

  “Um, sorry,” I mumbled, feeling like a complete jerk. “Are you okay?”

  She smiled big at me, and I couldn’t help but notice yet again how hot she was, her chocolate eyes glittering and her full lips shining invitingly. “Yeah. Are you? I’m the one who should be sorry, by the way. I totally didn’t think anyone would be coming out of the building this early in the morning. Not sure why I thought that. Duh, most people have some place to go at eight a.m.” She rolled her eyes at herself, then scanned me closely, a brow cocked playfully. “Are you going to work like that?”

  I glanced down at my T-shirt and saw that it was inside out and that my black-and-white checkered shorts totally clashed with the shirt’s earthy tones. I was also wearing two different sneakers. I glanced at her and grinned with mischief. “Yeah. Don’t you like my outfit?”

  She pursed her mouth and stroked her chin pensively. “Hmm. It’s an… interesting look. Very creative.”

  “That’s what I thought. Glad you approve.”

  We stared at each other for a few tense, silent beats, then both of us burst out laughing.

  “You don’t even have a job, do you?” she asked when she had contained herself.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked with mock outrage. “Do I look like a bum to you?”

  “Not exactly. More like you were just released from jail and don’t know how to dress among regular people any longer.” She held my gaze for a moment before slapping my shoulder and guffawing out loud. “I’m just kidding with you! You should’ve seen your face. Don’t worry, you do not look like a jailbird, although I’ll admit that the shaved head doesn’t help. But, seriously, it looks more like you put clothes on with the lights out. Is that what happened?”

  I gave her a lopsided grin. “Actually, it’s both.”

  She frowned lightly. “Both? What do you mean?”

  That’s when I knew. Of course…

  “I put on these clothes in the dark and I got out of jail yesterday. Ramsdale Juvenile Detention Center. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” I studied her.

  The frown between her eyebrows deepened. “Knew what?”

  So now she was playing stupid? She was pretty good at it, I’d give her that. Had I not known better, I would have bought her clueless face. But I was no fool. Not anymore. This chick was obviously working for my mother. That was why she lived here and bumped into me all the time. Hot girls like her lived in Manhattan, not out in the boroughs. Okay, perhaps in trendy Brooklyn, but certainly not in Queens. And they were never this friendly, at least not according to the guys back in juvie. They were more like the grumpy guy. But I was not about to let on how obvious it all was. No, I’d play along for a while. That was a lot more fun.

  I poked her shoulder and laughed. “You were right—I did get out of jail yesterday. Juvenile detention. I spent five years there to pay for my crimes. I was supposed to be behind bars a lot longer, but I was paroled for good behavior.”

  She didn’t look amused. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, I am. Why? Does it make you uncomfortable? I’m sorry if that’s the case, but you did bring it up.”

  Her jaw dropped and she stared at me. “Wait. You are serious. You were released from juvie yesterday, weren’t you?”

  I nodded slowly.

  She clapped a hand over her mouth and her pretty eyes widened. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. What—what were you in for?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Double homicide.”

  5

  Being a busboy at a Greek restaurant in Astoria, Queens, was not much different from doing the dishes and cleaning the tables in juvie. The clientele was just as boisterous and messy, though, unlike in prison, the restaurant was distinctly coed, which was a plus. I couldn’t get enough of checking out all the females. I had been severely deprived of the other sex lately. I had to be super discreet about it, of course, or people might complain, which was the last thing I needed. The downside about working at Laslo’s Taverna was that I felt like I was under surveillance most of the time; no one had cared much how well I did my job or who I was over at Ramsdale. Here, I felt like eyes were following me everywhere I went, judging me. It bothered me deeply. The worst part was that every time I thought I’d figured out who was doing it, it turned out I was wrong, because I
never caught the same person twice. Crazy and rich or not, I really didn’t think Mom had paid everyone inside the restaurant to spy on me. After a while I believed there were cameras around watching me instead, even if I couldn’t spot any. But that didn’t mean they didn’t exist. I had looked for cameras and mics in my apartment as well but had been unable to find any. Again, that didn’t mean they didn’t exist. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Mom was surveilling me 24/7.

  The only place I had been able to spot cameras had been in the apartment building’s stairwell, an old-style one on each floor. Who knew if they were even working still?

  To complicate matters, I couldn’t be sure if the paranoid sentiments were all in my head. Ever since I was attacked the first time in juvie, I had grown used to watching my back, which eventually made me paranoid. Unfortunately, the paranoia got worse the older I got. The closer I got to my parole hearing and freedom. Maybe that was because I knew no one was as good at fucking with me as Mom, who now had full access to me.

  There really wasn’t much I could do at Laslo’s that would get me back in prison, though. Dropping a plate so that it shattered or accidentally pouring water on a patron might get me fired if it happened too often, but neither would be considered a parole violation. I wasn’t dealing with money, only the waiters were allowed to pick up the checkbook from the tables. Mom couldn’t honestly think I’d be so stupid I’d try to steal tip money. Not with so many other people worrying about that part already and it being such small amounts. Still, after the incident with Sophie this morning, my paranoia was off the charts. Everywhere I looked I felt like someone was watching me, waiting for me to screw up. A girl at a table reminded me of Sophie then. In fact, at first I thought it was her, but I soon realized I was wrong.