Movies generally seem to distract him, as long as they’re ones he likes.
He exhales sharply, and the fire in his eyes dims slightly. “Fine,” he mutters. “But we’re not done with this.”
He collapses onto the bed, the remote in hand, his expression still tight with anger. As he flips through the channels, I sit beside him, my mind racing. I try to steady my breath, to tamp down the fear crawling up my throat. His anger seems so over-the-top, so disproportionate with what’s happened.
His words, his threats—they hang heavy in the air. I want to believe he didn’t mean them. That he’s just blowing off steam. But the way he said it, so cold and deliberate, leaves me with a knot of unease in my stomach that refuses to unravel.
And as we sit here, watching the screen flicker with the beginning of another movie, I can’t help but feel like a fuse has been lit. And I have no idea when—or if—it will burn out.
57
PSYCHOPATHS DON'T WEAR WARNING SIGNS, THEY WEAR CHARM LIKE A SECOND SKIN
The next day, I’m hoping for peace, but enjoying our day is a lot harder than one might think, even living in a tropical beach paradise.
Timmy’s thoughts just keep circling back to the leasing agent.
“She’s out to get us,” he mutters, his voice low and seething. “She’s got it in for you. I’m going to fix this.”
His words send a ripple of unease through me, there’s still something chilling about them although he’s not making more death threats right now. “Timmy, it’s just a complaint. We’ll sort it out. It’s not that serious.”
I want to remind him that, while the initial complaints were vexatious, he did go waggle his dick around on the balcony and tell her about it. We could have fought back if he didn’t loudly talk about how she gave him a boner. He’s rendered us powerless in a way.
But he’s not listening, and I’m still too scared to mention it because of his demeanor.
All day, he talks about her—how she’s making our lives hell, how she’ll pay for messing with us. His rage is sharp and focused, and what seemed to start as protective concern seems to be transforming into an unhealthy obsession.
Alittle later
Timmy says he has to go see a friend really quickly, and slips out the door before I can ask any questions. Anxiety swirls in my gut until he returns about an hour later.
“Don’t worry,” he says softly. “It’s been taken care of.” He stands across from me, his arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips that sends chills down my spine. His voice is low and steady, laced with a hint of satisfaction.
I shift uncomfortably. “What do you mean?” I try to keep my voice steady, but I detect a slight waver. I hope he doesn’t notice it.
He steps closer. “It’s better if you don’t know. But she’s going to regret ever fucking with you.” His smile fades into something more serious. The air feels thick with unspoken words.
“Um, who did you go and see, anyway? What are you planning on having them do?” I search his face for answers, but his expression reveals none.
“Like I said, I called in a favor. She’ll get what’s coming to her.” His eerie calmness unsettles me. He’s usually so animated and loud, but his voice is low, monotone, robotic.
“Um, please don’t do anything violent. That’s an over-the-top response.” I try to reason with him, searching for a piece of him that will share what’s actually going on.
His voice becomes a growl. “How she’s been treating you is over the top.”
He leans in further, his voice dropping to a whisper that sends shivers down my spine. “You don’t want to know the details. Just trust me, it’s been taken care of.”
His body language and posture remind me of the day he told me about putting bodies in a wood chipper. I shiver at the memory of his random creepy story.
“So what?—.’
He puts up his hand to silence me. “It really is better that you don’t know.”
I feel trapped, torn between a sense of relief that my problem may have been taken care of, and that a man cares enough about me to take care of it, combined with the dread of what he might have done to achieve it.
The way he says it, so casual yet laden with implication, sends a chill through me and makes my skin crawl. My scalp shivers like worms are wiggling all over it. As he stands up, a satisfied grin on his face, I can’t help but think he might have taken things too far. And that whatever he’s done might well be irreversible.
Over the next few days, his obsession only grows. He snarls whenever he looks at the wall that separates our apartment from hers. He frequently presses his hands against the wall, dragging his palms slowly over the surface as if trying to get closer to her, muttering under his breath.