A few weeks ago, not long after Rachel’s lies had begun.
“Eileen Bennett….”
Silas flipped through the pages of the background report on a woman named Eileen Bennett. Attached to it was a small photo—the face of the woman claiming to be his wife, “Rachel Winston.”
From the very start, he hadn't believed her for a second. No grown man would be fooled by her trembling eyes and shaky insistence that she was his spouse—least of all Silas, who trusted no one.
The only reason he had let her live was simple: watching her struggle was entertaining.
Whenever he dropped a hint of suspicion, she would flinch in terror. At night, drenched in cold sweat, she begged for her life as if haunted by nightmares.
Yet come morning, she stubbornly called him “honey,” insisting, “You loved me!” She loitered around the staircase, obviously scheming an escape, only to laugh nervously and scurry back to her room whenever their eyes met. What a pitiful little performance.
‘What did my family say when I asked for their blessing to marry you?’
‘Uh, well, they just said… please take care of her.’
‘Is that so? Strange, considering my parents died when I was nine.’
There was also a distinct pleasure in tormenting her. Whenever he set a trap, she walked straight into it, and he could practically hear the gears turning in her panicked head as she scrambled for a way out.
Naturally, she never found a good one, and her chosen solutions were laughable.
‘…Darling, how about I use my mouth on you tonight?’
‘If you’re not going to do it right now, I’d prefer we finish our conversation.’
‘I suppose I couldn’t wait until tonight anyway.’
Even after he toyed with her until sunrise, she still tried to seduce him into glossing over her mistakes. And he let it slide—not just because her desperate efforts amused him, but because the physical pleasure she offered was unexpectedly sweet.
She was his “first guest.” While he wasn't sure if murder truly gave him ecstasy, the thrill she provided was undeniable. Why take unnecessary risks?
The dead don't come back, and there was no guarantee he’d ever find another like her.
Still, he intended to drag her down to the basement the moment she lost her spark. Yet, surprisingly, she had kept him entertained far longer than anticipated.
‘Here, a gift for you.’
Even with access to the computer, she had never tried contacting the police. She only prepared gifts for him. Maybe she really did like him.
‘Ah, honey, yes… ngh, yes…!’
Even in his arms, shivering with climax, she kept calling him “honey.” Sometimes, he almost wanted to believe her. But belief required proof.
Unfortunately for her, Silas trusted evidence, not emotion. He had sent her hair and a used cup off for DNA analysis. And now, he was holding the results.
‘German-American. Arrived in the States less than a year ago.’
She had memories extending far past that year, meaning there was no possible connection between them. She had even faked her name.
Rage tightened his grip around the paper… but then he remembered her face wrapped around his cock, gasping beneath him like an animal, her body clamping down on him as if to break him. The anger ebbed, his blood surging elsewhere instead.
‘Of course. No sane person gives her real name to a man threatening her with a knife.’
Tapping the papers against the desk, he found himself searching for excuses on her behalf. He wouldn’t let her off scot-free, but perhaps he could play a little "game" with her instead. After all, he was actually starting to like this “Rachel.”
“Haa, Eileen….”
He whispered her real name during sex, expecting her to snap out of her bliss and freeze in terror. Instead, she only clung tighter, her body slick and yielding. Perhaps she was simply too dazed to hear.
“Eileen.”
He tried again at the dinner table, half-expecting her to choke on her food. She merely blinked, chewed, and tilted her head in confusion.
Even when he repeated it, she only looked puzzled, as if wondering, Where have I heard that before?
Of course. In the game, details like item locations, door codes, or clues left behind by victims mattered. The victims' names did not.
‘What on earth….’
Rachel was a terrible actress; there was no way she could feign that level of ignorance. How was this possible?
Before he could make sense of it, a new problem arose. A sudden fever, spiking past 102 degrees, flattened him completely.
‘I’ll make you some soup!’
Her light footsteps echoed down the stairs. His body felt like lead, his head spinning out of control. He couldn't chase after her.
‘Maybe I should have killed her earlier.’
A fleeting second of regret passed, quickly replaced by anticipation. How would she explain herself when she returned? Would she shamelessly insist, “I just stepped out for a moment!” or “I was waiting right here for you!”?
The thought drew a hoarse laugh from his throat.
After all, he still had her home address from the report. Once he recovered, he would drag her back, no matter where she hid.
Smiling faintly, he closed his burning eyes. He just needed to recover first.
And then….
“Oh? You’re awake?”
A cold touch brushed against his neck. His eyes snapped open, and he reached out to grab her wrist.
“Why….”
“You’re sick. Can’t you just let me help?”
The strength drained from his fingers. He had expected a blade, but she was simply wiping his skin with a cool, damp cloth. The sheer unexpectedness left him disoriented. Why hadn't she run? Why was she still here?
“Please get well soon. If you stay sick, I’ll waste away too.”
A soft chuckle escaped him. Weren't those the exact words he had used on her when she offered to cook in his place?
He wanted to tease her, to ask if she was only waiting for him to recover so he could fuck her again. But his throat was far too parched to form the words.