CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The drugged haze lessened after a while. Either that or Molly was growing used to it. She was able to move, after a while – shuffling over the carpet, leaning on a blanched wall or over the furniture. Meanwhile, Collin carried on as though it was completely normal. Talking to her constantly in a friendly, congenial voice. It would have been easier to let her mind slip – to forget he was a dangerous man and this was a dangerous game. But, she wouldn't let that happen. She remained wary, and hoped she would soon be strong enough to make a fist.

"Soon, Kitten," Collin said to her one evening. "You'll be able to start cooking for us. Once you get better. It's part of being perfect, you know. Cooking – cleaning, things like that."

Molly, though she perceived herself coherent enough to speak, remained quiet, folding herself over into a shell.

"You look sad," Collin observed. "I can't leave you looking so sad. It's costing me my job at the Yard, you know. But, I'd rather stay here with you than try to pretend everything's all right whenever I look at the sod who took you."

She was never quite sure how to react – or if it even mattered. Half the time it seemed as though he was looking through different eyes, that everything was different than it really looked like. But, she just wanted to figure out how to get away. Get away and run for any sort of safe haven, anything to feel how safe she had when she was sitting with Greg.

Any allusion to safety was stripped away by that point. Everything was raw, the danger pulsating through the walls, through her skin. Her heart pounded in time with the clock, trying not to see it as a countdown.

After all, just because none of the girls he'd followed survived yet did not mean that she was going to die.

No sooner had the thought entered her brain than Molly found tears streaming down her cheeks. She had not wanted to cry, she had not wanted to let it out that she was so frightened beyond repair. But, it was no use.

"There it is, Kitten," Collin said, noticing her tears. "It's all coming back, isn't it? All the memories? What we are? What happened to you? Don't you worry now; you aren't going to be fucked up because of it. You won't have to go to therapy or anything. Perfect girls don't have to deal with any of that. If you'll excuse the computer allusions, I'll just do a sort of virus check on you – help you defrag the bad memories and get rid of them. It'll all turn out for the best."

Earlier, Molly remembered Collin saying he'd given the girls before strikes. And, from what she'd been able to make of it, in her delusional fog, once they had three, he killed them – because they lost all chance of being perfect.

He also mentioned how Shaelee (or was it Celeste?) tried to run – and that had been strike three. So, Molly bided her time, waited until the drugs left her system so that she could be successful where they had failed – just so she could escape with her life.

Molly had no sense of time, however, she didn't know if she'd been there for days, weeks, or months. It seemed as though he was weaning her off the drugs, but still forced enough down her throat to keep her weak.

She still blacked out sometimes. But she pushed herself to try to forget that – all of it. She wasn't sure what happened to her once the darkness settled in - she woke up where she had blanked, and everything seemed just the same, but she didn't trust it. After all, Shaelee Birdie's autopsy had been gruesome to say the least. The poor woman's body ravaged and mutilated – the skin around her had been torn and cut all too deliberately.

Molly realised a very similar fate awaited her, feeling her stomach leap upwards, threatening to evacuate its contents. Yet, she would not dare vomit. The room was too white, too clean. A small nagging voice reminded her that, if she got sick all over the bleached carpet, it might be strike three.

Although it was unthinkable, Molly complied with the demands when she could. Thinking through her brainstem, she realised this was survival in a way she never had to worry about before. A false step, doing anything in a manner he did not want, could warrant his third murder. All that mattered was keeping her heart beating.

Of course, it helped that he hadn't asked much of her yet. The threat wafted through the air, however. His sexual comments hardly ceased. That was one thing Molly didn't think she could make herself do.

It didn't help, but when it came up, she couldn't help but think of Greg. How kind he had been, the way he burned her skin every time he had touched her, the emptiness she felt when he exited her and how complete it was with him inside.

She couldn't imagine how different it would be, if for survival, she had to go through with it with Collin. Her memory didn't serve well, and for all she knew he'd already taken her while she was unconscious. She couldn't afford to think like that, however.

Hell, she wouldn't let herself, for fear she would start shaking or make herself sick. But – she couldn't help but think about the possibilities at his comments – if he ever tried while she was conscious, that would be unbearable. Amazing how the same act could be so completely different under different circumstances.

And she was at a stalemate, kept drugged with no way out in sight, and the cycle just repeated itself.

But, in the very least, she was getting more coherent. That was key. She'd tried walking without leaning on a wall, and she could almost do it. Her feet dragged as she tried, but she was at least able to stand.

She sat on the futon, not moving an inch, assessing the scene. The moment she could, she'd run. Wait for night, for Collin to fall asleep, and in that time she wouldn't even have to be completely clear headed. As long as she could walk, she could escape. The front door, or at least what she assumed was a front door, had three deadbolts. But, from there, she was lost.

The curtains were always drawn, and she had no idea if she was on a ground floor or up higher, or if she was in a flat or a formal house. She couldn't tell if he had an alarm that would go off upon opening the door (though, it was probably a fairly safe assumption).

The other problem with her plan, naturally, seemed to be that she never actually saw Collin sleep. The days ran together, but she figured that's when he drugged her, to keep her sedated while he slept.

Molly thought about it, and an idea hatched in her brain. If she could convince Collin that she wanted to say – that she "remembered," as he psychotically put it, maybe he'd steer clear of drugging her that night. And, if she was entirely sober after he was asleep, well, then she could make a run for it, away from this place, back to Greg, and get Collin locked away for good – or, at the very least, pull out a restraining order.

The issue, though, was how to make him believe her supposed change of heart. She was no actress, she could not manipulate others for her own benefit, and she wasn't a seductress.

She was just Molly Hooper.

She was a woman who preferred pyjamas and jumpers to cocktail dresses and necklaces, who sat and read Tolstoy when she could be out at clubs or parties, who could count the number of men she'd had sex with on one hand, who couldn't deceive anyone. Then again, she'd never tried.

Completely without a plan, she started to stand, slowly. It was madness, going at the storm before she even knew for sure what it was. But, she figured, she had nothing to lose. Wouldn't hurt to wing it.

Her eyes shone slightly, quivering, as they slid over to the man at the computer desk.

"C-Collin," She managed to choke out.

"Yes, Kitten?" He said, not removing his eyes from some official looking web-browser.

"I—I…" She squeezed her eyes together, breaking into a cold sweat. Oh, please, let this be the right thing to say. "I wanted to…to thank y-you."

Collin spun around in his chair, the corners of his mouth lifting into a sly smirk. "You remember."

Molly shrugged with a faux breathy laugh and returning to him a hollow smile.

Shooting up to his feet, Collin clapped his hands together. "This—this is fantastic. I can't believe it actually worked this time."

"Neither can I…" Molly managed to choke out.

Collin nodded, unable to wipe the twisted grin away from his face. "Brilliant. Fucking brilliant! We can start in on enhancing your perfection now. And on breaking that man once and for all. Oh, this is wonderful!"

He continued, looking like a starving dog just presented an entire carcass. "And things can go back to the way they were – the way they should be. Just you and me, Kitten. Forever."

Molly suppressed the sudden urge to vomit as he came nearer to her, and nearer still. She wanted to hit and kick and run right then. But he was between her and the door. And, she recalled the fight in the cabin what felt like years ago, he was stronger than her.

So, nothing else for it, she'd have to be smarter than him.

His hands coiled like snakes around her arms as he stepped closer still, pulling her in.

Holding her breath all the while, Molly stealthily moved her hands downwards, keeping the touch light and mindless, as though they had no certain destination.

"We're finally together, Kitten," Collin said, tracing circles on her forearm with his fingernails. "And we can't break anymore."

She locked eyes with him, trying to hold the gaze without shaking. It felt as though his eyes were pulling apart her soul, the very fibre of her being, as though every train of thought she'd ever had, every single solitary thought was on display for him to tare apart and use against her. Her fingers slid quietly into his pocket, searching for a warm metal handle, inching around in a circle, so that they were facing opposite ways. She tried to give him a fake smile, but found herself unable to stretch the charade to that extent.

"Oh, Christ," Collin continued, staring at her with delight. Raw feelings apparent, radiating from him. Randy. Hungry. Greedy. "Look at you! You're perfect. So completely perfect. I never thought I'd find it again. Subdued, shy, lonely. I'm all you've got."

Molly held her breath.

All sounds stopped, time slowed; everything seemed to move in half-time.

Before she knew what happened, she flicked the switchblade open and tore through his sleeve, red stain soaking through the fabric.

Then she shot towards the door, her fingers shaking at the deadbolts as Collin recoiled, gripping his arm, and yelling, "You fucking cunt!"

She switched the last deadbolt, and managed to swing the door open, when he grabbed her hair, pulling her back into the room as she cried out. The door slammed. He kept a firm grip on her hair, dragging her through the room.

"Why would you fucking do that, huh?" He demanded, slamming her against the wall so hard her extensions ripped out.

She crumbled to the ground. A devastating blow to her stomach followed. Her spine jolted at the next hit. Curling into a ball, she lost all senses, only feeling one hit after another, shooting through her bones. She felt something hot and sticky secrete down her head and neck . She cried out as her shoulder popped out of place.

"You fucking bitch!" He yelled. "Why do you all ruin everything?"

And he didn't let up. Continually hitting her, kicking her, pounding down on her bones and any exposed part of her body with excessive brutality, growing faster and harder with every blow. Blood dripped down her limbs, core, and filled her mouth. She tried to spit and wound up spluttering all over.

"God, I fucking love you! What the hell's the matter with you?"

He reached down, pulling her up to her feet by her hair, delivering a devastating bash to her stomach. She doubled over but regained enough force to slam her head between his legs with everything she had. He fell back, however, still with firm grip on her hair, taking her along.

Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he put it over her mouth and nose. Molly held her breath and tried to resist the hold. She twisted away, and started to run, but found her legs turned rubbery.

The room turned violet before her eyes. Everything fuzzed, the room blurred together.

No. No. No. NO.

She found herself on her back, feeling as though she was laying on the ceiling, her heart stuttered, her lungs bloated. Her eyes wanted to shut. Just for a moment. It would all get better if she shut them.

But, when they opened again, he was right there. Too close. Too damn close.

He smirked, a demented twinkle in his eye. His whole face began to twist and blur together, the features impossible to detect, becoming one single inhuman entity.

"Normally," He said in a voice that sounded monstrously low. "I find a more inconspicuous place. But you're a feisty one—I can tell. Things have to move quicker with you."

Molly couldn't tell one direction from another, as she gasped for air, trying to stay awake. Anything not to fall asleep. But, the next thing she knew, there was hot breath in her mouth.

"By the way, Kitten," he drawled in a whisper. She could feel his lips moving between hers, slimy entities invading her, searching her. "Strike three."

His tongue slid down her throat. She began to convulse, shaking uncontrollably. Making every last limb sore, moving without consent. Her head smacked on the floorboard, and her world blacked out in the way that was all together too common.

Greg barely had time to slam the car door behind him as he ran up to the house. Every time his feet hit the pavement felt like he was walking on hot coals.

Trotting up the stairs up to the front of the building, he felt adrenaline pulsating through him. The air stood still and heavy as he kicked in the door, suddenly wishing he had stopped to gather backup back at the Yard.

Pulling together all possible composure, he quelled the nervousness welling inside him as he stepped on the landing.

He could hear pounding from the first floor. Without thinking, he ran quickly as possible up the stairs, kicking the second door open. Before he could fully process the scene, he shouted roughly some sort of guttural noise from the back of his throat.

Collin looked up from where he crouched on the floor over Molly's bruised, bloodstained, shaking body. He drew his brows and sighed exasperatedly.

"God, it's you."

"Back!" He barked.

Collin rolled his eyes and strolled leisurely to the window. "Go ahead," He sighed. "I'll wait."

Unable to think, Greg ran towards Molly's seizing form. He undid his belt quickly, placing it between her teeth, and rolled his coat under her head, rolling her over to her side. "Oh, my God."

While all this happened, Collin meandered around the room.

"It's over, boss." He said. Then, he laughed slightly. "Can't imagine I still have a job after this, though. So, let me rephrase."

Greg kept the time in his head. How long did the average seizure last? He'd been told once but for some reason, he couldn't remember.

Collin continued. "So – it's over, wanker. She doesn't want you. She remembers everything. How you stalked her, isolating her – holding her down against her will. Shoving inside her. God, if she comes to again, she might kill you. I think I'd like to be around for that. Oh well. Can't change destiny."

He ignored him, trying to keep the time. Trying to keep Collin in his peripheral vision. Too much stimulation. Oh, God, Molly looked so awful. Pale. Dripping in sweat. Blood dripping down her chin, gushing along her arms and legs. As she shook, vomit exploded onto the floor beside her head. He tried to shift her to her side.

Collin laughed bitterly. "The irony is that I don't want her either, anymore. Right bitch, she is. She stabbed me in the arm. Temper." He sighed. "Slutty and irritable. Hardly perfect. She did come so fucking close, though. I really thought she was it."

Molly stopped shaking. Her entire body went limp and rubbery, eyes closed and breathing slow.

"Ah, well. Next time." Collin smirked.

With this, Greg slowly stood over where Molly laid; facing Collin, rage growing up from his toes all the way through the top of his head.

He cocked the pistol. "You're under arrest for the murders of Celeste Paxton, Shaelee Birdie, and the following, assault, kidnapping, and attempted rape of Molly Hooper."

"I'm surprised you know how to use that gun," Collin cocked a brow daringly. "That model's from this century."

In the next moment, Greg found himself face down on the ground, the gun spiraling from his hands. The taste of iron hit his tongue as he wiped away the blood spurting from his nose.

Remembering the time he'd watched Molly and John fight in 221B, he swung his legs around to trip Collin. The younger man faltered, and Greg grabbed his collar. As Collin squirmed, Greg returned the punch – succeeding to break his nose.

The brawl broke out. Greg slammed against the wall, and he used his knee to deliver a second blow. Fists rumbled; they were at each other's throats. Collin grabbed Greg's collar and pummelled his face. Greg kicked Collin in the stomach and the fight went on.

Greg felt warm blood ooze from his scalp as his head propelled into the banister. He shoved the other off him, straight into the mass of computers against the wall.

Sparks flew and Collin lay limp.

Greg shook his head, pulling out his mobile, dialling 999.

"I need an ambulance," He said into the phone through a heavy nosebleed. He continued after relating the address, "Young woman. Drug-induced seizures – probably GHB, and a man's been electrocuted."

He sat next to Molly on the floor, making sure she continued breathing or did not start seizing again.

They loaded her into the ambulance quickly, hooking her up to machines to flush the drugs from her bloodstream, patching up gashes with bandages. Collin loaded onto a stretcher and rolled into the ambulance. It made Greg's blood boil, seeing him rolled into the same ambulance as Molly.

The paramedic took one look at him with eyes filled of horror. "What happened to you, then?"

Greg shrugged, finding his entire body stiff, his head pounding. "Got a bit bashed up."

The medic frowned. "Well, let's get you into the ambulance, then. See what's wrong with you."

He wound up with stitches on his head, dozens of bruises, and a massive concussion. As he waited for the doctors at Bart's to come back with his X-ray, he called the Yard to explain what happened.

"Wait, what?" Donovan demanded from the speaker.

"Yeah," Greg said. "Surprised me too, but surely enough, Collin Porter was our stalker all along. We knew he was a brilliant hacker, but I suppose we didn't realise exactly how good. I'm detained at Bart's right now – got a bit roughed up. But, stop by Porter's flat, confiscate computers, drugs, you know the drill."

"All right," Donovan said with a sigh, about to hang up.

"Oh, and Sally?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for keeping your head through all this. Helped a lot."

"It's my job." She said, but he could tell she was smiling.