Goddess of Pain - Katie May Page 0,2

I wait for the tub to fill up with steaming water. I check the temperature with my finger, ensuring that it’s not too hot, before flicking the faucet off and sinking into the mind-numbing warmth. I decide against bubbles this time, and my bare breasts breach the surface of the water, my nipples already hardened nubs.

Resting my head on the folded-up towel, I flip on my iPad.

I lied to Avery earlier. Not that I intended to, but he couldn’t possibly begin to understand what I’m going through. I don’t even understand it. It sounds insane to my own ears.

Chewing on my lower lip, I click on one of the tabs I saved on the homescreen. Immediately, an article pops up from over five years ago, detailing the brutal murder of Brett Farkley, who was a senior in my high school. He was killed when I was a sophomore, but no suspects have ever been apprehended. According to the article, he died of blunt-force trauma to the head…the day after he cornered me in the bathroom and touched my boob without my permission. I hadn’t told anyone about that incident, so his death had been nothing more than a horrific coincidence.

Until Ali Burke was killed three months later, two days after she slapped me in the face when she accused me of sleeping with her boyfriend—which I didn’t.

Heart hammering in my chest, I continue to pull up the various articles I saved to my iPad. Each murder depicted is more gruesome than the last—everything from severed heads to slit throats to beaten bodies. All of them occurred a day or two after an altercation with me.

When I first made the connection, I’d been overcome with guilt and fear. What the fuck was happening? Could I prevent it? I even went to the police that very day, explaining my theory. They only laughed in my face. An older gentleman, and the only police officer worthy of that title, had sat me down and explained that all of the deaths appeared to be done by different perpetrators. He assured me that I had nothing to do with their deaths and it was nothing but a horrible coincidence. I’d believed him…

Until a bomb erupted in the precinct, killing the four officers who had laughed.

Could the stranger who followed me today, the stranger whose presence I feel as keenly as a blade sliding down my neck, be the murderer?

Could he be back?

I continue to sift through the articles—the articles I’ve already memorized—as the water cools around my pruned body. This has been my obsession for years now, since Brett was first killed in such an atrocious manner.

Someone is killing these people, and it’s my job to discover who that person is.

Chapter 2

I tap my pencil against the edge of my desk impatiently as Professor Whitmore finishes his speech at the front of the class. As an English major with an emphasis on journalism, the majority of my undergraduate classes consist of reading classic pieces of literature and analyzing them. It’s not horrible work by any means, but it’s definitely not what I want to be doing with myself. Oh no. I’m a writer first and foremost—my happiness comes from being in front of a computer screen and typing out the various voices in my head.

“Don’t forget you have your literary analysis on Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘The Raven’ due by next week’s class,” he says, running his fingers through his wispy, pure white hair. He moves to his briefcase and begins packing up his own papers as the rest of the class hurries out.

“Bye, Em!” my classmate Maddy says with a wave. Justin and Garret both nod in solidarity as they exit as well, and I smile back at them.

“Ms. Lopez, one moment, please.” Professor Whitmore doesn’t bother to look up from the papers he’s shoving haphazardly into his brown leather briefcase. I can’t help but wince at the poor state of those essays.

“Yes, Professor?” I query as the remaining students filter out, leaving us alone.

I’ve never had a problem with Professor Whitmore before. He has a distinct, grandfatherly appearance with his thinning hairline, pudgy belly, and the light gray beard dusting his chin. He’s a damn good professor and demands the best out of each and every one of his students.

“I just finished grading your most recent report on the literary styles of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley.” With the pad of his middle finger, he pushes up his wire-rimmed glasses. “Tell me. What was it about