The Serial Killer's Wife Read Online Free PDF

wasn’t faced with death so much as embraced around the neck by it.  
    “Please,” he whimpered, his face covered in tears. A wet spot suddenly appeared on the front of his boxer shorts. “Please, help me. Just don’t stand there. Help me!”  
    Cain said, “He is a disgusting creature, isn’t he? Any man or woman that molests children should be killed outright.”  
    Elizabeth had that strange sense of being outside her own body. Floating on the edge of existence, watching it all from a safe and secure distance. Close enough to smell Moore’s urine and sweat and fear, but at the same time so far away that none of it fazed her.  
    “What about you?” she whispered. “If he’s a disgusting creature, what does that make you?”  
    “And what am I?”  
    “I don’t know. You tell me.”  
    3:34 ... 3:33 ... 3:32 ...  
    “What about your husband, Elizabeth? What about Edward Piccioni? Is he a disgusting creature?”  
    She still saw herself from a distance, just standing there only feet away from Reginald Moore who continued to sob and scream and buck in the chair. Trying to do whatever he could to free himself, knowing in his heart and soul and mind that nothing he did would work.  
    “Do you know why I call myself Cain? It’s because we’re not descendants of Adam and Eve. Each and every one of us are children of Cain, all of us with the dark desire in our hearts to watch things die. You know you feel the same thing, too. That’s why you haven’t left the basement yet. Though, I must warn you, if you don’t leave in three minutes, you too will die. And if you die, your son dies.”  
    Unconsciously she started backward, one slow step after another. “That’s not my name.”  
    “What?”  
    “My name isn’t Elizabeth. It’s Sarah.”  
    “Please, I thought we were done playing those silly games. You must realize by now I know everything there is to know about you. Why deny it?”  
    3:01 ... 3:00 ... 2:59 ...  
    “Ask him one more time. Ask him why he molested children. Maybe now that he knows he’s going to die he’ll be truthful.”  
    But she couldn’t ask the man anything, not now that he was so close to death, bawling like a baby, begging to her to please please please help him, that he was sorry for what he’d done, that he was a bad person but please he didn’t deserve this.  
    One backward step after another, she said, keeping her voice calm, “What have you done with my son?”  
    “He’s safe. And he’ll remain that way as long as you continue to do what I tell you.”  
    2:41 ... 2:40 ... 2:39 ...  
    “Now ask him. Ask him why he did what he did.”  
    Before she knew it she disconnected the call, sprinted forward, placed a hand on Reginald Moore’s shaking shoulder. “Reginald,” she said, then shouted, “Reginald!” and smacked him with her open palm across the face.  
    He went still, stunned, and slowly looked up at her. He whispered, “I don’t want to die.”  
    “I know,” she said, and despite all the terrible things she knew about this man and what he had done she felt true sympathy for him, wishing she could do anything to free him from this awful mess. “But I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do.”  
    “Please”—his voice cracking as he started sobbing again—“please, I said I was sorry. I did my time in jail. I’ve ... I’ve ... I’ve changed! ”  
    2:07 ... 2:06 ... 2:05 ...  
    The phone in her hand started vibrating.  
    She said, “Describe the man who did this to you. His height, his hair color, anything you can remember.”  
    Shaking even harder now, his face scrunched up, Reginald Moore sobbed, “I’m so sorry, I’m so, so, so sorry.”  
    The phone vibrated a second time.  
    “Reginald, please, tell me anything you can.”  
    “My parents hate me. They ... they ... they think I did what I did to spite them. But I didn’t. I ... I ... I ...”
    The phone vibrated a third time.  
    She slapped his