“You’re cold!” she exclaimed, looking at his pale hands.
Nothing. He looked at her with his pitch coloured eyes; she felt an uncomfortable itch at the base of her neck. Clenching her fists, she did her best not to react.
“Clarice,” he said, his voice like a soft caress.
She was no fool. Clarice knew perfectly well of the monstrosity which hid beneath that polished veneer. Once she had seen him for what he truly was. Once.
“I’m always cold,” he told her.
Clarice said nothing. He was a creature who could act only upon her own reactions; if she was calm he could do nothing to free himself from that prison-like shell, that veneer. Lurking beneath the surface was something abominable . . . He goaded her from time to time, testing her, trying her. She was sure that he would not hurt her. After all, he entrusted his care to her.
Who really knew?
She had learned long ago not to trust him.