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He stops, shakes his head, and strips off his shirt. He tucks it into the back of his jeans, and I’ve never seen anything so sexy. The sun gleams off his body.
I’m about to press the issue and ask the question again, but a scream breaks through the ocean’s roar. As a serial killer, I home in on that sound.
“Why do I hear screams?” I ask.
Ezra looks around. “Probably the sand Cattle.”
“The what?”
“For fireworks tonight, after the welcome party.”
“That explains absolutely nothing.” I drag my toe through the sand and watch as water fills the depression with the next wave.
“Each year, they bury a few of the Cattle—the prisoners—in the sand. Well, they bury their heads in the sand so they can shoot fireworks from their bums.”
“So why can I hear them screaming?”
“I’m guessing some haven’t been buried yet.”
I follow the sounds like a fucked-up moth to a macabre flame and find an area cordoned off by low rope fencing. Several nude people lie side by side, most with their heads buried beneath the sand. Leg irons keep their ankles the perfect width apart, and their hands have been secured behind their backs. Their asses poke into the air, just like Ezra said, and light-pink fabric lies crumpled beside each one.
A man in a clown mask grips a screaming woman by her hair and shoves her face into a hole in the sand. A sand mound beneath her abdomen keeps her in an angled position as he dumps buckets of wet sand over her head, filling the hole and essentially drowning her. Her screams become muffled gurgles, then she goes silent and still.
Is it terrible that I feel a little bad for her?
Ezra must notice the odd expression on my face, because he steps in front of me so that I don’t have to see it any longer.
“They’re wearing pink jumpsuits. Don’t worry about it, pet.”
“She’s wearing nothing, but okay.” I shake my head and turn to walk in the other direction, away from the line of exposed assholes. “I’m going to need you to explain this whole thing to me. I’d have asked sooner, but I was being ignored.”
Ezra offers a sinful smile. “The retreat allows us to explore our murderous tendencies in a beautiful beach setting.”
“You sound like the infomercial we got last night.”
He shakes his head and chuckles. “I can’t believe they’re still sending that out to new guests. Did you see the dapper man on the big black horse? He was holding hands with the beautiful woman.”
“Wait, that was you?”
“It can be, pet, if you play your cards right.”
I roll my eyes. “Back to the jumpsuits. What do the colors mean?”
“The jumpsuits tell us their crimes. Yellow are your normal, everyday crimes, like robbery and battery. Red jumpsuits are sex crimes. Pink are child predators. It helps discerning Sinners choose which Cattle they’d like to slaughter.”
“Do you care about color?”
“Always pink, but I’ll slaughter a red. And you?”
Telling the truth could out me as the Heartbreak Killer. It’s widely known that I only target accused and convicted sex offenders. But then my mind returns to the naked people in the sand. If I say I kill indiscriminately, I’m locking myself into a box I don’t want to be in. I’ll have to take a risk.
“I exclusively kill those who attack the weak, so red and pink,” I say.
“Here I was, thinking my brother and I would be the only killers with morals.”
“I never said I have morals. I just choose to save my energy for those who deserve it.” I stop walking and turn to him. “Whether you deserve more of my energy remains to be seen. You can start mending fences by telling me how you obtained such a shitty pseudonym. Which, by the way, I’ve never heard of.”
“I’ve never heard of the Sunshine Strangler, either. What are you implying?”
