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Before we check out the picnic, I stroll to the back of the horse to observe what’s left of my Cattle. It’s not a pretty sight, which is marvelous.
At first glance, he looks dead, but his bloody lips move, forming circles as he tries to speak. Blood weeps from innumerable gashes and scrapes on his body, made visible beneath what’s left of his jumpsuit. Twigs and leaves poke from his skin, and his right eyeball has vacated his head. He must have caught it on a branch. I hope it hurts terribly.
“Mine’s dead,” Kindra says, nudging the body with the toe of her shoe. “I was hoping I’d have a chance to take a stab at him.” She draws her knife from her hip, and I nearly come in my pants at the sight of it.
My urge to kill is strong. Stronger when a man such as this is at my feet. But my need to let her kill is even stronger.
“Mine isn’t gone yet. He’s all yours.”
I step back and watch the excitement creep over her expression. Her smile is worth giving up the kill.
She hurries over, as if she fears he’ll expire before she can get to him. With a gleeful laugh, she plunges the knife into his abdomen and rotates the blade inside him until I’m sure she’s nicked every organ at least once. Her hands hover over him like she’s fighting an urge, but instead of doing more, she just tugs her knife from his gut and heads toward the water to rinse off her blade.
I don’t get in her way. There’s a certain high you get just before, during, and right after a good kill, and I let her have that dopamine hit while I tie up the horses and head for the blanket.
She bends at the waist and rinses her blade, then stares at the ocean for a long moment before she joins me on the blanket and peeks inside the basket.
“Please tell me Chef Dahmer didn’t prepare any of this?” she says with a grimace.
“He doesn’t make turkey sandwiches, so we’re good. But don’t take his cooking classes while you’re here.”
Kindra pulls a sandwich from the basket as if it’s unexploded ordnance. She lifts the bread, smells the meat, and takes a bite.
“Does he actually teach people how to cook...other people?” she asks through a mouthful of turkey.
“That he does. He also has a YouTube channel called ‘Crazy Cooking with Chef Maurice.’”
We eat in stifled silence as we listen to the nearby gulls squabbling over a discarded bit of bread. By the time we’ve finished eating, we’ve hardly said more than a few sentences. I search my brain for something to talk about, but this is new for me. It isn’t often that my love interests and I do much talking.
As we unhook the literal deadweight and mount our horses, a topic finally comes to me.
“Did you know I’m obsessed with a killer too?” I say. “Albeit for different reasons.”
Kindra pulls a bottle of water from the saddlebag, then pauses before taking a sip. “Who?”
“Don’t laugh at me, but I’m on a mission to find the Heartbreak Killer. I really admire them.”
Kindra chokes on her water, her hand wrapped tightly around the flimsy plastic bottle. “I’ve heard of them,” she finally spits out.
“Do you think it’s a man or a woman? My brother insists it’s a man.”
“I think HBK is a woman. She’s too good at what she does to be a man.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“You’re welcome.” She nudges the horse forward, ending the conversation.
We ride back to the pavilion, and I’m surprised to see Bennett in the same vicinity as his arch nemesis. He and Cat stand under the shade as they seem to discuss something rather amicably. Maybe they’re turning a corner and becoming friends.
We hand off the horses to one of the workers and approach the pair. As I draw closer, their conversation reaches my ears, and hopeful thoughts of friendship evaporate.
“Doing different MOs makes you not even seem like a serial killer,” Cat says. “What’s the point without notoriety?”
“Because it makes me impossible to catch. What’s the point of being a notorious serial killer if I’m in prison? I don’t think you’ve ever killed a damn thing in your life. You shouldn’t even be here.” Bennett folds his arms over his chest.
“You don’t even know me,” Cat snarls.
Bennett turns toward Kindra. “Is Cat a killer?”
