Page 14

Fuck your games. Carl is dead. Let it go.

I click out, just as a new message comes in. This one with an attachment. Must be the bourbon that makes me click it open. The attached news article is a story about a serial killer in the Chicago area, known locally as The Sandman. As I read on, one particular detail sends a cold chill up my spine: he cuts his victims eyeballs out and fills the sockets with sand made of bone meal.

My thoughts drift back to my childhood, to the many carcasses of animals my uncle captured and tortured, and left scattered around my grandfather’s property. In all cases, their eyes had been removed and filled with sand made of bone meal.

Who is this? I type back, the possibility becoming more real.

You have three weeks. Her name is Nola Tensley.

Why would he tell me her name? That makes no sense.

Who is she to you?

I wait for his response, but nothing more arrives. Tipping back another sip of bourbon, I stare down at the thread of messages spanning the length of my phone screen.

Impossible. I watched him hit the water. I watched his body crumple with the impact and sink below the surface with the racing current. I had no doubts at the time that he was dead, and after nearly two decades of peace and quiet, I’d be hard pressed to believe otherwise.

If, by some small measure of chance, he is alive, though, the trip would be well worth it. As much as I’d like to believe my intentions are saving some unsuspecting victim from becoming his next sand-bagged corpse, the good guy shit was never really my thing.

No, the worm on the hook for me is Carl, whose face I see in every bastard that lands beneath my blade, and every time someone touches my face, I’m reminded of that night.

I’ve dreamed of the day I could repay the favor of destroying his life, slow and meticulously, just as he did mine. The excitement stirring in my blood tells me that walking away from this isn’t going to be an option for me. The timing is a little uncanny, freakish even, but I can’t deny that fate sure as hell picked the right moment to drop this little crap-cannon into my lap. And my mind’s already ahead of me. Already planning.

Hotels and motels will be too easy for him to track me down, even with cash, and I don’t need some nosy maid rifling through my shit, so I’ll need to find a place to lay low.

A place I can keep a close watch on this Nola Tensley.

4

Nola

It’s after three when the diner starts to settle after the lunch rush. The balls of my feet ache, my shoulders feel like twenty pound weights are slung over them, and I’ve got a headache from hell. Didn’t get much sleep again the night before. Even with Oliver out of the house, I woke up to his screams, only to find his bed was completely empty—as it should’ve been. But that didn’t stop me from freaking out at first, when I jumped out of bed half asleep.

Stealing a quick break, I head out the back door of the diner, to check my phone and have a much-needed cigarette. I don’t smoke as a general rule, but I like having a pack on hand while at work. Sometimes, it’s nice to sneak away.

There’s a notification up on my screen from an unknown number. Could be a bill collector, or some shit spam call. Or a response to the ad I placed for a renter.

When it pops up again, in real time, I answer, “Hello?”

“I understand you have an apartment for rent?” The voice on the other end catches me off guard. Deep and rich, undeniably masculine, it practically vibrates through the phone.

“Uh … yes. I do.” I catch myself, remembering I decided not to rent to a guy. Nothing against guys in general, but I don’t want to end up in a situation with a creeper. “I’m sorry, it’s … only for a month,” I say, hoping it’s enough to make him lose interest.

“Perfect. I’ll take it.”

“Well … you … um. It’s twelve hundred dollars for the month. With a deposit. Paid up front.” I’m throwing out a ridiculous deal to this guy, and as soon as he finds out it’s nothing but a small four hundred square foot studio, he’s going to tell me to go to hell.

“I can do that.”

“It’s not really an apartment. More like one big divided room. Quite small, actually. And it’s not really convenient, or close to downtown.”

“It’s fully furnished?”

“With outdated furniture, yes.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you weren’t interested in renting to a man.”

“What? No! Oh, my God, that’s …” Not a lie. “So far from the truth. I’m just … being totally honest with you.”