Cellar Door

You can’t burn a newly deceased body. Well, you can, but it makes a smoldering, fatty mess. And it’s damn hard to burn away a rib cage. There’s a science to body disposal.

I grunt as I deposit Keller on the corner of the tarp and use it to drag his body to the edge of the hole. “I wish you could feel this,” I say, and I kick his backside. He falls headfirst into the barrel, legs hanging out at an awkward angle.

I jump down into the pit and force his limbs inside the barrel. The sound of bones snapping out of rigor echos against the trees. A flock of birds take flight. I wait for the sounds of the forest to go quiet again before I cover the barrel with the lid, then place the tarp back in place.

I set my watch on a timer. It takes two days for a body to dry out enough to burn down. I typically give it three, just to make the last steps easier, but she’s in my cellar. I want this done quickly.

At this point, I usually drink myself into a coma to numb the anguish. Their deaths never bring peace. I’m not hunting them for fucking peace.

It’s pure vengeance.

But today is different. Because today, she’s in my cellar.

Hudson’s partner.

7

Darkness Calls

Makenna

My senses are going haywire.

The candle burned out what I think was an hour ago, and deprived of light and sound, I’m starting to imagine things.

At first, it started as a hollow thud. A faint bump sounding against the wall. Then, after I convinced myself I imagined the noise, my mind filling the void of nothing to stave off the crazy, the sound came again. A loud bang that made my heart jump.

I tell myself it’s him. Walking around above me, doing what psychotic killers do in the early morning hours. Drinking the blood of his victims swirled in his coffee with French vanilla creamer.

I cup my head in my hands, dig my fingers against my scalp. I strain to hear the sound…

And it plinks against the concrete.

I’m not crazy.

I’m not alone.

Too many emotions rush me, and I talk myself down. “Okay. Okay. Think.” I look at the lock on the cuff circling my ankle, then I slide off my shoulder harness. I hold the sleeve of my shirt and pull my arm inside. I do the same with the other arm, tugging the torn shirt over my head.

I reach behind my back and unclasp my bra. Luckily, I forwent comfort and got the most uncomfortable bra with plenty of support. I run my fingers over the underwire beneath the cup and push it through the small opening in the material.

The plastic support piece isn’t the most sturdy, but it might work. It could work.

If only I knew how to pick a lock.

Shit.

Memories assault me, and in the bitter darkness, they’re clear and vibrant. Hudson walking me through how criminals pick their handcuffs, him showing me what to look for and confiscate on their person when making an arrest.

Then later…the reason why I learned none of it…my attention so acutely focused on his lips, the way they looked as he said my name, his voice breathy and gruff, right before those lips captured mine.

Stop.

I force the memory back into the abyss. It doesn’t belong in this hell.

Naked from the belly up, I get to work on the lock. I push the end of the plastic piece into the hole and click around, trying to find the catch. It’s more complicated than a set of handcuffs.

I curse as the tip breaks off inside the lock.