I go to the interior door of the garage, which Julius never locks. He’s too lazy to bother with a key every day. I tug on my gloves and make sure my knit hat covers my hair. Then I turn the knob slowly, minimizing noise. A gentle push opens the door.
The house isn’t big. Julius’s man cave is just down the hall. I can hear the TV—at least I hope the groaning and the wet slap of flesh on flesh is from the movie.
But whatever.
Julius’s nasty habits are why I’m here, right? He’s gonna do what he’s gonna do. The only thing I know for certain is that he’ll be adequately distracted.
Light flickers from the TV. I creep down the hall, placing each footfall slowly and carefully. I pass the kitchen on my right. At the open doorway on the left, I peer around the arched frame. The couch faces away from me, but I can see Julius’s reflection in the glass doors of the fireplace. The flat-screen is mounted over it. Julius lies back, his sweatpants around his knees, stroking himself.
I pull the stun gun out of my pocket and walk on my toes to approach Julius from the back. His attention is riveted on the screen, where a man and woman writhe and groan. Wait. There’s more than one woman, and they’re burning each other with hot wax. I ignore the movie. The ridiculous dialogue and moaning fade to background noise as I focus on my prey.
Julius pauses midstroke. His head cocks slightly, as if he hears me breathing. His head whirls around, his erection popping free of his grasp. I lunge forward. With my thumb on the switch, I shove the stun gun into the base of his neck. It crackles. His body jerks and goes stiff. He cries out in a garbled scream as I silently count five Mississippis.
Five seconds of charge should incapacitate him for a minute or so. I release the switch and walk around the couch to stand in front of him. His twitching body falls sideways, stiff like a felled tree. Before he can recover, I can’t resist shoving the weapon into his groin for a second, vindictive zap.
Two shocks have left him limp and sweating. He whimpers as I fasten zip ties around his wrists and ankles. A single word rasps out of his mouth. “Please.”
“Shut up!” I fish in my backpack for the duct tape. I rip off a piece and slap it over his mouth.
Satisfied that I don’t have to listen to him, I step away.
The next zap is just for my own satisfaction. His eyes roll back in his head. His inhuman grunt makes me happier than it should. I recognize that I’m not a good person. But neither is Julius. At least I only prey on those who need to be punished. Julius targets the innocent.
I glance at the TV screen, where the kink continues.
There’s nothing innocent about Julius.
With my target restrained, I can take my time. I open my backpack and pull out the plastic wrap. Julius’s eyes open wide. He’s wheezing, his chest pumping. His limbs jerk randomly, like he’s having partial, random seizures.
I was going to find a new way to kill, but this method worked so well for Spencer. No blood to get on my clothes. I appreciate the neatness of the kill.
Julius’s whole body trembles. Does he know what I’m going to do? It feels wrong to drag out the murder. I should be humane and put him down quickly. But we’ve already established that I’m no saint. Julius and I share one thing in common: we don’t care about our shortcomings. We are comfortable with our sins.
So I tell him exactly how it’s going to go. He whimpers and squirms, pulling at his bonds, as I lay out the details of my plan. His muscle control is returning, but it doesn’t matter. He can’t get out of the plastic binds. I’m not sure if the trembling of his limbs is caused by electrical shock or fear.
I’m not sure I care. Either way, I’m enjoying the hell out of his discomfort. Tears and snot run down Julius’s face as I begin to unwind the plastic wrap.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Matt paced the small patch of floor in the film studio’s kitchenette. A ray of morning sun slid through a gap in the blinds and speared him in the eyes. He squinted against the glare and pivoted again. There was barely room for him to take three steps in each direction, but he couldn’t sit still.
While he walked off his frustration, Bree leaned against the wall and watched him with patient eyes. Unlike him, she didn’t waste energy fidgeting. She sipped coffee from a paper cup, having made use of the pod-style machine on the counter when they’d been asked to wait until Monica was finished filming a particular segment.
She still hadn’t heard from Adam, and evidence of a sleepless night showed in the dark circles under her eyes. She lifted her coffee to her mouth, tilting her head back to drain its contents. Then she tossed the empty cup in a trash can.
“Sheriff?” A man holding a clipboard—someone’s assistant—stood in the doorway. About thirty years old, he wore round, thick tortoiseshell glasses, an untucked plaid shirt, and red skinny jeans. “Monica’s ready for you.” His snotty tone suggested Bree and Matt weren’t welcome.
A microscopic hint of annoyance flickered in Bree’s eyes before she covered her reaction with a professional nod.
“This way.” The assistant performed a sharp pivot. He didn’t wait for them but strode away without even glancing over his shoulder to ensure they were behind him.
They walked down a hallway into the main studio. People milled around the cameras, lights, and backdrops. A half dozen models dressed like metallic chess pawns clustered around an older woman wielding a can of hair spray like a weapon. Matt didn’t see Monica.
“You can talk in here.” The assistant stood aside and waved toward a room the size of a walk-in closet. He checked his watch. “But we need Monica back on set in twenty.”
Bree didn’t respond. Matt followed her into the tiny space, which had been set up for hair and makeup. A barstool-height director’s chair faced a vanity and mirror. Cases of makeup, brushes, and hair gadgets cluttered the vanity. With no other seats, Matt leaned against the wall facing the chair. Bree rested a hip on the vanity.
Monica came in and closed the door behind her. Bree gestured toward the chair, and Monica perched carefully on the front edge of the stretched canvas, as if afraid to get too comfortable. Not that comfortable looked possible in her dramatic costume. The gold skin suit fit like body paint. Her hair was slicked down in a dark, shimmery fall. Her face glowed, not in a healthy way, but with a metallic sheen. Her cheekbones were accented with bronze, and her lips were painted silver, as were her eyelids. Enormous fake eyelashes framed her eyes. How did she even lift her eyelids?
Matt eyed her shoes. Gold—of course—with ice-pick heels that had to be five inches high. “What kind of commercial are you shooting?”
“Perfume.” Monica gestured to her skin suit. “The concepts are always weird.” She looked to Bree. “Why are you here?” The question was blunt, but her tone wasn’t rude.
“We have a few follow-up questions from yesterday’s interview,” Bree began.
“I already answered your questions,” Monica complained.
“But you were one of the last people to date Spencer,” Matt explained. “Your statements are important.”
“OK.” She sighed. “But I don’t have a lot of time.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “The director is in a mood. Again.”