So when Killian looks me in the eye and says, “Zero,” I admit to being surprised.
“Oh.” I balk at the remorse I feel for making the demand, resentful that—in this house, certainly—security and privacy run in counterpoint.
Just then, I’m hit by a wave of cramps, and Killian must notice the grimace on my face, because he jerks his head to the couch and says, “Sit. Tristian and Rath will be back in a few.” He crosses the room, fiddling with something over by the fireplace, and returns with a glass of amber liquid. “Loosen your nerves a little,” he says at my skeptical expression, setting the gun on the table.
The whiskey burns going down, and for a second, I miss being upstairs, in bed, feeling so normal in my little fake bubble. But this isn’t so bad, Killian sinking onto the sofa beside me. He’s warm and solid, and lets me lean against all that strength, his shoulder firm beneath my temple.
I don’t even realize I’m falling asleep.
“It’s old.” Dimitri’s voice is distant and quiet.
So is Tristian’s. “There aren’t even any wrinkles.”
“No, I mean, it’s old. As in ‘not fresh’。” There’s a beat of silence, and then Dimitri adds, “Probably refrigerated. It doesn’t have that much decomposition.”
Tristian suddenly hisses, “Don’t touch it! That’s disgusting.”
“It’s just a finger.”
“It’s a dead, decomposing finger,” Tristian argues.
“With a red painted nail.” Dimitri’s reply is pointed. “Are you guys thinking what I’m thinking?”
“If you’re thinking that’s Vivenne’s pinky?” Killian answers, voice a strong rumble beneath my ear. “Then yeah.”
“She’s been dead for weeks,” Tristian responds, voice dripping with disgust.
Dimitri says, “Read the note again.”
I try to swim through the barrier of slumber. A note? I didn’t even realize there’d been a note, too panicked and freaked out to bother looking.
Tristian recites, “Dear Sweet Cherry. It’s been a long while since we last spoke. Digital correspondence is so lacking in intimacy, don’t you think? I thought it better to write to you personally, like the old days, but you’re so hard to reach. Those barbarians you live with actually believe they can keep me from you. Quite silly of them. Consider this gift a small example of what happens to whores with inadequate security. Be seeing you soon. Forever and faithfully yours. Ted.”
My eyes open, taking in the expanse of Killian’s chest. At some point, he’d pulled me down to lay on the couch, and now I’m wedged between it and him, my leg thrown over his knees, nestled up into his body’s warmth.
His fist is massaging a slow, firm rhythm into the pit of my lower back. “We need to lock our shit down. No more guests, not even LDZ. Not until we find this motherfucker.”
“Agreed,” Tristian says, folding the note and placing the lid over the box. It’s then that he notices I’m awake, peering blearily up at him. There’s a softness in his eyes that I’m always surprised to find there. “You need a less exciting life, sweetheart.”
“I really agree.”
“I was in a lecture.” Tristian comes close enough to stroke his knuckles down my cheek. “You good?”
Nodding, I exhale at the way Killian is massaging that spot in my back. “I’m good.”
Dimitri clears his throat, plucking the box up. “I’ll go find somewhere to put this. We should keep it on ice for a bit, just in case.” He looks between the other two. “Beer freezer?”
Tristian looks horrified. “Gross! I don’t want that thing mingling with my beer.”
Dimitri arches an eyebrow. “Would you rather have it ‘mingling’ with your food? Because the ‘severed appendage freezer’ is in our other house.”
“Fine,” he grumbles, giving the box a disdainful look. “Just put the box with the finger in something airtight. Like a Ziplock.” He pauses, face screwing up. “It’s always the weirdest shit around here, I swear to god.”
“I know the feeling,” I say, shivering. Guns and intruders. Attempted murder and actual murder. Rotting fingers and threatening notes. It doesn’t feel as though things are getting any better. That’s why I force myself to say what’s been on my mind ever since Killian rushed home. “I think we need to turn the cameras back on.”