A map. In the web.
“Not that it would have mattered, I guess. It’s not like the dumbass fuckwits at the FBI have figured that out yet. But even so… you went and fucked it up,” Sloane continues, not looking up from the next bone she tears free of the carcass before her. A heavy sigh spills over the meat that she raises to her lips. “I guess I should be grateful. Maybe I underestimated Watson too. Given Briscoe kicked me into his cage so easily and he was a lazy prick, I’m not sure I would have fought Watson off as well as you did.” Her bright, unusual eyes find mine through strands of raven hair that have fallen over her brow as a charming glare flays my blackened soul. “It physically pains me to admit that, by the way. But don’t let it get to your head, pretty boy.”
A smirk creeps across my lips. “You think I’m pretty.”
“I literally just said not to let the Watson thing go to your head. It applies to your prettiness too,” Sloane says with an epic eye roll, one of her eyelids twitching. “Besides, you already know it.”
My smile grows a little wider before I hide it behind the edge of my glass. Our gazes stay locked until Sloane finally breaks the trance and looks away, a hint of color infusing her freckled cheeks. “Well, you got to Bill Fairbanks before I could,” I say, “so I think we’re even.”
Sloane’s eyes widen, her thick, dark lashes fanning toward her brows. “You were after him?” she asks as I give her a single nod and lift one shoulder. It used to irk me that I lost Fairbanks, even if it was to the Orb Weaver, who I’ve considered something of an idol. But now? Meeting the woman behind the web? I would lose to her again to see the way it lights her eyes with pride. Maybe even more than once.
The edge of Sloane’s bottom lip folds between her teeth as she tries to anchor her wicked grin against their sharp edges. “I had no idea you were hunting Fairbanks.”
“I was tracking him for two years.”
“Really?”
“I planned to take him the year before you got him, but he up and moved before I had the chance. Took me a few months to find him again. Then, low and behold, bits of his body were strung up in fishing line with his eyeballs gouged out.”
Sloane huffs, but I can see the spark that flashes in her tired eyes. She sits a little straighter, wiggling in her seat. “I didn’t gouge them out, Butcher. I plucked them. Delicately. Like a lady.” Sloane sticks her finger in her mouth, pressing it against her cheek as she wraps her lips around it only to snap it out with a pop. “Just like that.”
I snort a laugh and Sloane gifts me with a beaming smile. “My bad.”
Sloane turns her grin to the table before the nerves seem to creep in, and her gaze flits across the room. She takes a few fries, her eyes still shifting over the patrons and exits, before she pushes her plate of ribs toward the table edge.
She’s going to take off.
And if she does, I’ll never see her again. She’ll make damn sure of that.
I clear my throat. “You ever heard of a series of murders in the national parks in Oregon and Washington?”
Sloane’s attention snaps back to me with narrowed eyes. A faint crease appears between her dark brows. A little shake of her head is the only response she gives.
“The killer is a phantom. A prolific one. Exacting and very, very careful,” I continue. “He prefers hikers. Campers. Nomads with few connections in his hunting area. He tortures them before he positions each body facing East in heavily forested areas, anointed on the forehead with a cross.”
Sloane’s thin mask falters. She’s all predator beneath, scenting a trail. I can almost see her thoughts spiraling in the confines of her skull.
These details are tracks any talented hunter can follow.
“How many kills so far?”
“Twelve, though there could more. But it’s been kept pretty quiet.”
Sloane’s brow furrows. There’s a spark in the green and golden depths of her hazel eyes. “Why? For fear of spooking the killer?”
“Probably.”
“And how do you know about it?”
“Same way you knew who the Beast of the Bayou was. I make it my business to know.” I wink. Sloane’s gaze snags on my lips to rest on my scar before dragging back up to my eyes. I rest my forearms on the table and lean closer. “What would you say to a friendly competition? First one to win gets to kill him.”
Her back rests against the vinyl booth cushion as Sloane drums her chipped, blood-red manicure on the table. She gnaws on her chapped lower lip for a long, silent moment as she lets her attention flow over my features. I feel it in my skin. It touches my flesh. It ignites a sensation I’m always chasing but am never quite able to grasp.