“Nothing yet.”
Lark hums a thoughtful note. “How are you feeling?”
“Antsy.” A little sound of thoughtfulness passes through the line, but Lark just waits. She doesn’t push or give her opinion of what I should or shouldn’t do. She listens. She hears, like no one else can. “I don’t know if this is an epically stupid idea, you know? It’s not like I know Rowan. This could be a reckless, impulsive thing to do.”
“What’s wrong with impulsive?”
“It’s dangerous.”
“But it’s also fun, right?”
A thin thread of breath passes through my pursed lips. “Maybe…？”
Lark’s tinkling laugh fills my ears as I head to the rows of polished implements lining the counter, the knives and scalpels and screws and saws gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
“Your current idea of…fun…” Lark says, her voice trailing off as though she can see the scalpel I pick up and examine. “Is it still fun enough for you?”
“I guess,” I say with a shrug. I set the blade down on the instrument stand alongside surgical scissors, a pack of gauze, and a suture kit. “But I feel like something is missing, you know?”
“Is that because the FBI isn’t figuring out the clues you’re leaving behind in the fishing line?”
“No, they’ll get it eventually, and if they don’t, I’ll send an anonymous letter. ‘Check the webs, you fucking idiots.’”
Lark giggles. “The files are in the computer,” she says, quoting Zoolander. She never fails to chime in with a random yet relevant movie line.
I snicker as Lark laughs at her joke, the shine of her bright light infusing the cool confines of my modified storage container as though she’s plugged herself into the electrical circuitry. The levity between us fades as I grip the edges of the tray and wheel it toward my captive. “There’s something about this competition that feels…inspiring, I guess. Like an adventure. Nothing has really broken through to make me feel excited like this in a long time. And I think—or hope—that Rowan would have tried to kill me already if he wanted to. I don’t know why, and this is maybe the most reckless, impulsive part of this whole idea, but I believe he feels like I do, like he’s looking for something to alleviate an itch that’s getting harder and harder to scratch.”
Lark hums again, but this time the sound is deeper, darker. I’ve spoken to her about this before. She knows where I’m at. Relief is harder to find with each kill. It doesn’t last as long. Something is missing.
That’s precisely why I have this piece of shit pedo on my table.
“What about this elusive West Coast killer guy that Rowan told you about? Have you found any details on him?”
I frown, my headache needling my eyes. “Not really. I read about one murder that I think might be his from two months ago, out in Oregon. It was a hiker who was killed in Ainsworth Park. But there weren’t any details about anointing like what Rowan described. Maybe he’s right, maybe authorities are keeping things quiet to not spook the killer.” The man on the table lets out a keening wail around his gag and I slap a palm on the tray, rattling the instruments. “Dude, shut up. Whining isn’t going to help.”
“You’re sure in a spicy mood today, Sloaney. Are you positive you’re not—”
“No.” I know what Lark wants to ask, but I’m not spiraling. I’m not devolving. I’m not out of control. “Once this competition officially starts up, I’ll be fine. I just want to know the details of the first target, you know? I don’t deal well with waiting. I need to take the edge off, that’s all.”
“As long as you’re being careful.”
“For sure. Always,” I say as I wheel the suction machine toward the man as he tries to thrash himself free of the unforgiving leather straps. I press the switch and turn it on as the man’s desperate whimpers rise to a higher pitch. A thin film of sweat coats his skin. His wide eyes leak tears from the wrinkled corners as he tries to shake his head, his tongue working against the ball gag strapped in his mouth. My eyes narrow as I take in his tense features, his desperation seeping through his pores like musk.
“Got a worthy guest today, huh?” Lark asks as the man’s panic bleeds through the connection.
“Sure do.” The metal handle of my favorite Swann-Morton scalpel cools my fingertips through the latex gloves, a comforting kiss against my heated skin. The strain of concentration thins my voice to a thread as I focus on positioning the edge of the knife beneath the man’s Adam’s apple. “He’s a total shitbag.”