Page 72 of Dual

Ah! An electric meat carver. That might work. I pull it out, then frown, examining it critically. It won't get through bone effectively before burning out the motor. Inefficient.

I sift through our collective memories, calculating and precise, before remembering: the garage. Concrete floors would really be a much more suitable surface for this job. And even though Domhnall isn't the kind of man who does his own carpentry, I bet he's still got some power tools around here. Maybe even a good dolly suitable for moving around bodies.

I smile again, heading for the elevator leading to the garage. As I step inside, I catch my reflection in the polished metal doors. Blood splatter across my face. Hair disheveled. Eyes cold and unfamiliar even to me. I straighten my posture. Tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.

As my father used to tell me, all you need for any job is the right tools.

In the garage, the fluorescent lights flicker on automatically. The concrete floor is pristine, swept clean. Domhnall may not be a handyman, but he likes order. I can work with order.

I locate a tool chest against one wall. Inside are hammers, wrenches, and pliers. Not ideal, but workable. Then I spot it—a chainsaw. Perfect. I lift it, testing its weight. A bit unwieldy for someone my size but manageable. I check the fuel level. Half-tank. Sufficient.

Next, I find plastic sheeting. Domhnall's thoroughness serves me well again. I gather several rolls, along with duct tape, heavy-duty trash bags, and cleaning supplies.

I return to the foyer, pushing a garden cart I found in the corner of the garage. The man's body hasn't moved. Of course it hasn't. The dead stay where you put them.

I spread plastic sheeting around the body, securing it with tape to contain the mess. I drag the body onto the center of the plastic, exerting more strength than Anna ever believed this body capable of.

As I work, I monitor our internal landscape. Anna is deeply unconscious, traumatized by the attack. Mads is present but subdued, watching me with wary fascination. Neither interferes. They know, intuitively, that I am necessary.

I methodically prepare the body. First, I remove his clothing, cutting it away with scissors from the kitchen. I examine his face dispassionately. Early forties. Scar above his right eyebrow. Tattoo on his left forearm—some kind of military insignia.

I search his pockets. Wallet. Keys. Phone. I'll examine these later for identification purposes. For now, I focus on disposal.

Thechainsaw starts with a roar that fills the foyer. Under different circumstances, I might worry about the noise, but the nearest neighbors are too far to hear. I position myself and begin.

The work is messy but straightforward. I dissect the body into manageable pieces, wrapping each in plastic and sealing it in trash bags. The blood pools on the plastic sheeting, contained and controlled.

Throughout the process, I maintain perfect composure. No nausea. No hesitation. Just disciplined efficiency. This is what I was made for.

When the dismemberment is complete, I clean the chainsaw thoroughly, removing the chain and sanitizing it in a bath of alcohol before wiping down every surface. I package the body parts into eight heavy-duty trash bags, double-bagged for security. I study Domhnall's calendar on his computer upstairs. Perfect. He owns a development property where foundation pouring begins tomorrow morning at six.

Construction sites. Concrete pourings. The perfect tomb that will never be disturbed. One location, permanent concealment, minimal risk. I make a note of the address and security protocols.

The blood-soaked plastic sheeting and other contaminated materials go into additional bags. I scrub the floor where blood may have seeped through, using bleach to destroy DNA evidence. Hydrogen peroxide for the remaining organic matter, then industrial cleaner. Layers upon layers of chemical obliteration.

Hours pass. By the time I finish, the foyer is immaculate again. No evidence remains of what occurred here. The bags are neatly stacked in the trunk of my car, ready for disposal once night falls again.

I shower, watching the pink water swirl down the drain. I scrub under my fingernails, between my toes, behind my ears. Thoroughness is essential.

Afterward, I examine myself in the mirror. The face looking back at me is simultaneously familiar and strange. It'stheirface, but the expression is mine. Cold and calculating.

"Hello, Red," I say to my reflection, testing the name on my tongue. It fits. Stop light red. Warning red. Blood red.

I dress in clean clothes from the closet and prepare black jeans and boots for when I need to take the body out later. Practical attire for what remains to be done.

In Domhnall's office, I go back to his secure laptop. I need to know who the attacker was. Who sent him. Who else might be coming. I need to protect us.

Because that's what I am here for. I am the protector. The cold one, without mercy.

I am what Anna and Mads could never be.

I am Red.

TWENTY-THREE

ANNA

I stare downat the journal entry, my fingers trembling as they trace over the unfamiliar handwriting—neither mine nor Mads'. The pit in my stomach feels like it's lined with lead, heavy and poisonous.