Page 32 of Killer Knows Best (Fallon Baxter FBI Mystery #4)

32

EVIL

S he stirs on the cold concrete, and for a brief moment, I can see the confusion flicker across her face as if she can’t figure out if this is real or just another nightmare.

It’s real, sweetheart. Every cursed second of it.

The basement is damp, smelling of rot and forgotten things. The only light comes from a single bulb swaying from the hall and it creates long, wicked shadows across the walls.

It’s cold down here, so cold your fingers can freeze solid and snap right off. It’s as if the chill is reaching for your soul. I’ve spent hours getting this place ready, making sure it’s perfect. This has to be perfect. I need it to be perfect.

I stare at her as she shifts again. Her breathing is ragged as she starts to come to. She’s just like all the others—pretty, polished, like a doll someone left behind in the dirt. Only this one has been playing the game a little too long. This one thinks she’s untouchable.

She thinks she’s high-end? Right. Everyone has got a price.

I know that better than anyone.

She moves and moans, causing something to stir inside me— anger mostly, excitement, maybe even a twisted kind of satisfaction.

It’s always like this before it starts. This feeling, this unwavering anticipation.

They never know what’s coming. They never understand until it’s too late. Just the way it was with me when I played the part of the victim.

My hand tightens around the handle of the shears, and for a moment, I wonder why it’s always the same. Why it always feels as if I’m the one chasing something I can never catch. I thought this time would be different, but looking at her like this, bound and vulnerable, it’s starting to feel familiar again.

She groans softly as her eyes flutter open and the sound of those chains clinking against the floor snaps me back to the present. Her hands are bound behind her back, her ankles tethered together. She’s small but she seems fit. And I certainly don’t need any physical altercations.

Her name is Marsha Warren. I gathered just enough intel about her from her ID, but I already knew who she was long before she got into the car.

Marsha stirs, her body jerking in staccato motions as she comes to. The rattle of her chains echo through the dank basement, and I step back, flexing my fingers around the handle of the scissors once again.

She was heavier than I thought, nothing but dead weight that I had to drag all the way down here, but it doesn’t matter now. She’s here. Helpless and at my mercy.

I tug the werewolf mask down over my face and watch as she struggles against the restraints. The disguise I used in the car worked well with the shadows of the night, but I can’t risk her focusing in on me here, now that she knows the peril she’s in.

The scent of mildew and wet stone fills the air, thick enough to choke on, but I’m used to it. It’s comforting in a way, like a blanket of filth wrapping around me that I need to claw my way out of.

Marsha’s eyes snap open, and once she gets a look at me she belts out a shrill, piercing scream. A sound that grates against my skull like nails on a chalkboard. I slam the shears down on the table that she’s tethered to, hard enough to make her chains rattle.

“ Shut up ,” I snarl, my voice muffled through the mask and instantly her scream dies down to a whimper. The confusion behind her fear grows prominent. Understandably. She doesn’t know whether I’m a man or a woman.

Good. Let her sit with that uncertainty. Let it crawl under her skin like worms. Because right now, I’m neither. I’m her worst nightmare and I’m her savior all in one.

I pick up the shears again, and the metal gleams in the weak light of the bulb overhead. It flickers occasionally, like it’s about to die, just like my soul, just like her.

I can smell her perfume mixing with sweat and fear, a nauseating blend that makes my stomach churn. She’s terrified, but she deserves this. She deserves worse.

“Do you think this is unfair?” I taunt, circling her slowly. “You think this is some kind of mistake, don’t you?” I lean in close, the heat of my breath fogging the inside of the mask. “It’s women like you—selfish, manipulative witches, parading around like queens while the rest of the people suffer—that have forced my hand.”

Marsha writhes and whimpers as she tugs on her chains, her eyes wide and frantic. The metal clinks with each movement, and I see the bruises starting to form around her wrists where she’s been pulling too hard. She hasn’t even tried to speak yet. She hasn’t found the words.

But I don’t need her words. I need her fear.

I snap the shears in front of her face, and she flinches. The power of that moment sends a shiver down my spine.

“You need to pay,” I seethe. “All of you need to pay for your sins.” My voice sharpens as I start snipping at her clothes. She thrashes under my hands, but I keep cutting, the fabric peeling away in jagged strips. “It’s because of women like you that I have to do this. Do you know how many people would thank me if they knew what I was doing?”

A low sob escapes her lips and I feel my stomach twist—not with guilt but with the intoxicating blend of control and righteousness.

“I’m doing the world a favor. I’m doing you a favor,” I hiss.

My hand jerks as I slice through the last piece of fabric and—darn it—the shears slip, cutting her skin instead. A thin line of blood wells up, dark and glistening in this dim light.

Marsha begins to curse me, with her voice hoarse and raw. The words sting like lashes, cutting through my moment of control, but I don’t let them sink in. I raise the scissors, my hand trembling with anger now. And I cut and I cut until she’s naked as the day she was born—the last day of her innocence.

Why can’t they just be quiet and accept it? Why can’t they see that I’m right?

“Shut up,” I say, louder this time, trading my shears for a hammer before bringing it down over her.

A sickening thud emits as it connects with her skull, and she goes limp again, her body goes slack against the chains.

I step back, panting, the hammer still clutched in my hand. The room feels as if it’s too small with the walls closing in—as if they were doing their best to suffocate me. I drop the hammer and stumble to the corner, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

This isn’t how it was supposed to go. Why isn’t anything working the way it should? I planned this. I was careful. I was thorough. So why does it all feel wrong?

“What more must I do?” I whisper in the silence and my voice shakes. I stare at her motionless form, the blood trickling down her forehead. “What more must I do to make this right? To make her pay?”

My chest heaves as I look at the mess I’ve made.

This is it.

No more waiting.

No more second chances.

This ends tonight.

I turn back to her, the shears gleaming in the dark, and I know what has to come next.

I hope I didn’t kill her. She still needs to escape.

Then I loosen the bindings at her wrists and ankles so she can do just that.