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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Margot

The sharp tang of lemon soap and formaldehyde clings to my skin. No matter how many times I scrub, the chemicals linger, soaked into my pores. Not that odd scents are my biggest concern tonight.

I duck into my closet and peel off the demure navy dress I wore for the service. The fabric sticks to my arms as I tug it off. I toss it toward the dresser—sorting can wait—and grab a pair of black leggings, a black tank top, and a hooded, zip-up sweatshirt with deep pockets.

After I’ve changed, I check my phone and pull up the app Jigsaw installed. It shows him about half an hour away. Near the garage where I take my car. Odd.

I’m ninety-nine percent sure the oven Jigsaw wants to use is the crematorium and the bread is a body. But I’m feeling cheeky and have a few minutes to kill before they get here.

Gretel trots into the kitchen and twines herself around my legs, purring like a fuzzy little black Harley. “I should’ve named you Harley,” I murmur, rubbing the top of her head. “You sound like one.”

“ Me-row .”

She settles on the tile beside the cabinets, tail curled neatly around her paws, bright green eyes focused on me like she’s expecting another dinner.

“You already ate,” I remind her.

“ Mraw .”

I crouch and hook a finger into the edge of the bottom cabinet shelf, dragging out the wide rolling tray loaded with appliances I never have time to use.

Even less since Jigsaw showed up in my life.

I heft the heavy, black-and-silver bread maker onto the counter.

The lid creaks when I flip it open. I wrestle the bread pan free from its stubborn metal clamps and set it beside the sink with a satisfying thump.

Gretel slaps her front paws on the cabinet and stretches, her tail flicking from side to side with interest.

“Don’t you dare,” I warn. “Just because Jigsaw let you near the counter once doesn’t mean I will.”

She drops her feet to the tile, letting out an indignant chirp.

I grab my glass measuring cup and fill it with warm water from the sink, then pour it into the bread pan.

I scatter a tablespoon of sugar into the water, then sprinkle a packet of yeast in a loose spiral.

I return the pan to the machine and search for the oil, flour, and salt I need.

The recipe comes back to me easily, but I still pause now and then to double-check the small breadmaking book propped open on the counter.

What kind of trouble did Jigsaw get into? Who is going in the oven?

I click the lid of the bread maker shut and punch the buttons. The machine kicks into gear with a low hum. I peer inside the small clear window in the bread maker’s top. The paddles twist through the ingredients in a rhythmic motion.

Perfect.

I pat the top of the machine.

Gretel’s curled up on my lounge chair, tail flicking once. She barely lifts her head as I slip on my sneakers and head downstairs. As I reach the bottom floor, a wave of anxiety sweeps over me. What if the person he’s bringing is dangerous?

No. He wouldn’t do that. Whoever it is probably isn’t even still breathing .

What if it’s Daniel?

No, last I checked he was still sitting in the county jail.

Besides, Jigsaw promised me he would let justice take its course.

Still, the gnawing in my chest won’t stop. It claws behind my ribs as I cross into the quiet dark of the funeral home. I pad down the hall, the chill of the tile seeping through my socks as I step into the prep room.

I’m not even sure what I’m looking for.

My fingers hover over the metal drawers built into the prep table.

I slide one open and sort through the neatly organized packages.

I pluck out a sterile scalpel, still sealed in its wrapper, and tear it open with a quiet snap.

The blade glints, catching the faint glow from the nightlights plugged into each outlet.

I slip it into the pocket of my sweatshirt.

Just in case.

I return to the back door and slip on my sneakers.

Outside, the night air cools my heated skin. The last rays of sunlight streak the sky with deep oranges and pinks. Jigsaw said they’d be here soon . It feels too stalkerish to keep checking the app.

I tilt my head, straining to catch any sound of engines.

Nothing but the usual small-town silence—crickets, a far-off car, the occasional bark of a neglected dog.

I cross the parking lot to the brick building that houses the cremation chamber, punch in the code, and open the door.

I hurry to the stainless steel control panel, flip the protective cover, and press the sequence to preheat the retort.

The burner kicks on with a low whoosh, followed by a deeper rumble as the system roars to life.

Heat pulses against my cheeks, and the air in the crematory thickens with the faint scent of scorched metal.

Hopefully things will be nice and toasty by the time the guys get here and this will be quick.

By the time I’m done, sweat slicks the side of my face and trails down my spine. I unzip my sweatshirt and tie it around my waist, leaving me in a black tank top, the fabric clinging to my skin.

I turn all but one of the lights off inside the building and make sure the outside lights are also off.

A low engine hum cuts through the stillness. I freeze, listening.

I crack the door and step outside.

Headlights sweep across the lot.

A black van creeps around the corner of the house.

I swipe damp hair off my forehead and force a small, steady smile as it slows to a crawl over the pavement. The driver backs the van close to the building, almost right into one of the tall bushy rows of lilacs that grow between the funeral home and my father’s property.

Unsure of what to do, I step into the crematorium and wait, leaving the door ajar. I don’t want to go into the house until I’m sure they have everything they need. Maybe they trust me enough now and won’t mind if I stick around?

Low, tense voices go back and forth outside.

A door creaks. Someone groans. A scuffle and a thud. A string of muttered curses. Muffled pleading.

My heart thunders but I stay still. Waiting.

“Ow! Fuck,” someone growls.

Is that Jigsaw?

I nudge the door open. Four hulking men, mostly in black clothing, stand in a loose circle, staring down at a heap on the ground. The back van doors are wide open, but no light shines out.

I open my door wide. The hinges squeak.

One of the men turns around. In the shadowy darkness, I make out Wrath’s dark blond beard. He lifts his chin in a silent hello, then turns and murmurs something too low for me to hear.

One of the dark figures breaks away.

Jigsaw.

He stares straight at me, an affectionate smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He crosses the short distance between us, walking slower than usual. His jaw’s tight, shoulders stiff, but he still slides his gloved hands over mine when he reaches me. They’re vaguely damp or sticky against my skin.

“Evening, little lady death,” he murmurs, voice warm despite the coldness of the occasion. He leans down and brushes a quick kiss over my cheek. “Thanks for doing this tonight,” he whispers against my ear.

The warmth of his kiss lingers on my skin. “Of course.”

Someone else breaks away from the circle, walking closer.

“Margot.” Even hushed, Rock’s commanding voice demands my attention. “Thanks for letting us borrow the facilities on short notice.” He casts a glance Jigsaw’s way. “I understand business has been brisk this week.”

He says it lightly, but something about the way his gaze lingers on Jigsaw gives a different feel—like he’s verifying information.

Did Jigsaw try to get out of coming here tonight by telling him we’ve been busy? Would he defy his club, thinking he’s protecting me?

“It has,” I answer. “But this was good timing. We finished our last service of the day, and nothing’s scheduled tomorrow. Dad’s still at the church and my cousin’s out.”

“That’s good. Thanks,” Wrath adds, turning toward us. Despite his size and Viking appearance, there’s something almost comforting in his presence.

“Hey, Margot.” Murphy lifts a hand in greeting. His mussed hair and bushy ginger beard make him look more like the friendly neighborhood lumberjack than a biker about to burn a body.

I bump the door open wider with my hip and step aside. “Everything’s already going. So hopefully this will be quick…” My gaze flicks toward the van. “Depending on how many ‘loaves of bread’ you have in there.”

Murphy rumbles with laughter and slaps his leg. “Jigsaw knew you’d get it.”

I lift my shoulders in a bashful shrug.

“That’s good. Thank you.” Rock studies the crematory a second, then returns to Wrath, the two of them speaking in whispers.

“I’ll let you guys…” I step back into the building.

Rock murmurs something I can’t quite catch, and a second later, Jigsaw follows me inside. His steps are quieter this time. A little uneven.

“You all right?” Jigsaw’s voice is soft, but his posture’s rigid.

“I’m fine.” I smile, small and unsure. “Don’t want to get in the way.” Or see something I’ll never unsee.

He glances through the crack in the door. I can’t see past him but low voices going back and forth reach me.

“Busy afternoon, huh?” I ask.

Jigsaw lets out a jagged huff. “You know Griff?”

Terror crackles through my chest. “What? No.”

I sway sideways, trying to get a better look. That’s Griff? No. Can’t be. Griff’s much bigger. He’s a friend of their club. We just went to a party in his honor. They wouldn’t…

“Shit. No, Margot.” Jigsaw wraps his hand around my arm, trying to hold me still. “It’s not Griff. Jesus. He’s a friend of the club. We don’t…no. The guy went after Griff and his girlfriend Molly.”

“Little Molly?” I stop trying to look over his shoulder. “Is she okay?”

“She’s not that little. Caved the guy’s leg in with a crowbar.” His mouth twitches with pride.

“Oh my God. Are they okay?”