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5

KALEB

S hiloh’s scent and the picture of her cum-streaked face are fresh in my mind when I pick the lock on Davis’ door. I know it’s their apartment because they have a sign on their door.

Not like the name of whoever lives here matters. The choice to make this apartment my home is strictly strategic.

It overlooks Shiloh’s apartment. First floor. Corner unit.

A place to lie low while Shiloh and I get reacquainted again. As adults, this time around.

They have what I need, and I’m taking it.

Remorse? Guilt?

What the fuck are those, anyway?

The bobby pins I grabbed from Shiloh’s bathroom work in unison. The pins inside the lock turn.

I press my ear to the door. No one’s running toward it. No one’s up. No one can stop me .

A strange emotion rises to the surface. A smidge of compassion, maybe? For their kids. If they have any. Hopefully not.

I hate the idea of killing random children for no reason whatsoever, but this is my home now. Once I’m inside, I’m going to kill this entire family. There will be no witnesses left. No evidence of my crime.

See, eleven years ago, I made the mistake of leaving a scene without covering my tracks. Getting Shiloh the revenge she was owed had me seeing red. Terrorizing the boys who’d hurt her, then ripping hearts out fucked with my sense of self-preservation.

When I was done, I dropped their hearts to the floor. Went home and gave Shiloh their fingers. I was satisfied that justice had been served.

Stupid.

I’ve learned my lesson.

No one in this apartment is getting out alive.

Click.

The lock gives in.

I’m greeted by no one, not even the static light of the TV. The living room is quiet. Dark.

That’s my cue to go inside and close the door behind me.

“Fuck me,” a woman moans, stopping me in my tracks. At the sound of her voice, I freeze and listen carefully. “Harder. Fucking harder.”

Okay then.

There are only two people I’m going to have to murder. Who happen to be fucking .

I’m not jealous of them for being together. For having something I couldn’t.

Not fucking jealous at all.

My mask clings to my skin. It’s as if it’s trying to become one with me.

It is a part of me.

In two steps, I’m in their kitchen, grabbing the biggest knife they own from one of the drawers.

The opposite bedroom is my second stop. Thankfully—again, I’d really hate to kill kids—it’s a storage room. Books and notebooks are stacked one on top of the other. Three dressers line one of the walls, clothes bursting out of them.

What a mess.

Not my problem.

The couple in the other room is.

I swing their door open and there they are. A sweaty, hairy man is on top of the woman, rocking his slim hips into her. He huffs and puffs, his biceps bulging with the effort.

Up and down. Up and down.

Nothing about this scene is a turn-on. I stand and watch, anyway. Maybe this is what Shiloh would like?

“I’m close, yes.” It’s the woman again, her voice as fake as they come. I guess that’s a no to my question. I will absolutely not fuck Shiloh like that.

Also, you’re welcome, lady. Seems I’ll be doing you a favor.

Another “fuck me harder” follows.

Sounds like your limp dick will never make me come from where I’m standing.

I’d spank Shiloh raw if she pulled that fake shit on me .

I wouldn’t stop until she screamed and cried in agony until she came all over my cock.

“Going to come. Can’t wait, you’re taking forever.”

Couldn’t be any more seductive if he tried.

“I’m close, I’m telling you.”

“I’m closer.” Apparently, he didn’t feel like he hit rock bottom before. “Come, or you can finish yourself off in the shower.”

I’ve had enough of this. I’m bored out of my mind, and besides, this woman deserves better.

God, or whoever’s up there, will ensure she gets it in the afterlife.

Or they won’t.

Don’t give a fuck either way.

Back to my task.

They’re oblivious. Clueless.

Have no fucking clue that I’m approaching.

The couple says nothing when I walk around the bed, standing at its edge.

He keeps hopping on her.

Would you look at that, a real-life jackhammer. A soon-to-be-dead one.

I’m quiet as I raise the knife. Quieter still when I shove it into his back as far as it’ll go.

His scream comes first.

The woman follows right behind.

I pull the knife out and a river of blood rains down on her.

And what does Mr. Heartthrob do?

He staggers off her, then off the bed .

You’d think his priority would be to help her. To shield her.

Not this guy.

He’s backing up toward the door, dick swinging, one hand pressed to the hole I made in his back. He bleeds out, despite his best efforts to cover the bleeding gash.

The woman lunges at me. She’s far braver than he is, naked and reaching for my knife.

Like hell.

Her blonde hair is greasy, almost slipping from my grip. I yank on it while she screams, granting her a quick death by slashing her throat open.

The other people I killed had it coming. The torture. The pain.

She doesn’t. Not like I’ll lose any sleep over this.

Her hands flail. Blood sputters out of her mouth.

It lasts for ten seconds before her body gives up. The exact time it takes Mr. Davis to snap out of his shock.

He has one foot out the door.

Flop. The slab of meat that was once Mrs. Davis bounces on the bed.

“I don’t want to die, please,” he mumbles, his voice as weak as he is. “Help. Help. Somebody, help me.”

Me.

Me, me, me.

As if the death of this woman he was fucking means nothing to him.

For me, Shiloh always came first. Since day one .

“Don’t you dare touch her!” I never raised my voice. Hardly ever spoke.

But when Shiloh’s dad would charge into her room to let off steam by slapping her, you bet I fucking shouted.

“I’ll discipline my daughter however I please, freak—err, Kaleb.”

He knew disrespecting me was a hard line for my mother. She was grateful for what I’d done before we moved here. It hadn’t been for her. It saved her useless ass, regardless.

And since Shiloh’s dad had a thing for fucking my mom or parading the beautiful woman like a showhorse, he tried to be civil around me. When she was within earshot, that is.

“No, you won’t.”

He looked at my mask the same as the rest of them did. Everyone other than Shiloh. “I won’t have to put up with you forever.”

He’d put up with me.

It was me who wouldn’t put up with him. No one got to hurt my little sister. No one.

“Kaleb.” A small, shaking hand rested on my elbow. “It’s okay. You can leave. I’m fine.”

Leave her here? With our unfinished puzzle? With him?

To hear his hand cracking on her cheek from the other room?

“Fuck no.”

He would usually storm out after he saw I wasn’t backing down. Once the door closed, I’d order her to keep doing what she was doing, then spend the night on the floor.

By her bed.

Her personal bodyguard .

Unlike Mr. Davis.

“Is it money you’re after?” His body shakes harder the closer I get. “Take my wallet. Take my credit cards. They’re on the counter. Please.”

Six feet separate us.

“Sex? Y-you can rape me. Fine. I won’t put up a fight. But let me live.”

There’s only one person I want to fuck and it sure as hell isn’t him.

“D-don’t come any closer.”

Three feet.

Two.

None.

“I won’t tell!” he shrieks the moment my knife lands in his jugular. His fingers clutch my wrist. “I won’t.”

No, he won’t.

I drag the knife down his chest. Gut him like a fish while I think of Shiloh.

How I need to protect her. How I need to save her.

To keep his guts inside, I stop right below his chest. Guts are fucking messy. It’s enough that I’ll have to scrub his blood off the floor.

“H-h-h-help.” The final plea is murmured as the light in his green eyes dies out.

His body flops in a heap on the floor. His head is twisted at an awkward angle. The knife sticks out of the gashing wound.

Time to clean up.

Thankfully, the couple owned two large rugs. I go to the living room to get them, then snoop around their home. The duct tape, gloves, and two sets of twenty-pound weights—those he obviously never used—will have to do.

Next, my ride. The couple’s car keys are nearby, on the counter next to his wallet. The license plate number was written on the key chain. Strange that people still do that, begging to have their car jacked.

Oh, well.

I flip through his wallet. Their IDs say their names were Elron and Ginger Davis. Useless information.

What’s important is that everything I need to transfer them to the pier is here. Their final resting place will be at the bottom of the sea.

They might float later, but by then, Shiloh and I will be long gone. Either that, or they’ll be unidentifiable.

To ensure this, I burn off their fingertips with a lighter. Bash their teeth and faces in.

Then I go through the laptop in their living room. His are the only work emails I find. Elron is a store manager.

And this store manager just quit his job. Oh, my. He’s been diagnosed with a terminal illness. He’ll spend his final months at home, by his wife’s side. Please respect his privacy and refrain from visiting. Thanks, bye.

Another quick search through the apartment reveals that the wife isn’t employed. No work tag or uniforms mean no one will come looking for her.

Roll, roll, roll into the rugs the Davis couple goes.

Fitting them into their silver Chevy Impala takes some maneuvering, but I make do .

The sun will rise soon. No time to waste. I push the pedal to the floor, reach the pier, and scan for a spot where there are no security cameras. It’s there that I haul both bodies to the water, dumping them into the sea.

With Elron’s wallet in my back pocket and their apartment all to myself, I’m done with my chores for the night.

I need to be around her.

I guess calling Jerome will just have to wait.