Page 11 of Web of Lies

Riley

I'm curled up on my sofa with a light blanket over my legs and quiet metal music playing in the background.

My eyes are fixed on the documents I found at the shop.

They don't directly mention the killer, nor do they list any names or personal details of the supplier.

However, they contain the complete medical records of several men who went missing over the last decade.

Each of these individuals also has a criminal record.

In other words, the Butcher isn't a typical serial killer who goes after innocent victims. No, he is targeting individuals within his circle.

He studies and assesses their health before killing them, almost as if he's selecting livestock.

At the thought, my stomach twists with nausea. The taste of bile creeps up my throat, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to throw up. I'm surrounded by people who kill for a living every day, yet I still can't wrap my head around how someone can do what he does.

I put the documents aside and lean toward my laptop sitting on my coffee table. With a few clicks, I pull up the secure chat with Jackson, who still hasn't responded to my last message. Still, I type:

Me: I found something important. It's bigger than I expected. I'll need more time. I'll keep you updated.

I hit send, then collapse back onto the sofa with a sigh.

Frustration claws at my skin, and I drag a hand through my wet, tangled hair.

This case is like a spiderweb, but every thread I pull leads nowhere.

Worse, I'm getting stuck. It's tightening and becoming more difficult to navigate.

It was foolish of me to put my actual task on the back burner and focus solely on Mr. Hunt.

But he charmed me, just as he does with everyone.

Once he has you in his grasp, you follow his every command, and suddenly, everything else in your life feels less important.

I wish I could ask him for help. I wish I could tell him the truth.

But if he finds out that I'm a rat and that I could have exposed him all this time, he'll have no choice but to kill me. My chest tightens at the thought of seeing betrayal in his eyes, of breaking his trust and becoming just another liar in his world. With my biological father in prison and having had little to no contact with him over the last seven years, Mr. Hunt has filled the role of a father without ever trying. I crave his approval, his rare words of praise. Every time he trusts me with something important, it feels like I’m worth something, like I’ve earned my place.

I don’t want him to look at me and see a traitor instead of one of his adopted daughters.

The thunderous vibration of my phone hitting the table pulls me out of my thoughts.

I press the stop button on the timer, jump up from the sofa, and walk into the kitchen, where I check the water bowl I've been using to thaw food for my spiders that prefer lifeless food.

I remove the plastic-wrapped insects from the water, cut them open, and place them on a small plate.

I then head to the bedroom, where a large shelf lines one wall, filled with terrariums of various sizes that house my most precious possessions.

My favorite animal: spiders. I own a wide variety, ranging from different breeds of tarantulas of various sizes, all the way down to adorable little jumping spiders.

I start with the smallest terrarium and work my way through them all until I reach the largest one, which houses my favorite: a female Brazilian black tarantula.

I lift the lid and drop in the live worms. They wiggle across the mossy soil, some getting tangled in the thick web stretched across the substrate.

Then, slowly but surely, my favorite girl emerges from her hiding spot.

She's pretty docile, curious, bold, and comfortable being handled.

Still, I try to keep it to a minimum to reduce the risk of injury to either her or myself.

I watch in awe as she creeps toward the first worm. She's cautious at first, but then jumps and attacks. She grabs it, holds tight, and eats. A smile tugs at my lips as she reaches for another worm trapped in her perfectly woven web.

My gaze sweeps across the patterned webbing.

Each strand she spins serves a purpose. Every knot is for survival.

Years ago, I told myself that I could do the same, that I could spin a web strong enough to protect me.

But mine is twisted and tangled, sagging under the weight of secrets I'm losing control of.

What was supposed to trap others is becoming my downfall, and I'm running in circles.

I'm pulled out of my thoughts when the doorbell rings. I furrow my brows, straighten up, and glance at the alarm clock on my nightstand, which reads nine p.m. The smile on my face widens. I close the terrarium lid and hurry to the front door.

When I pull it open, I find Kyle standing on my doorstep with a bag of takeout in hand.

He's wearing a black T-shirt and shorts.

His hair is damp and messier than usual, as if someone had run a hand through it.

A five o'clock shadow shades his face, and a glowing cigarette hangs loosely between his lips.

"Hey, Freckles," he says, as he takes the cigarette from his mouth and leans in to place a quick kiss on my lips.

"Come in now," I whisper against his lips.

"Before my neighbors get mad about someone smoking in the hallway.

" I step aside, and he brushes past me, heading straight to the living room.

I close and lock the door before hurrying after him.

He sets the bags down right beside the papers scattered across the room that I'd been working on.

With a curious frown, he glances down at the documents.

Panic rises in my chest, and I dash past him, gathering the papers into one pile and stuffing them back into a folder.

"Still working at this ungodly hour?" he asks, eyeing the folder in my hands.

"Yes, I'm doing some research. Nothing crazy," I say, sounding as casual as possible as I put everything aside.

"That old man is working you too hard."

"He's not much older than you," I say, rolling my eyes.

Kyle chuckles as he sinks into the couch, putting out his cigarette in the ashtray. "Aww, look at you. Always ready to defend your beloved Hunt."

"Shut up. You know he's just my boss. Nothing is going on."

Kyle cocks an eyebrow, leaning forward with that smug grin of his. "Didn't say there was. But now I'm starting to wonder."

"Kyle." I groan, dragging out his name. "I'm not in the mood for your antics tonight."

His teasing smile softens. "Rough day?"

I nod, swallowing hard as I glance down at the folder on the table before sitting down on the sofa next to him. "I'm just tired. Mentally, emotionally. Everything feels like a mess right now."

"Hey," he says, reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. At the touch of his rough fingers against my skin, a familiar warmth pools in my chest, and I look up at him. "I'm sorry, Baby. You know I love to see you all riled up," he adds with a soft smile.

He slides his arm around my waist, and I melt into him, resting my head on his shoulder.

His scent hits me right away; his shower gel and sharp cologne mixed with the faint bite of cigarette smoke.

It’s warm, familiar, and so completely him.

The kind of smell that settles into my chest and makes me feel like I can finally breathe.

With a quiet sigh, I wrap my arms around his stomach.

"I hate you," I whisper.

"No, you don't," he says, his voice smug. "Especially not when I bring your favorite food."

I pull back and glance at the takeout bag on the table. "Kimchi stew?"

"Yes."

"Okay, I take it back," I say with a chuckle. "I love you."

He releases me with a scoff and starts opening the food containers. "Should I be concerned about how easily you can be wooed with food?"

"No need to." I sit up straight, grab my laptop and the document, and place them on a side table.

Then, I get up and head to the kitchen. "It takes a lot more to woo me.

" I fetch a beer for each of us before joining Kyle on the sofa again.

I reach for the remote and search for one of my comfort horror movies, then put it on.

"What are we doing tonight? Wanna go out?" he asks.

"No. I want to keep it calm," I say, grabbing my container and setting it in my lap. With my other hand, I lift my beer toward my lips for a sip.

"So stay in and fuck?" he says without missing a beat.

The words hit me mid-sip, and I choke, sputtering into the bottle as the fizz burns my throat and nose. Coughing, I set it down fast, glaring at him through teary eyes. "You—" I rasp. "Could you try being a bit more of a gentleman, just once?"

"Nope. Wrong guy if that's what you're looking for." He smirks, clearly pleased with himself.

"You're insufferable," I mutter, bringing a spoonful of food to my mouth.

"Thanks. I get that a lot." I glance at him, and he is clearly trying to fight back his smug grin. "Then tell me. What can I do to make you feel better?"

I chew, swallowing before speaking. "Honestly? You were already on the right track. I want to stay in, relax, and see where the night takes us."

For a second, he falls silent, the playful look in his eyes softening. His smile evens out, less cocky and more gentle. "We can do that."

"Thanks." I nod and lean back into the cushions, my thigh pressing against his. My gaze drifts to the TV just as the movie’s intro plays. A shaky handheld shot of a girl sprinting through the woods. The camera cuts fast, the killer’s silhouette following her until a flash of steel catches the light and blood splatters across the lens in a dramatic spray.

"You know," Kyle says mid-bite, casual as if we’re watching a cooking show, "the way the blood is gushing out is pretty unrealistic."

I give him a side-eye glance, trying to ignore his comment.

Of course. I finally found a man willing to watch horror movies with me as if they were cozy sitcoms. But the downside is that my movie partner is actually a killer.

To me, these movies are pure entertainment.

They're gritty and thrilling, with the perfect mix of suspense and gore. For him, it’s like work.

He instantly knows whether every stab, scream, and spray of fake blood is authentic or overdone for shock value.

Sometimes it’s fun, like when he explains how someone might really react or what would actually happen.

I’ve learned things I never thought I’d know.

But at other times, like now, I want to simply lose myself in the story.

I tilt my head and rest it on his shoulder. "Can you not?"

"What?" He smirks around his fork. "I’m just saying, if that much blood sprayed out—"

"Kyle."

He leans back, gaze dropping to me with that infuriating grin of his. "But I thought you enjoyed learning from me."

"I do," I admit with a sigh, pulling back just enough to look at him. "But I want to watch the movie, not sit through one of your lectures. And just so you know, every comment you make tonight lowers your chances of getting laid."

That makes him freeze mid-bite, with his fork hovering halfway to his mouth. He looks at me, his eyebrows raised, before he lets out a sigh. "Fine. I'll shut up."

"Thank you," I say, leaning in to press a soft kiss on his scruffy cheek.

A moment later, he slips an arm around my shoulders and pulls me against his side. I curl into him, my eyes back on the screen, as I scoop up another spoonful of stew.