before this one?” His tone never changed. Low. Polite.
Like he was asking how many pairs of shoes Jerry owned.
“Seven. Lucky seven,” Jerry croaked. “And Marcie
did three more while I watched.” He made a gagging
sound, took a raspy breath. “You do the math.”
“Perfect.” The blond guy nodded and smiled and
killed him. Held him dangling above the ground, tore
open his chest, and ripped his heart out, just like he’d
done to Marcie.
Clamping her jaw tight, Roxy refused to scream, because she had a feeling that once she started, she’d
never stop. Shock, revulsion, dread—they held her
pinned, her body crouched and contorted by her bonds,
her breath locked in her throat. She’d staved off her
terror the whole time they’d left her here, bound and
alone. Held it in check when the blond guy had shown
up, as she tried to decide exactly what his role was, his
surfer-boy hair and the lollipop stick between his lips
somehow making him seem less threatening.
Talk about irony.
He was the scariest fucking thing she could ever
have imagined.
There were two bodies on the floor, lying in a pool
of gore. A goddamned lake of it. They were dead. And
their murderer slowly turned his face toward her.
Her heart thundered in her chest.
His gaze flashed to hers. Gray eyes. Like fog at
dusk. Colder than Lake Michigan in January.
EVE SILVER
33
The coldest eyes she’d ever seen.
