Phoenix Marrow is still out there. He’s still breathing. Still victimizing women who are sick, women who are desperate, women he’s brainwashed into thinking he’s Christ himself. The devotion makes me sick.
But finally, an idea strikes me.
I haven’t been able to get to Phoenix because he’s always surrounded by followers or guards. But he can’t have them with him twenty-four seven. There have to be moments he’s alone. I just need to piece together his life.
So, I turn his worshiping followers against him. They’re devoted, relentless. They treat Phoenix like their favorite celebrity. Which makes my job easier.
Pictures. Those devotees love to post their pictures of Phoenix. All I have to do is Google image search his name and start studying.
I build a map and a timeline. The spreadsheet is diabolical. Columns for date, time, location, tag, caption. Color-coded pins on a photo grid. Screenshots, blown-up crops, notes in the margins written in my own cramped handwriting. I cross-reference angles until the pattern reads like a confession.
Monday mornings, he favors the same almond milk latte at a boutique coffee shop with exposed brick and a barista named Theo. Wednesdays, he’s there again, same table by the window, same cinnamon smear on the rim. Fridays at noon, he’s at the bougie organic market, rutabagas and probiotic yogurt in a reusable tote. But what do you know? Phoenix Marrow visits a high-end, private conventional doctor’s office once a fucking month. So much for “your body always heals itself.” He might spew that stuff, but apparently, he doesn’t practice what he preaches.
People post the most inane and mundane things, and in doing so, they become the best kind of witnesses. A fan snaps a selfie in the squat rack and Phoenix is a smudge in the mirror; I crop it until his face fills the frame, enhance until the pixels confess. Another follower tags him, “@phoenixglow, you saved me,” and the geotag gives me an address for a smoothie bar two blocks over from his favorite grocery store. A blurry video of a speaking engagement has the back of his head lit by the same weird hotel chandelier I saw in another image.
The only thing I never find is a constant that pointshome—no recurring evening shots of a doorway, no repeated “leaving my house” selfies. He keeps his home exquisitely private. Andthe fact that no followers have ever spotted him walking out his front door is shocking.
But Phoenix’s quietest pattern is the gym. He takes three to four break-of-dawn sessions a week. He’s usually gone by nine, and the best part of his gym routine? He always drives himself, always in the Porsche, leaving level three of the attached parking garage.
So, at eight in the morning on a Monday, I decide to just gosee. See if I’m right. See if there really is an opportunity. See if I cancreatean opening to get to the untouchable Phoenix Marrow.
If I want him alone and unguarded, the garage is my best shot.
So, I park my truck outside the parking garage, somewhere no one would ever think about it twice. I pull my cap down and walk into the parking garage like I belong. My boots are quiet, even in the concrete cavern. I head to the third floor, where he always parks. Sure enough, there’s his Porsche. I tuck myself behind a pillar, one that keeps the elevator in view.
Five minutes. I’m not going to spend my whole morning in this garage. So, I only give myself five minutes before Phoenix is supposed to walk out of the elevator, his routine finished. It’s a test. I need to see just how structured he is with his day.
And like a blessing from Themis herself, exactly on the dot, the elevator doors slide open, and out steps the bastard himself.
He’s alone. His gym bag is over one shoulder. There’s sweat glistening on his forehead. He has earbuds in, and his eyes are fixed on the ground as he heads toward his car.
The air movement shifts slightly just then, and a soft crinkling sound pulls my eyes to the ground at my feet. And there I find a crumpled plastic bag. It’s the thick kind, the kind you’re supposed to reuse. It isn’t one of those ultra-thin ones that tears with one little poke.
It feels like fate.
My pulse spikes so hard I feel it in my teeth. This isn’t my routine, not the prep, not the ritual. If I kill him now, I’ll have to load his body into the back of his car, take his car, risk getting caught in his car.
Killing him now would be sloppy. Reckless. And those are two words that get killers caught and put in prison for life.
Butwhenwill I ever get another chance like this? He’s right fucking there, and the plastic is waiting for me like we plotted this out beforehand.
Ah, fuck it.
I snatch up the bag, the plastic crackling like a battle cry—thank Hera Phoenix is wearing earbuds. Reckless adrenaline burning in my veins, I creep after him. He steps up to his Porsche, keys in hand. I run through it all in my head like a playbook: I’m going to have to be fast. Snap the bag down over his head before he gets a chance to react. He’ll fight for a while, so I’m going to have to hold firm and do whatever it takes to not lose my grip. Eventually, his legs will buckle. He’ll run out of air, and I can whisper in his ear that justice has finally caught up with him.
Silently, I cross the parking garage while Phoenix’s back is still turned to me. I’m fast. Efficient. He doesn’t have a clue as I sidle up behind him. I get close enough to see the muscle twitch in his jaw. Close enough to smell the post-workout salt clinging to him. I raise the bag…
And a fucking car alarm starts going off on the street below us.
I have nowhere to go when Phoenix turns to instinctively look for the source of the noise.
Oh, shit.
The look in Phoenix’s eyes shifts in an instant when he turns to find me with the bag poised over his head. Confusion to instant survival.
In a blink, he whirls, his hand snapping out, fingers clamping around my throat. My back slams into the side of a truck two spaces over, the impact rattling through my ribs. The plastic bag slips from my hand and flutters to the ground like a failed punchline.
Phoenix looms, his grip firm but not crushing—yet. His eyes light with recognition, and they shift from panicked rage to delight, poisoned with that smug glow of a predator who just found the hunter.
