I try to jerk away, but his grip holds firm.
“I hope to see you at Christmas, Fox.” His thumb swipes over my lower lip, a smile gracing his own lips as I tug out of his grip.
Then he’s gone. Up the stairs, into the smoke, disappearing like a ghost.
I don’t waste a fucking second.
The box cutter is just within reach. I twist my wrists, feeling skin tear against plastic as I stretch for it. My fingers close around the handle. I flip out the blade, awkward and backwards, and start sawing.
Smoke fills my lungs. My vision blurs. The zip ties are tough, resistant, and my hands are slick with what might be sweat or might be blood.
…gonna need ya t’keep it together for me, Champ…
The plastic finally snaps.
I yank the gas mask over my face with shaking hands, gulping filtered air like a drowning man. Then I free my ankles, stumble to my feet, and lunge closer to the wall of photographs.
Ten photos.
Ten people.
Tendeadpeople, photographed post-mortem, their eyes closed, their expressions peaceful, their skin bearing that unmistakable waxy pallor that saysnobody’s home.
My saliva turns bitter.
I’ve seen a lot of death. Cinderhart showed me things that would make most people quit the force and take up accounting. But there’s something about these photos—the care with which they’re arranged, the almost reverent quality of the lighting—that turns my gut in ways a bullet-riddled corpse never could.
This isn’t violence.
This isworship.
A noise between a laugh and a growl escapes me. All those months playing nice, swallowing my instincts, pretending to be Deputy Fucking Friendly while the real me screamed that something was rotten in this town.
And now here I am. Trapped in a serial killer’s basement, staring at the faces of his victims, seconds away from being engulfed in flames.
Nice work, Thatcher.
Really stellar police work.
…the faster you get out of here, the better…remember that, in case you feel compelled to linger…
I scan the workbench. The usual—hammers, wrenches, screwdrivers—neatly arranged, immaculate. As if Rooke cleaned them regularly…because which man in his right minddoesn’tdeep clean his tools at least once a month?
I hurriedly flip open one of the smaller toolboxes, expecting more tools?—
A class ring. A watch. A worn leather wallet. A tennis bracelet that catches the light above.
Trophies.
I grab what I can and shove them into my jacket pockets even as the ceiling above me groans and showers sparks.
Then I run.
The door at the top of the stairs is unlocked. Behind it, hot air and smoke hits me like an inferno. I glimpse a gun safe and an air conditioning unit as I rush into what looks like a study. Acrystal paperweight with a butterfly inside catches my eye, but then I’m running past, careening into what used to be Rooke’s living room.
Flames engulf the walls and ceiling. The art on the walls is already curling, blackening. The designer furniture is kindling.
I don’t stop.
