“What are?” Beck said, startled she was speaking to him. Though she might have been talking to herself.
“Security cameras.” She gave a sardonic chuckle. “What a novel idea.”
“Oh. Yeah. It’s nice to have . . . security?”
She cast him an irritated look.
His cheeks flamed. “I’m gonna make tea. Anyone want some?”
Carter paused in her effort to drag her luggage to the second bedroom. “Sure! That’d be great.”
Relieved to have an excuse to escape Sierra’s hostile glare, he walked around the island that separated the kitchen from the sitting room and pulled out a tray of assorted teas and Keurig cups. “We’ve got Earl Grey, chamomile, peppermint . . . Wait, let me check if there’s mil—”
The word shriveled in his throat as he yanked open the fridge door. The thick, metallic stench of blood hit his nose.
A heart—a real heart—sat on the fridge’s middle shelf. A kitchen knife was sticking out of it, a piece of paper skewered higher on the blade.
Without a plate to sit on, the blood made a puddle across the shelf that oozed into the crisper drawer beneath.
A body pressed up beside Beck, so close he yelped.
Sierra gave him an amused smirk and grabbed the knife. It pulled free from the organ with a squelch.
“That’s a new low,” she said, sliding off the note and showing it to Beck.
WE GET WHAT WE DESERVE
It was written in fat red marker.
“Isn’t—” Beck gulped and tried again. “Isn’t that what was written—”
“On my sister’s coffin?” Sierra’s tone was mild. “Yeah. All chicken-scratch caps like that, too.”
“And that’s . . .” He looked at the mess in the fridge.
“Cow heart. Easy to get at any butcher.” She added lightly, “High in zinc.”
Why wasn’t she more freaked out by this?
Psychopath.
Sierra tossed the knife into the sink and tore the note into pieces. “Welcome to reality television.”
“Sorry . . . what? But—but they don’t film in the villas.”
“Doesn’t stop them from playing with you like a wild cat toying with its prey.” Sierra let the note pieces flutter into the trash. “That’s what they do here. Prepare yourself for an absolute mindfuck.”
Beck furrowed his brow. “Don’t they want us on top of our game?”
“Aren’t you adorably naive.” Turning away, she pulled a satchel out of her suitcase and walked toward the front door. “You might want to clean that up. Some contestants got food poisoning last season. It would be a shame for it to happen again.”
Then she was gone.
Beck went in search of disinfectant. He wasn’t a squeamish person. His family had raised cattle for generations before the ranch was sold, and he was no stranger to butcher floors and meat cellars. It didn’t bother him to pick up the organ and throw it in the trash, or to mop up the juices with paper towels. If anything, he was irritated more by the wastefulness.
An animal had lost its life for this insipid prank. The thought made his teeth grind.
Was it to throw Sierra off her game? Or had the threat been meant for all of them?
