Chapter One
Travis
The sound metal makes when it’s being dragged across stone has always been therapeutic to me. The familiar rhythm and precise angle of the blade as I’m carefully shaving off just a thousandth of an inch from its edge. Even if the knife isn’t dull, the repetition of the process soothes a part of me. Do you know what else soothes me? Killing people.
But I can’t go around killing people on a daily basis. That would be impossible without getting caught, and I don’t have any intentions of getting caught, ever.I’m way too smart, anyway.So, when I need to occupy my hands, this seems to be the efficient way. I hold the blade at a twenty-degree angle to ensure a sturdy edge, one that can take a lot of damage, being careful to grind both sides evenly. If not done correctly, a burr will form, ruining the edge completely.
I want the blade perfect for when I kill Kevin on Thursday.
Before me lie the stones I have collected throughout the years. Each one is diamond-plated with varying degrees of grit, ranging from 80 to 10,000. The best of the best.
I angle the blade just right and admire how the mirror finish of the edge is really starting to come through. I’m so enthralled by the bladethat when a bird flies past the window, it slightly startles me. My finger slips mid-sharpening, and I nick my thumb.
Dammit.
My eyes zero in on the single drop of blood pooling over the tiny cut. It’s approximately half a millimeter deep and won’t need care besides a little cleaning, but I make a mental note to adjust my wrist torque, regardless.
Pulling a hair from my head, I lay it against the blade. The follicle splits in two with little to no pressure, signaling the waste of metal if I go any further.
Satisfied with my work, I start to clean up, carefully arranging and placing each stone in its storage box, the exact way I always do. Just when I’m about to place the last one where it belongs, a knock at the door interrupts the task at hand.
A knocking . . . at my door . . .
My heart rate picks up, and nervous energy spreads from my gut to my chest. Without moving a muscle, I glance at the clock on my kitchen wall: 3:30 p.m. It’s too late for the mail, and that’s the only time someone would knock.
There’s a reason why I live on the side of a mountain for most of the year. This has always been the favorite property I own. I don’t like people in my space. Someone knocking at my door means someone is in my space.
The knocking intensifies, sounding like nails on a chalkboard.Who the hell is at my door?
I should just ignore it until it goes away, but my curiosity gets the best of me. Reaching for my phone on the glass table, I pull up the front door camera, and the screen loads instantly.
The first thing I see is a messy bun of pink hair stacked on top of a head. A bun attached to the girl who is furiously knocking on my door for the third time. There’s no car, so she must have come on foot.
There’s a large backpack slung over her slender shoulder. It’s so enormous compared to her small frame that I’m surprised she’s able to stand upright instead of being pulled back by the sheer weight of it.
She drops the obnoxiously big bag on my front step before sitting down next to it.
Ugh.What the fuck is she doing?
Why is she even here, and more importantly, why isn’t she leaving?
Too bad dogs don’t like me. A guard dog to chase her off would be great right about now.
Frustrated beyond belief, I toss the phone down on my kitchen table. I stand up, and the sound of my chair scooting back against the teak floors fills the otherwise quiet space. Stomping through the kitchen, I make my way through the foyer to the front door.
I turn both dead bolts before unlocking the handle to pull the door open.
Fresh mountain air fills my lungs, reminding me that I haven’t been outside in a few days.
“Oh, hey!” The girl jumps up from where she was sitting. As soon as she turns toward me, a wide smile spreads across her face. Usually I’m not great at reading people, but even I know smiling means someone is happy.
What the fuck she could be happy about right now is beyond me.
“Heeeeeeey,” she repeats, but this time, for some reason, she draws out the word. Licking her lips as she looks up and down my body.
I glance down at my white button-down shirt and gray slacks to see what she’s looking at. When I don’t find anything out of the ordinary, I lift my gaze to where the annoying woman is standing in front of me. Realizing I was wrong to call her a “girl” before.
She may be a foot shorter than my six feet, two inches, but now that I’ve seen her up close, I’m guessing she is in her late twenties. Same age as me, and that’s the extent of things we have in common. I can say that after one look at her.
