Page 8 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

I slow my pace as I turn onto Marshall’s block and veer into the alley behind his house. Conveniently, my break-in wardrobe looks a lot like running clothes: a black bodysuit, black hoodie, thin black gloves, and a black knit hat that I can pull over my face like a ski mask to cover everything but my eyes. Even though this is a fact-finding mission, my murder kit’s strapped to my back. The one time I didn’t think I’d need it, I got caught in a bad situation, so fool me once and all that.

With my mask down, I creep along the side of the fence separating Marshall’s property from his neighbor’s, grateful that his desire to come and go in secret means I don’t have to deal with motion-activated lights.

Actually, nothing in Marshall’s house is technologically advanced, so I won’t need the signal jammer tucked in the bottom of my backpack, although I brought it with me in case things go sideways and I need to block an unanticipated 911 call.

I make quick work of the cheap back-door lock and enter his kitchen, where the clocks on his appliances light my way. It’s a bizarre inverse of my process at work when I’m called to a scene to identify the deceased. There, I search for clues about the cause and manner of the person’s death.

Here, I’m trying to figure out how I can cause it.

The trash can’s empty except for a half dozen crushed beer cans. Good. A man who drinks this much alone is a man whose at-home accidents can be easily explained. And if I need more staging options, I’ll grab bags from the outside bin—although the last thing I want is to pick through this asshole’s coffee grounds and greasy takeout containers.

After a quick search of his mostly empty cupboards, I tiptoe into the dining room, which has a scarred wooden café table that barely covers a quarter of the space. The living room is equally underfurnished, offering nothing useful.

Before I head to the second story, I grab my burner phone and text a question mark to Felicity. She answers with a thumbs-up from her own burner, which means she has eyes on Marshall working the register at his overnight gas station shift. The universe doesn’t always hand us easy surveillance, so we did a dance of joy when we spotted the twenty-four-hour diner directly across the street from the Pump-n-Run that employs a serial arsonist and murderer. And since Marshall’s a loner with no friends, family, roommates, or even pets, I’ve got the place to myself for another six hours.

Three doors greet me upstairs. The one on the right reveals a room with a table, chair, ancient desk lamp, and two freestanding work lights. A sharp scent hangs in the air, likely from the accelerants Marshall used to snuff out Mary’s life. But the materials themselves aren’t here, so I grind my teeth and keep looking.

The middle door is a bathroom, where my flashlight reveals a huge bottle of painkillers in the medicine cabinet and an empty tube of burn salve in the trash. It’s not proof proof that the fire that killed Mary also hurt him, but it’s a damn sight more than the investigators have right now.

So fire got us both. Cool that I’ll have something to chat with him about before I kill him.

The last room is clearly Howard’s. My flashlight sweeps across an unmade bed to land on a nightstand covered in lotion and stiff tissues that I wish like hell I’d never seen. Muffling my dry heaves, I use the tip of my flashlight to pull open the drawer, where I find more crispy tissues, about twenty lighters, and at least a dozen packs of matches.

So that’s confirmed. Howie likes fire. And jacking off, although that’s not what’s going to land him under my knife.

I keep my light low as I scan the rest of the room, coming to a dead stop when I spot two jugs and a large plastic bin on the floor.

“Please please please,” I whisper as I approach, hoping Howard labeled everything. Sure enough, my flashlight reveals a label that reads POTASSIUM NITRATE. But before I can open the lid on the bin to investigate, the closet door flies open, and a hand wraps around my arm.

My scream is cut off when a second hand clamps down over my mouth and a low voice growls in my ear, “Don’t make a fucking sound.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Rue

I’m dead.

The thought pounds through my terrified brain as I’m slammed face-first against the closet wall.

The blow is cushioned slightly by the hand over my mouth, but the pressure digs my teeth into my lips until I taste blood. He—and there’s no mistaking the massive body behind me for anything other than a man’s—has his other arm wrapped around my waist, trapping my elbows against my sides while his lower body pins my legs against the wall.

I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m dead.

Or maybe not. There’s a reason Fi’s always telling me I’ve got a thick skull.

I fling my head up as hard as I can, bracing for impact and praying I’ll hit this guy square in the fucking nose. But he’s too tall, and with my bag squished between my back and his front, I barely make contact.

He sighs and moves his hand from my mouth to tug the backpack off one shoulder, eliminating the last bit of space between us. Now I’m flattened against the wall by a body that feels even bigger than it did moments before, and I’m not strong enough to push him back so I can kick or stab or claw my way to freedom.

So physical fighting is out. Time to pivot.

“What the fuck? You’re not Howard Marshall, asshole.” I make my voice a low rasp so I don’t sound as terrified as I am. This is a first for me. I don’t get caught off guard. I catch people off guard.

“What makes you so sure?” he asks in a whisper-growl.

“Gee, where do I start?” My voice creeps into my natural register, so I drop it again. “Marshall’s only a couple of inches taller than me, and from what I can tell, you’re some kind of giant.”

“Okay. That’s one.” The voice in my ear sounds almost amused. “What else?”