Page 27 of Ripple Effect: Ep. 1

I open the next drawer that at first, appears to be empty, until I slip my hand inside and an object slips beneath my fingertips. The crinkled surface tells me it’s been taped, and I tug at the jagged edge, certain I’ve found a key. My guess is confirmed as I hold it up into the light, and scan the room for a safe. In old movies, they’re often hidden behind large pictures, and the one across the room looks suspiciously conspicuous, positioned dead center on the wall.

No way a guy like that would be so obvious.

No way.

I shuffle across the room and give a light tug to the corners of the picture, until it pops and opens to a you-gotta-be-shitting-me safe. It’s actually a medium-sized black box embedded into the wall, so no bullshit combination to figure out like a traditional safe.

How the hell he hasn’t been the victim of theft in this neighborhood is beyond me, a thought I only give a second to spare before I slip the key inside and gasp at the stacks of money that damn near greet me with Benjamin’s pursed-lipped smile.

I’d always given killers some measure of intelligence—they’d have to be smart to evade police as long as they do, but I’m suddenly questioning the IQ of this man, as I tug stacks of hundreds at a time. I’m going to guess each stack is a grand, held together by thick rubber bands. There must be hundreds of them inside, but I only take four—about four thousand dollars. Just enough to cover Charlie’s release, my pills, a few dinners, and a safe place to stay for the next month or two, until I figure something out. Have to make it worth breaking into a serial killer’s place, after all.

I pause and reach for two more stacks. He’d never miss them—at least, not right away—with as much as he has in the safe.

After I’ve stuffed them in my satchel, I lock the safe and close the frame to conceal it once more. Giddiness takes over as I return to his desk and slide the key back inside, pushing the tape over the jagged surface as before, then close the drawer.

Too easy. The guy will never know I was here. He’d never suspect a victim would be stupid enough to seek him out, either. I’m free.

A slam from outside the office crystalizes my muscles and I look to the door. Loud, boisterous laughter bleeds through and my stomach flips over on itself. In a split second, I dash across the room and quietly turn the knob to peek outside.

It doesn’t give. The knob doesn’t give!

Are you shitting me?

I turn it, frantically shaking the handle while the sound of a woman’s annoying cackle plays on my nerves.

It’s locked. From the inside. Oh God, I’m locked inside a killer’s house!

Terror snakes through my veins and I snap my attention back toward the window. Flipping off the light, I damn near leap across the room, back behind his desk and throw back the curtains.

Iron bars mock me, and my heart lurches in my chest. I slam the curtains shut.

Trapped. Oh fuck.

He’s not stupid, after all. He’s a hunter, and I unwittingly fell into his fucking trap!

Footfalls intensify and my body threatens to seize up on me. My breaths arrive in short pants, and when the knob rattles, I drop behind the desk and hide deep inside, pushing myself as far back as I can, until my back hits the front panel.

Light slices through, illuminating the dark curtains where two silhouettes against the fabric tell me one is female, the other is a big, hulking beast of a man.

Please don’t let me witness her murder.

“So, Friend. Can I trouble you for a drink? I’m much more … agreeable when I loosen up a bit.” The breathy quality of her voice reminds me of my mother’s when she tried to seduce a potential John.

The clink of glass tells me he’s pouring her a drink, though I’ve not yet heard him speak to know if he is the he from the factory.

“Mmmm. I’ve not had Hennessy since I raided my daddy’s liquor cabinet in high school.” Heavy breaths follow, cut short by a gasp, as if whatever they were up to has abruptly ended.

I can’t stop shaking with my knees tucked into my chest, listening for him. This woman has no idea what she’s gotten herself into, and a small part of me is tempted to go hero and pop out from the desk, screaming at her to run. Run for her life.

“I love this house. I’ll admit, you had me a little worried with the whole blindfold thing, and then when we first walked up, I was like, whoa. Looks like the kind of place a serial killer might call home.” She snorts and I bury my face in my palms, shaking my head. “Not exactly the place I imagine someone who’s in waste management would call home.”

Seriously? Waste management? His lies are almost comical.

“I’m afraid I’ve made a grave error, Misty.” That voice sends curls of ice slithering down my spine. The one I’ve heard before. Deep and penetrating and completely unforgettable. “I’ve lied to you, and I’m sorry. The truth is, I murder people for a living and I burn their bodies after to hide the evidence.”

Sweet Jesus, get me the fuck out of here. I saw American Psycho. This is the part when he flips on a song and starts swinging an axe.

Silence follows for what seems like a minute, before a cacophony of laughter fills the room.