Page 5

He leaned in, eyes bright and empty. “Smile for me, Jessica.”

The scalpel bit into her cheek. She thrashed against the unyielding straps as he carved slowly from one corner of her mouth, across her lips, all the way to the other side. The blade sliced through skin, muscle, and flesh in one continuous, agonizing line. Blood flooded her mouth. She gagged and choked on the hot metallic rush, coughing and spraying red across her chin and chest.

Richard studied the grotesque, forced grin he had created with quiet satisfaction.

“See I can make you smile too.”

Richard set the scalpel down and selected the larger carving knife, turning it so the light glinted along the edge. “I’m going to get inside you, Jessica… just not the way you thought I would.”

The first stab punched deep into her upper chest, just below the collarbone.

“Aww, don’t cry. It’s only going to get worse,” he said calmly as her body convulsed violently against the restraints. Pain detonated white-hot. He twisted the blade before yanking it free with a wet sound. Blood sprayed in a dark arc.

Jessica’s scream became a wet, gurgling howl.

He stabbed again, lower and harder, driving the knife between her ribs.

“Does it hurt, Jess? I thought you wanted me inside you,” he taunted as something cracked audibly.

“P-please… st-stop…” Jessica choked out, the words bubbling and distorted as blood flooded her mouth and throat. She felt something vital give way. The third stab tore into her abdomen. He sawed the blade sideways, opening her up further. Blood poured in thick sheets across her torso, pooling on the table and streaming toward the drain.

She thrashed and bucked, heels scraping metal, cuffs tearing into her wrists until blood ran down her arms. Her emerald eyes were wide with terror.

Richard watched her face the entire time, savoring every twitch and gurgle. He leaned closer.

“For what it’s worth,” he whispered, “you were excellent company.”

The final thrust went straight through her heart.

Jessica’s body seized violently. A horrible, wet rattle escaped her ruined mouth. Her eyes, still wide and pleading, locked on his perfect face for one final second. Then the light in them flickered and died.

Richard kept the knife buried deep until the last convulsions faded. Only then did he pull it free. Blood gushed from the fatal wound in heavy pulses.

Richard looked at the mess, then at Jessica’s face, at the permanent smile he had carved into her skin.

He grinned as he removed one glove, then the other, folding them neatly before placing them on the tray. He picked up his wineglass and took a sip.

Upstairs, the candles burned lower. Across town, Marcy waited for a call that would never come.

Jessica would not be coming home tonight.

Because the Brentwood Butcher had just claimed his eleventh victim.

Chapter 1

Samantha

My father liked to say art was a beautiful life and a terrible business plan.

He usually said it with his checkbook already open. That was the problem with being the daughter of Henry Whitmore. He listened before he spoke. He never yelled, never called me ridiculous or shallow for wanting to paint. He just looked at me with those tired brown eyes and reminded me that wanting something didn’t obligate the world to make room. Then he wrote the check anyway.

He’d built Whitmore Holdings into something formidable: hotels, commercial properties, private developments. I was supposed to be learning contracts and boardroom strategy. Instead, at twenty-two years old, I was a senior at Preston University with paint under my nails and a senior thesis my father called “emotionally compelling.” Wealthy-dad code for Jesus Christ, Samantha, what am I supposed to do with this?

I was his only child. My mother died in a car accident when I was eight, so it had always been the two of us.

Tonight I’d skipped one of his donor parties for the Preston Contemporary Gallery’s opening night. I loved art too much to miss it. The smell of turpentine, the way light hit canvas, the chance to lose myself in someone else’s vision. My dream wasn’t boardrooms. It was traveling the world with a sketchbook, painting full-time, maybe working at a gallery somewhere, eventually seeing my own work hanging in a gallery. I knew my father’s connections could open doors. I just refused to walk through them on his name. I wanted to earn it.

“You’re doing it again,” Leanne said.