Page 7
Ryden had always been a better human than me, better than anyone I had ever met. But still he wasn’t made of iron and concrete.
We stopped in front of the body, carefully avoiding the pool of blood on the floor.
“Judging by the pallor and lack of rigor mortis, he was likely killed within the last hour,” I whispered, studying the body. This was a perfect kill. Too perfect to be a copycat, but it was; he was.
“Fuck.” Ryden stared at the man, his brows knotted together as he pulled out a pair of gloves. He put one on and handed me the other. He lifted the man’s long hair from his face with a wince. “Fuck.”
“You know him.”
“I… know him.”
“Who is it?”
“Leo Kesler.” Ryden’s face was taut, his expression unreadable. “The one I was hunting a year ago. He got out of the country before I could… finish the job,” Ryden said with a growl, walking around the body in a circle.
“He couldn’t possibly have…” I trailed off, my gaze shifting to the body lying in front of us. “How the hell did he know that, Ryden?”
Ryden shook his head, but the look in his eyes mirrored the dread settling in my gut.
“He is watching us. He was slowly breaking us open when we were barely looking,” Ryden said. “Reah’s computer. Hacking into it would give him all the details he wants about me.”
A pit opened up in my chest, growing wider with each heartbeat.
I was always confident I’d one day find Kat’s killer and make him dig his own grave, but my resolution was slowly dying.
I hated this feeling.
Ryden gestured to the body with a grimace, eyes narrowing as they scanned the man’s torso. “His stomach. Something’s there.”
Hesitating only a moment, I pressed my gloved finger into the wound and felt something slick and crinkling beneath the blood. I gritted my teeth, gripping the small, plastic evidence bag wedged deep inside the cavity, pulling it free.
Inside it was a note.
I turned it over in my hand, half-expecting it to hold a more twisted message meant for me. But as I read the first line, I felt the chill settle over me.
The note was not for me, not this time. It was for Ryden. He wanted… to break us apart; he wanted to remove Ryden from this game. He only wanted to play with me.
Look at what she did to Victor. Every wound, carefully made to hurt but not kill; every scream, drawn out just long enough for him to feel it, fear it. He must have feared her; he must have begged in agony. She made sure he didn’t die soon. Did she tell you about how he begged? Did she tell you that he begged for mercy, and she showed him none?
PS: Fire doesn’t discriminate. It burns everything, even the one who starts it. You buried a soul for him. Now I’d bury his soul for you. Now run.
Ryden’s face paled.
“Enzo…”
Yanking his phone out, he bolted toward the exit. I stole one last look around, my gaze sweeping over every corner, every surface, hoping—no, praying—we hadn’t left any evidence behind before I turned and sprinted after him.
As we reached his car, Ryden’s face crumpled. “He’s not answering,” he said, redialing as he slid into the driver’s seat. “Try Irene’s number,” he said to me, voice sharp with an edge of panic. “Fuck, pick up, pick up. Damn it.” He punched the steering wheel, driving away.
I fumbled with my phone and called Irene, hoping she was alright—hoping Enzo was alright. My heart tightened. I couldn’t imagine looking into Ryden’s eyes if something happened to Enzo, and I’d forever hate myself if Irene was hurt.
We sped down the deserted streets, wrapped in an oppressive silence that grew thicker with each passing mile. The city blurred around us as we drove.
His expression was hard, but I could see the fear just beneath.
“He’ll be alright. They will be,” I whispered, dialing Irene’s number again and again. She did not pick up.
The car screeched to a halt by the funeral home. We leapt out, racing toward the entrance. The echo of our footsteps filled the empty funeral home, our voices slicing through the eerie silence.
