Page 63 of Death Raiser

Metal hinges whined as someone opened the upper door of the canopy. I blinked against the harsh daylight streaming into my makeshift prison.

A silhouette stood on the other side of the opening, the bright light blotting out his face.

I blinked again and squinted. Lean and wiry, standing around six feet tall, a man peered into the back of the truck. My vision adjusted and focused on the familiar person standing in front of me. He wore a simple long-sleeved shirt, his chest tattoo peeking out of the top of the neckline. He’d tucked his gold chain under his shirt, but the visible part around his neck glinted in the morning daylight.

“The barista?” What the fuck was his name again? “Steve?”

He smiled and leaned in. “I’m thrilled you remember me.”

“I'm not.” I tried to peer out of the truck bed, but all I could see was Steve’s fake customer service smile and the tops of trees.

“Help,” I screeched.

“Go ahead.” Steve’s smile widened. “Scream some more. I like how it sounds and no one else is around to hear you.”

I shut my mouth and glared. “What’s your whole plan with this? Are you going to kill me and leave me here?”

He straightened and looked up to consider the sky for a moment. He had an old scar under his chin, most likely from a childhood accident. Logan had something similar after he tried to sled down the stairs and ended up having an unfortunate run-in with the small table at the landing.

“Kill you, yes,” Steve answered. “But not right away. As for leaving your remains here? No. Not this time. I think I will leave your broken body on the doorstep of that cop boyfriend of yours. Or maybe after I’ve cut out your tongue, I’ll dismember you and send him little pieces to watch his sanity crumble, piece by fucking piece. He was so smug in my coffee shop. So condescending. I want to rip that confidence from him until he’s a shell of a man.”

Cut out my tongue?

A cold chill ran along my skin. Cutting out my tongue like the female victims in the VicPD cases. This wasn’t a coincidence.

“You’re a fucked-up individual.”

“Oh.” He finally looked back at me. “You have no idea.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.” He jerked his head at me and the truck. “Sit back. I wouldn’t want to hurt you prematurely.”

“You are the one who sent the flowers, aren’t you?”

Steve looked up with a frown. “What flowers?”

“Fuck off, you’ve already kidnapped me and plan to kill me. What’s the harm in fessing up to sneaking into my home and leaving me a rose?”

“Last night was the first time I’ve set foot in your apartment. I’ve never left you flowers, though I can leave some on your grave later, if you’d like. It’s the least I can do.”

Harsh reality slapped me in the face as Steve reached forward and dropped the tailgate of the truck. He pulled out a pocket knife from his tapered black jogging pants.

My brain stuttered while my mouth worked, opening and closing with a mind of its own. I should probably say something. I should beg for my life or demand answers, but instead I sat there awkwardly as Steve leaned into the truck with his knife. Without a word, he reached forward, flicked out the blade, and cut through the rope tying my ankles together. The severed ropes fell away.

As Steve straightened to put away the knife, I scrambled to get my feet under me. With a shrill scream, I jumped out of the truck and barrelled into Steve. I sent him sprawling backward. With no free hands to break my fall, I slammed into him. “Oomph.”

I drove my knee up into his groin, rolled off him and staggered to my feet. My core already screamed from overuse.

Not knowing which way to go, I picked a direction and ran.

I didn’t get far.

Hands closed around the rope tying my wrists together and pulled me back.

I fell to the ground, ass first, and pain shot up my tailbone.

Steve walked around to stand in front of me. “You’re going to regret that.” His cold tone certainly sent chills over my skin.

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