Page 3 of Sinners Retreat

She slides the car into a parking spot as a housekeeper pushes a trolley down the sidewalk in front of a row of doors outside the motel. It’s a bit late for changing the sheets, so I’m fairly sure she’s the on-site Hoover for hire. Instead of sucking grit from the carpet, she’ll suck the soul right out of a man. Good for her.

Cat puts the car in park and turns to me. “You might be closer to an answer than you think, but before I say anything else, I want to be certain. Can you give me a couple of hours? I’ll get everything together and meet you at your place.”

This bitch.

“Is this another ploy to see where I live?” I ask. The girl has been trying for weeks, and it’s the one area of my life I’d prefer to keep private.

And that’s a fucking lie. I’d prefer to keepallareas of my life private.

I have no friends or romantic connections, and I like it that way. My work relationships are just as sparse, extending farenough to keep me in business so I can pay my bills. The rest of my energy is devoted to finding and killing my next victim.

And seeking my brother’s killer.

To be fair, my brother and I had drifted apart before his death. He was ten years older, and we didn’t really have much in common. But he was still my brother, and he didn’t deserve to die at the hands of a sadist. Killers who kill indiscriminately are not in my league.

“While I’m still dying to see your house, no, it’s not a ploy,” Cat says. “I lied about why I was late because I don’t want to get your hopes up until I know something for sure. Even though I did a deep dive on you, there was a lot I couldn’t find out regarding your brother’s death. I don’t exactly have a press pass.”

My job certainly has its benefits, one of which is my ability to discover my next victim while getting paid to do so. I typically cover crime stories, and the dirty little perverts come across my desk on the regular.

I mull over my options. Without saying as much, Cat has essentially given me an ultimatum. If I want to learn whatever secret she’s uncovered, I’ll have to invite her to my house. My home. My sanctuary.

Closing my eyes, I rip off my skullcap and resign myself to defeat. “I’m at 1408 Thornwood Drive.”

While I wait for Cat to arrive, I don’t bother tidying up. I don’t give a shit if she thinks I’m dirty because I have a few dishes in the sink or a bit of dust on the bookshelves. If she doesn’t like it, she can leave.

Maybe I should shit on the carpet to encourage that outcome.

She pulls up the driveway at two a.m. by way of a ride service. This was my one condition. Considering her car could have been spotted driving away from the scene of a murder, I want it nowhere near my house.

I let her inside, and she’s practically agog with wonder. I’m not sure why. It’s your average home, complete with a broken dishwasher, a garbage disposal that sounds like it’s choking on a long-forgotten fork, and a toilet that only flushes if you hold down the handle.

She pulls off a light jacket and folds it over her arm. Her platinum hair sticks out all over her head, which tells me she didn’t even shower once she got home. Fucking rookie. Showering was second on my list when I walked in the door. After tossing my murder ensemble into the wash, of course. They can do amazing things with leather these days.

Her gaze flies from the hardwood floors to the hall tree in the entryway. “Wow,” she breathes. “I never pictured you with a hall tree.”

I pluck the jacket from her arm and hang it on one of the wooden dowels. “Did you ever picture yourself becoming my next victim? Because we can make that happen too.”

She closes her dropped jaw and composes herself. “Right. I’ll try to keep my excitement to myself.”

I lead her into the living room and motion for her to take a seat on the couch.

“So, what did you find out?” I ask, impatient to learn what she’s come up with. I take a seat on the leather recliner beside the couch and pull my dark hair into a low ponytail.

“Um...before we get to that, could I have a drink? I’m pretty thirsty.” She offers a sheepish smile, but I’m onto her.

“Jesus fucking Christ. If you want to see my glassware, I’ll be happy to show you later. Hell, I’ll invite you for a sleepover withmakeovers and a chick flick if you’ll just tell me what the fuck you know that I don’t!”

“I’m sorry! It’s not every day that I get to see insidetheHeartbreak Killer’s house.” A wide grin spreads on her face. “Once you know what I’ve found out, you’ll probably let me look at whatever I want.”

Doubtful.

“Have you ever heard of the Sinners Retreat?” she asks. A mischievous glint sparkles in her eyes.

I’ve covered a metric fuck ton of stories over my career—and researched far more than I’ve written about—but a Sinners Retreat is a new one on me. I shake my head.

“Every year, a handful of serial killers are invited to vacation on a private island. The details are pretty sparse, but from what I’ve gathered, they get to enjoy sun, sand...and murder!” She leans forward. “Could you even imagine all the fun we could have? Maybe I could even get my first kill.”

I have a self-imposed rule that I must never murder the innocent, but this nitwit is about to force me to abandon that. She baited me. Knowing I would let her into my private life if she had a juicy bit of info, she fucking baited me.

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