Page 36 of Ready Or Not

Riley laughs. “You’re really naive, aren’t you?”

Anger floods me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Riley disappears into a stall for a second. There’s a rattling and shuffling, and then she wheels out a motorcycle. It looks sporty and fast, not that I know much about bikes, “That you need to get a little more street-smart if you want to survive.”

All I can do is stare at her.

Riley fiddles with the bike. “Rachel, Manson is like a cat with its prey. He plays with it before he kills it. He’ll probably have you eating out of his hand before he slices your throat.”

I look over my shoulder. “I thought you were trying to stay away from him.”

“Trying,” she hisses.

“Why? Is he trying to kill you?” Their relationship seems extremely complicated.

The barn is silent for a bit. Riley looks like she’s examining the paint on the bike for scratches.

I stand around, waiting.

“No, he’s not trying to kill me.” Riley tinkers around for a bit again.

I shift, wanting to ask why again, but before I can, Riley speaks up, “So, what’syourstory?” She flashes me a smile before getting back to the bike. “Hot girl, lives alone, super weird, buddies up with serial killers.”

I blink, and my stomach turns to ice. Serial killers? Suddenly, I’m more than aware of the gun she has stuck in her waistband.

“Answer the question, Rachel.”

I rub the back of my neck. “What do you want to know?”

“Why are you living alone? You’re what, late twenties?”

I try to keep my face looking normal, but the comment stings. “Twenty-nine.”

“So?” She stops for a second and fixes her piercing eyes on me. “What gives?”

I shift. My face feels hot. “I just never found the right one, alright?” Why does she want to know this? My last boyfriend was a gamer who wanted more from me than I could give—kids and a steady stream of affection. I don’t do affection. I prefer to sit quietly in the same room as my partner while we each work on our respective projects.

Riley arches an eyebrow. “Could it have anything to do with the collection of dead things?”

“No,” I snap.

Riley chuckles, then holds up a small metal piece. “Here’s one.”

“One what?” I’m getting so over not knowing anything that’s going on.

“Tracker.”

I suck in a breath. Riley throws it on the ground and keeps going.

Something bothers me about the fact that she doesn’t like my collection. “You can't judge me.” I motion at the barn, which she clearly uses to butcher animals.

I catch the tiniest hint of a smirk, then it’s gone. “Yeah. I eat them, Rachel.”

I cross my arms. “All of my bones are ethically sourced, so you can get off your high horse.”

“I’m not worried about a thing,” Riley says. “It’s just weird. You collect dead things. Sounds like something Manson would do.”

“It’s not weird.” I pick at the skin around my nails again. It’s not weird at all. Everyone hates on collectors like me, judging and thinking it’s weird. “Bones are the map to what’s underneath. Often, what something looks like on the outside isn’t what they’re really like on the inside.” They’re like hidden puzzles.

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