Page 3 of Devotion

“Artwork,” he scoffs. “Thought I told you to stop referring to this sick fuck’s mutilations that way.”

I don’t respond, choosing to ignore his goading in favor of achieving what we both want—for me to be finished, so we can escape one another’s presence ASAP. Being a woman among seasoned vets who think they know every-fucking-thing is bad enough. But being twenty-five and frequently referred to askiddo?

That’s even less fun.

Someone approaches Mack to speak, and I don’t bother turning to see who.

“The bodies are starting to stack up,” they say, and I recognize the voice. It’s Detective Stevens—another dick, but not nearly as intolerable as Mack. “Commissioner Phillips will have a field day with this. As if he hasn’t already been far enough up our asses lately.”

“Tell me about it. And the papers are only making shit worse. They’ve given this piece of shit a nickname. The Widowmaker’s what they’re calling him. A play on words, like the black widow spider on account of his web carvings, you know?” Mack scoffs. “That’s all we need is the media giving this fiasco legs. Give it legs, and that’s when the public teaches it to run.”

Stevens breathes a deep sigh. “Not to burst your bubble or anything, but the fact that we’re even standing here talking about it means it’s already too late.”

“Don’t I fucking know it.”

The two disperse, and I’m grateful to be working in peace again. A few more pictures, then I pack up, feeling eyes on me as I return my camera to its case. I’m not entirely surprised that I’ve got Martinez’s full attention when I peer up. He’s stuck talking to two other detectives, but I’m not even sure he’s listening to them as he arches a brow at me.

Stop staring, you idiot! Get your mind out of the gutter and just… do your fucking job!

Again, I avert my eyes before anyone can notice and put two and two together, but I’m guessing Martinez isn’t being even remotely discrete as he watches me leave. Before he can get the bright idea to follow me, I hop in my car and take off, headed for my secret spot a few blocks away. A place where I can eat lunch in peace.

My tires slow as I pull through the massive wrought-iron gates of the Devereux Memorial Cemetery. Following the familiar, winding path all the way to the back, I pull up beside a row of cross-shaped headstones and turn off my car.

This deep on the property, where the older gravesites are located, there are never any visitors, which is why I’m drawn here. My canteen hits the stone bench with a metallic twang, and I cross my legs, biting into my sandwich just as my phone buzzes.

“You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

I eat with the dead for a reason. They’re quiet, and they don’t complain that I sometimes chew with my mouth open. Yet, despite going to great lengths to achieve this level of privacy, the living still manage to fuck it up.

Frustrated, I pull the phone from my pocket, only to be even more annoyed when I see it’s Martinez.

Det. Diego M.: Green light? Your ass looked amazing today.

I sigh while tapping out a response.

Layla: Red light. Working my second job tonight.

Det. Diego M.: How many times do I have to tell you that pretending to be a psychic while conning people out of their hard-earned money isn’t a job?

Despite the words being received via text, I still hear his voice in my head, the laughter that alwaysfollows when this subject comes up. Am I psychic? No, but I’m willing to bet that a majority of those who call into the hotline know that, too. But there’s no denying that I am, in fact, providing these people a service. They come to me for insight, to be a sounding board, for closure. Not to mention, the lighthearted nature of that “job” offsets the darkness ofthisone. So, in a way, I need them, too.

But like with most things in my life, Martinez doesn’t get it. Hence the reason we’ve been screwing regularly for the past six months, and he’s still chilling comfortably atcoworker-with-benefitsstatus.

Where he’ll stay.

Indefinitely.

My phone buzzes again, but I ignore it as I pop a pill into my mouth. I glance at the name of the prescribing doctor on the bottle as I swallow. A doctor who also happens to be my father—Dr. Cyrus Bennett. He’d raise all kinds of hell if he knew I forgot to take them yesterday, but I definitely paid for it with that nightmare.

Lesson learned.

Martinez gives up texting to beg for sex, and resorts tocallingto beg for it, but I let it ring. I finish my last bite of food, then reach for my camera, pulling it free from the bag to scroll through the images from today. Or, more specifically, to examine the web cut into the victim’s flesh more closely.

My head tilts as I take in the pattern from a different angle, eventually scrolling through older images to comparethiscarving to the last. They’re almost identical in shape, size, and depth, which requires a certain level of precision most could only dream of achieving. Especially on a medium as unpredictable and unforgiving as human skin can sometimes be.

The next sound I hear is Mack’s gruff voice in my head, scolding my word choice—artwork. But whether splattered onto a canvas, sprayed onto the side of a building, or, in this case, carved into a man’s skin… art is art.

I place the camera back inside my bag before gathering the rest of my things, but the image of the victim stays with me. Why a web? Why cut the victims at all after the kill? Ego? Needing the world to know you left your mark?

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