Page 1 of Little Horrors & Deceptions

Chapter 1

Olivia Bennett

My phone buzzed against my nightstand, cutting through the silence and waking me reluctantly. My hand fumbled for the device, dragging it to my ear as bleary eyes squinted at the red digits of the clock on my side table. 4 am mocked me.

Fuck, already?

“Oli!” His voice was too bright for this ungodly hour. “We got another one.”

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, trying to push away the fog clouding my mind. Another day off forfeited to the job. A girl could dream about free time, but dreams were luxuries in this line of work. Especially for me. I was a busy woman.

“Slapchop is at it again. Meet me there, I just texted you the address,” Johnathan chirped with twisted enthusiasm in his tone.

“Slapchop,” I muttered, disdain curling my lip. That damned nickname, born from some blogger’s dark humor, had stuck forJonathan despite all the others our killer had been given over the last few years.

I groaned into the receiver, showcasing my reluctance for the grim display we would find at the crime scene. It was too early for this.

“Amazing.” Johnathan’s voice dripped with sarcasm, the kind only he could get away with. “See you there in twenty.”

The line went dead before I could muster a comeback. I tossed my phone aside, its thud against the nightstand oddly satisfying. My feet hit the cold floor, a small jolt to my senses. No time for slippers and coffee today. I tugged on my clothes—a tight black tee and faded jeans—in seconds. Muscle memory at this point. My gun’s metal was cool, almost biting, as I fastened it to my hip with my badge. Its presence had always been reassuring, even if the reason for it wasn’t.

I took a deep breath, allowing the quiet of my apartment to steady me. It smelled of coffee from my espresso machine and the lemon cleaner I used too often. My life seemed half-lived in between calls like these. I spent more time chasing bad guys than I did in this place. I had always been a defender of the helpless. It was why I had picked this job all those years ago: to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves.

I moved to leave, locking the door behind me, ready to face another day. Quickly, I made it down the three flights of stairs from my studio apartment to the parking garage. I opened my car’s door and crawled inside. It hummed to life with the turn of the key, my headlights cutting through the dark of the early morning.

Twenty minutes. Another body. Another chance to dance around the devil Johnathan called Slapchop.So stupid, I thought as I smiled to myself. The killer’s recent name was “The Executioner.” That was the one seen the most in all the headlines.

I pressed the gas, the engine’s roar swallowing my unease that always came with going to a crime scene. Especially one on this case.

The police tape glinted under the stingy light of the streetlamps. My boots crunched on broken glass as I approached the apartment building. The air was thick, tainted with something metallic and wrong, like old blood and decay. Heads started turning toward me, marking my arrival.

“Morning,” I muttered to no one in particular, ducking under the yellow tape.

Johnathan stood by the entrance, his eyes scanning everything. They landed on me, then brief nods were exchanged—our version of a warm greeting in front of everyone. Right now, we were all business. We stepped through the doorway of the apartment, our movements synchronized, careful not to disturb anything.

“Details?” I asked.

“Single caller, ex-wife. Officer Jenkins took the statement,” Johnathan replied, eyes never leaving the scene.

“Let’s talk to Jenkins after we see the body.” My voice was steady despite the dread tightening in my chest. “Why was the ex-wife here?” I asked.

“Said she wanted to see for herself that he was dead. Apparently, when our victim didn’t come to kill her, she assumed the executioner came for him,” Jonathan said, readingfrom the small notepad in his hand. “I prefer Slapchop, but her words, not mine.” I rolled my eyes, and he let out a light chuckle.

“So, who’s our victim?” I asked.

“30-year-old David Croix.” Jonathan handed me his file. The FBI considered the Croixes to be one of the largest and most powerful crime families in New York. This guy had been accused of everything under the sun: murder, gambling, drug trafficking, money laundering. If you could name it, he’d done it.

David was the perfect candidate for our serial killer. They went for the people the law just couldn’t seem to catch, whether because they had the money to get off or had connections that had kept their record clean, resulting in a slap on the wrist.

“The body’s in the living room,” a uniformed officer pointed out, his face pale. As if he might faint from just the glimpse he’d taken of it.

“Thanks.” I kept my reply short and focused as I finished glancing over the file. Most of this information, I already knew. The Croixes were popular with the feds.

We moved deeper into the apartment, my senses heightened. A shattered vase. The hum of a refrigerator somewhere in the back. An expensive painting askew on the wall. I noted everything, nothing was too small, and it was all a part of protocol. I was always careful to never miss a step.

We entered the living room. There it was. This wasdefinitelyour perp. No matter how many times I saw the aftermath of their work, it never got easier. It was getting increasingly more difficult to try and catch this guy because I felt these victims deserved what happened to them. Every single person the executioner had gone after had a laundry list of crimes and families they had tormented.

I crouched down, my gaze never faltering from the horror in front of me. The body was splayed out. Deep gashes marred the flesh, and his face… unrecognizable. They loved slicing.The coppery stench of blood hung thick in the air, cloying and suffocating with the ripening smell of his decomposing body. You never got used to it, no matter how many crime scenes you’d been to. His body had started to bloat, and his skin had started turning a pale, greenish hue.

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