Page 30 of Can You Take It?

“Yeah,” I continue, “I read somewhere that around 85% of serial killers are men. Isn't that wild? Makes you wonder why, right? Like, why men? What's stopping women from reaching the same level of... infamy”

“Come on, Izel. Everyone knows women don’t have it in them. It’s just not their nature.”

I roll my eyes, swallowing my bite. “Oh, really? You think women can’t be cold-blooded killers?”

“No, it’s not that,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “It’s just… women are usually more nurturing. It’s biological. They’re not wired the same way men are when it comes to violence.”

“Bullshit,” I scoff. “Women can be just as ruthless, if not more so, given the right motivation.”

Noah smirks, shaking his head. “Alright, I’ll bite. What’s this right motivation you’re talking about?”

“Revenge, survival, power—same reasons as men. But it’s more about being pushed to the edge. Men and women both snap, just in different ways.”

“I still think men are just more prone to it. Call it societal conditioning or whatever, but it’s like they’re more... inclined to violence.”

“Or maybe,” I counter, “it’s because men refuse to go to therapy.”

Noah sighs rubbing his temples. “Look, Izel, I get it. You're trying to be civil, maybe even trying to charm your way out of those cuffs for good. But I'm not in the mood for a discussion on serial killer psychology.”

He shakes his head, clearly done with the topic, and goes back to typing on his laptop with one hand and eating with another. I settle into a more comfortable silence.

“You know,” I say, watching him, “it’s not polite to work while eating.”

He barely glances up. “Got a lot to do,” he mutters.

I don’t answer to his dismissive tone. I finish my sandwich in silence. After lunch, Noah and I find ourselves sitting on the couch together. It’s not exactly a cozy situation, given the circumstances.

Noah is focused on a set of pictures spread out on the coffee table. The images show a knife. He’s studying it with an intensity that tells me it’s something important.

His phone buzzes on the table, vibrating loudly against the wood. He glances at the screen, then picks it up and taps the speakerphone button without thinking.

“Got anything on SteelSinner?” Richard’s voice comes through the speaker.

Prickles of anxiety ripple through me at the sound of that name.

Noah’s eyes dart to me, realizing too late that he shouldn’t be having this conversation in front of me. He quickly cuts off the speakerphone, his face tightening as he grips the phone in his hand. “Hang on a sec, Rick,” he says. He stands up and moves to the far side of the room, putting some distance between us.

But the room isn’t that big, and even though he’s being discreet, I can still hear him.

“The lead on SteelSinner? It’s a bust. I couldn’t find anything on the guy—no real name, no business address, nothing. I checked all the knife shops in the area, even the sketchy ones, but it’s like he doesn’t exist.”

I feel a scoff rise in my throat but swallow it back. Of course, SteelSinner would cover his tracks well. He has the resources to stay hidden, and he knows exactly how to use them.

Noah pauses, listening to whatever Richard is saying on the other end. “Yeah, I know. It doesn’t make sense. But I’m telling you, there’s nothing. If this guy’s real, he’s got to be the best at staying off the radar.”

He’s quiet for a moment, nodding at whatever Richard’s saying, though it’s clear he’s frustrated.

“Yeah, I’ll keep digging. Maybe I missed something, but...”

I can’t resist the temptation to peek at the photos, even though I know it’s probably not a great idea. As I do, my eyes catch the distinctive pattern of the wood and the way the splinters are formed. I mumble the name of the special kind of wood under my breath without really thinking.

Noah’s head snaps in my direction, and he disconnects the call regarding me with a curious expression. “How do you know that wood?”

I tense up, realizing I’ve probably said too much. But there’s no turning back now. I’ve unintentionally piqued his interest, and I need to come up with an explanation.

“It’s just... I used to do some woodworking as a hobby,” I reply casually even though my words dance around the truth, each syllable a careful maneuver to keep my thoughts from spilling out. “I’ve seen that type of wood before.”

“Woodworking, huh?” he says, settling back on the couch beside me. “Tell me more. What kind of wood are we looking at here?”

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