Page 20 of Moth to a Flame

The victim of the story is in this bag.

They’re there, and I’m here, with Jigsaw. I’m empowered and strong and could blow a person’s brains out.

Landon is the exception. The rest better not mess with me.

Unable to wait a second longer, I speed-walk to my kitchen, fish out latex gloves from one of the cabinets, and haul ass to the table again where I take off my sweater. It’s hotter in here the more excited I get.

With both black gloves on my hands, I pry the bag open.

“Let’s see what we have here.”

The contents of the bag don’t smell like food leftovers.

Then I dip one hand into the bag.

My pulse jackhammers as I close my hand around thething.

“Holy shit.” This thing I’m holding is squishy, all right. Squishy and slippery.

Gulp.

What should I do next? Do I take it out?

As if I have a choice. I’m already holding on to what I suspect is a body part.

Nothing else to do but whip it out of the bag in one pull.

“Holy shit,” I repeat the moment I see this thing. “Holy. Shit.”

An eyeball. I have my hand curled around a fucking eyeball.

With a note pinned to it.

A thin, black hair band keeps the soaked piece of paper in place.

This is fucked up.

I’ve definitely been forced into one of my books.

So why doesn’t it feel wrong? Why am I drawn to the scribbling on the note?

Because whoever left it here, they left it for me.

Me.

They could’ve dropped it at Rosemary’s doorstep. They didn’t.

This is mine.

The thought of waking her up and telling herthishappened crosses my mind. I file it away for later. Depending on what’s written on the note. Whether it’s a game or a threat.

She’ll want to take it to the police, and I’m not so sure I want to do that.

Not yet.

Despite wanting to read it badly, I don’t get to it right away. The person who delivered me the eyeballs might be watching me through my windows, getting off on my reaction.

Gifting me eyeballs is all well and good.

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