Page 4 of Collect the Pieces

“Can we…” I wave my arm toward the bedroom, but it doesn’t do anything to stop the prickling sensation creeping over my skin. “Talk about this in there? I’m not a big fan of enclosed spaces.” I don’t even give a fuck about admitting that to her. I just need to get out ofthis closet.

Margot blinks and steps back. Her lips purse, and a flicker of sadness or disappointment ripples over her face. That’s the last thing I want. I hurry past her and down the long corridor, leading into her bedroom. Once I’m free of the closet, I inhale a long, sweet breath.

What the fuck?

Pants? Where did I leave my pants?

There. Draped over the bottom of the bed.

That’s not where I left them. Did Margot put them there?

Who cares?

Images of Margot’s souvenirs dangle in my mind. Twisted trophies turned into ornaments.

Pants first.

My Margot. Soft and sweet. But also dark and deadly. How could I not suspect…anything?

Maybe I did, and that’s why I started calling herlittle lady death.Is that why I’ve been drawn to her since the first time we met? Have I always been drawn to the darkness in her even if I didn’t recognize it right away?

Nope. I’m not that deep.

I yank my jeans on, buttoning them and fumbling with my belt like I’ve forgotten how my own hands work. Why am I so rattled? I’ve killed more than my share of people. Watched my brothers kill. Helped my brothers clean upafterthey killed. I keep my own box of murder souvenirs. Who am I to judge anyone?

This is different.

Why?I don’t know.

I’ve only known one side of Margot—the sweet, shy, kind woman who captured my interest the first time I saw her. It’s not her kill trophies that have my heart tied into a knot. It’s the religious bullshit she started spouting that unnerved me.That’swhere it all went wrong.

I slip my shirt on and scrub my hands over my face, still trying to make sense of it all.

“Are you leaving?” she asks in a low, uncertain voice.

I turn and find her with her back to the now-closed closet door—the door to so many mysteries I don’t want to solve.

But I kinda do.

Call me Detective Murder, but Iwantto know every last detail.

“No. I’m not leaving.” I might be freaked the fuck out, but I’m not a damn coward.

She blows out a relieved breath and closes her eyes.

“Meeoww.”

Gretel slides her sleek body through the open bedroom door and hurries toward Margot. She weaves herself around Margot’s ankles, then gracefully sits, wrapping her tail neatly around her legs. She tilts her head up and stares at me as if she demands I hear Margot out.“Meeorrww.”

Freaky-ass cat.

“You…” My voice comes out rougher than I intended. “How long have you been… doingthat?” I vaguely gesture toward her closet of horrors.

“A few years,” she admits, her gaze steady now but still guarded. “Only in…extreme cases.”

A fewyears. I stare at her hands, clasped in front of her. The same hands I’ve seen tenderly care for the dead…have also caused death.

“When you say ‘extreme cases’…”

---