Page 63 of Girl, Sought

Five years ago, the Collector's life changed because of a paperweight.

He remembered sitting in that meeting surrounded by spreadsheets and PowerPoint slides that charted other people's success. That one bitch had just returned from Paris, and she'd placed a small glass dome on the conference table. It was one of those tourist trap snowglobes that contained a miniature Eiffel Tower.

‘Real crystal,’ she'd said, like that made it anything more than mass-produced garbage. ‘From this amazing little shop near Montmartre.’

The others had cooed and passed it around while they’d their own stories about European vacations and luxury purchases. Meanwhile, he'd sat there in his off-the-rack suit, watching them fondle the five-dollar slice of pretend sophistication like it was the Crown Jewels.

Then she’d noticed him studying the thing and said, ‘Want to hold it?’

The Collector had declined.

But then the same woman said: ‘No problem. Some people are collectors. Others just work for us.’

The words still burned, even now.Some people just work here.Like existence was binary. Those who possessed beautiful things and those who merely orbited them.

She’d meant it in jest, he was sure, but the laughter still burned five years later. However, that woman had taught him something valuable that day. People respected what you owned more than who you were.

Now he stood in his apartment, contemplating his latest acquisition with the particular satisfaction of someone who'd learned that lesson well. He cradled Joseph Carpenter's prized crucifix like it was the Holy goddamn Grail itself. Five million dollars of medieval craftsmanship, human bone from the time Jesus supposedly walked the earth.

On paper, he was now a multi-millionaire, but the money was secondary, and it wasn’t like he could ever sell this crucifix on. People would be searching for it, and not just the police. Every holy man and woman in the world would kill to get their hands on this, from local churches to museums to the God damn Vatican. And if they found it amongst his possessions, they’d know it was him who’d killed Joseph Carpenter.

The Collector ran a finger over the ancient wood, the pockmarked surface telling a story of centuries. Faith, blood, salvation. All the things men killed for since time immemorial. All the things he took without mercy or remorse.

But he had to take a moment to remind himself of the cause, because his obsession with collectors and their prestigious items had begun way back, long before that bitch at work had burned him with her snide words.

Once upon a time, he was just a scrawny kid hanging around in his old man's pawn shop. The high rollers would strut in with their fancy collections and connoisseur airs. Comic books protected in plastic sleeves. Coins and baseball cards traded like nuclear launch codes. And the jewelry - Christ, you could drown a third-world country in the diamonds and gold those pricks brought in.

His old man, that spineless old turd, groveling and scraping. ‘Yessir’ and ‘nossir’ and ‘maybe I can give you ten percent over market’. All for the privilege of handling some rich asshole’s toys for a few sweaty minutes.

But those collectors, they walked different, talked different. Like they weren't just men but kings bestowing benevolent attention on the grubby masses. People looked at them with something beyond respect, something closer to worship, like these guys had been touched by the gods of disposable income.

He'd seen it, even then. The power in possessing something other men only dreamed of owning.

His eyes flicked to the display case already housing Margaret the doll and Alfred's monstrosity of a spider. A holy trinity of human obsession right there in his rot-hole of an apartment. Trinkets spanning centuries, worth more than he'd ever earn slaving away in his cubicle day after day.

The Collector adjusted its position in the display case for the fourth time that hour. It had to sit just right - had to establish the proper dialogue with Eleanor's doll and Alfred's spider. Each piece told its own story, but together they formed something greater. A collection that transformed mere ownership into art.

His hands shook slightly as he closed the glass door. Adrenaline crash, probably, or maybe just the familiar tremors that came after creation. The memory of Joseph Carpenter's face when he'd first donned the mask still brought a smile. The old fraud had actually crossed himself, like he was witnessing divine intervention instead of its opposite.

But the wings. Those beautiful wings crafted from living canvas. They'd turned out better than he'd imagined during all those nights of planning. He’d been hesitant to violate flesh, but Joseph Carpenter deserved a send-off fitting for a man of his character.

Because while the police probably thought differently, the Collector didn’t hate Eleanor or Alfred or Joseph. Truthfully, he had a modicum of respect for the collectors he’d killed, because they were a different breed than the usual. They weren’t just bored, rich people hoarding whatever gold they could get their hands on. Their collections were part of their identities. They might have distilled their essences into material possessions, but they still managed to forego all pretentiousness in the process.

And that was what he craved himself.

His phone buzzed but it was probably another work email. Word was already getting around, it seemed, and if his WhatsApp group conversation was anything to go by, the feds had already descended upon Chesapeake. Someone had said they’d seen them hanging around the historic district, which meant they might have already paid a visit to the Curated Value Group.

It didn't matter. By the time they figured it out, his gallery would be complete because his final target died tomorrow.

And tomorrow's collector was a true rarity in this game, even by their own admission. This collector had some one-of-a-kind beauties. Not as valuable as Joseph's, but equally fascinating. It was the kind of stuff others would – and had – killed for, and he was more than happy to oblige.

Another body, another mask, another prize. It’s a shame this had to end so soon, because he was now finally beginning to feel like he’d perfected the ritual. But the transformation felt close to being complete, and doing this for longer than necessary was a risk he didn’t need to take.

The Collector's eyes drifted to his tools again. He had a hunt to prepare for. He needed to do it right this time. Cover his tracks. No more high-risk break-ins. No more taunting cops with the faces of their failure. Just clean, efficient harvesting. In and out like a scalpel.

He deleted the emails on his phone without reading them. That world belonged to someone else - the invisible man who pushed paper and ate lunch alone. But that man was dying by degrees, shedding his old skin one victim at a time. Soon, there would be nothing left of him. Just the collection and the collector. Just the perfect moments preserved behind glass.

After all, some people were collectors.

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