Page 17 of Reaper's Hunt

As you’ve said. I’m shaking in my boots. Tomorrow, I’ll have another car. Tell me why you want this man dead.

The phone rings, the sound slicing through the silence of my apartment, and I sigh, answering with a snap. “Yeah?”

That deep baritone spills through, warped by a voice changer. “I was told this would be easier,” he says, irritation seeping through the distortion. “I need Philip Smission out of the way. He’s a blight on this city, a corrupt fuck with blood on his hands, and he’s got the votes to take over for his father. If he runs unopposed, your sweet little side job’s done. His plans for new infrastructure, cameras on every corner, and stricter patrols will sniff you out in weeks.”

That’s definitely not good news for my livelihood, but I don’t know why this fucker cares. “So you want to do this to protect me?”

He chuckles, the sound grating on my nerves. “Don’t be so full of yourself. No, I want this for me. Let’s just say you and I have very similar professions. Did you like the little present I left? You were supposed to find it.”

My pulse spikes, my mind scrambling for answers. No one leaves me presents and definitely not for The Reaper. “What present?”

“The body,” he muses, like he’s savoring my confusion. “You always stop by that little shop during lunch on Mondays. You didn’t that day. Why?”

He’s talking about the body dumped back at a crime scene, the one Harley and Dante mentioned at the station. “I… don’t know,” I stammer, trying to remember back on Monday. It’s all a haze because all of my time kind of bleeds together at this point.

“You messed with my game. I had it all planned—your route, your habits, the way you’d stumble upon my work and know it was a challenge.”

“What game?”

“You’ve been playing the cat for too long, a queen without a chessboard,” he taunts. “It’s time to switch it up, make it interesting, truly delve into something with a little adrenaline. You’re too comfortable, carving up nobodies. I want more.”

“What are you saying?” I snap, my hands shaking, a mix of rage and excitement burning through me.

“I’m saying it’s time to switch roles. You play the mouse, I’ll play the cat. Run, hide, kill, or I’ll find you first.” A cackle follows his words, sending a shiver down my spine. I can’t tell if it’s from excitement, fear, or both.

Unfortunately, my shaky voice gives me away. “What makes you think I won’t just turn you the fuck in?” I challenge.

“The same reason you’re still on the phone,Selene Banks.”

He’s not wrong and I fucking hate it. “What’s the point of this game? Why are we doing this?” I sit up straight on the couch, fiddling with my glass jar, the way the tendrils swim in the fluid making me smile again.

He hums, a deep, delicious sound that despite the distortion has my mind moving in a completely different direction. “Because I want a spark in my life and I haven’t found anything more interesting than you,” he says, his voice thick with hunger. “You’re a killer, a ghost, a fucking work of art. But I want to up the stakes. Philip’s in my way, but my brand doesn’t touch people like him. Too messy, too public. The Reaper, though? You could make a nice little example out of him: carve him up, leave him as a warning.”

I take a shaky breath, my mind spinning. “And the money?” I ask, clinging to the practical, trying to claw back control.

“Once it’s done, I’ll have it in your account. Then I’ll make my move. Oh, and keep your little detective from sniffing around too much. If the game ends too early, you’ll be the one losing, not me. I’ll make sure every cop in Ashthorne knows your name. Selene Banks, the Reaper, the girl who gutted her stepfather and never stopped.”

How the fuck he knows that is beyond me, but that’s a little too close to home. And yet, because he knows all this shit about me and I know nothing about him, I can’t outright say no. I also… kind of want to do this, play this game with a player I don’t know. The idea of playing in the dark isexhilarating.

“Fine, when’s this job due?”

“Let’s say by the end of the week?”

I take it back. It’s not that exhilarating. This is downright suicide. “Tomorrow’s Friday, bitch,” I retort, my voice dripping with venom, my free hand clenching into a fist.

“Then you’ve got today and tomorrow. I’d hate to see what happens if you’re late.”

“My work takestime,” I snap, thinking of the planning, the stalking, the precision it takes to lure a man into my trap. Smission’s the mayor’s son, a high-profile target, and two days is a fucking joke.

“Not this one. I need him dead, Doe.”

“Now, I’m a fucking deer?”

There’s another chuckle and it’s really starting to piss me off. “With those beautiful gray eyes you’ve got, caught in my trap? Yeah.”

My stomach lurches, and I spin, scanning the living room but there’s no windows in here. “Are you fucking watching me right now?” I demand, my eyes darting to the corners, the ceiling, searching for a camera like I know what to look for. Hint: I don’t.

“You’re a beautiful, fickle little thing,” he sings, his voice thick with amusement, “though I prefer when you’re not wearing any panties.”

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