Page 157 of Scatter the Bones

After I’ve changed, I check my phone and pull up the app Jigsaw installed. It shows him about half an hour away. Near the garage where I take my car. Odd.

I’m ninety-nine percent sure theovenJigsaw wants to use is the crematorium and thebreadis a body. But I’m feeling cheeky and have a few minutes to kill before they get here.

Gretel trots into the kitchen and twines herself around my legs, purring like a fuzzy little black Harley. “I should’ve named you Harley,” I murmur, rubbing the top of her head. “You sound like one.”

“Me-row.”

She settles on the tile beside the cabinets, tail curled neatly around her paws, bright green eyes focused on me like she’s expecting another dinner.

“You already ate,” I remind her.

“Mraw.”

I crouch and hook a finger into the edge of the bottom cabinet shelf, dragging out the wide rolling tray loaded with appliances I never have time to use. Even less since Jigsaw showed up in my life. I heft the heavy, black-and-silver bread maker onto the counter. The lid creaks when I flip it open. I wrestle the bread pan free from its stubborn metal clamps and set it beside the sink with a satisfying thump.

Gretel slaps her front paws on the cabinet and stretches, her tail flicking from side to side with interest.

“Don’t you dare,” I warn. “Just because Jigsaw let you near the counter once doesn’t mean I will.”

She drops her feet to the tile, letting out an indignant chirp.

I grab my glass measuring cup and fill it with warm water from the sink, then pour it into the bread pan. I scatter a tablespoon of sugar into the water, then sprinkle a packet of yeast in a loose spiral. I return the pan to the machine and search for the oil, flour, and salt I need. The recipe comes back to me easily, but I still pause now and then to double-check the small breadmaking book propped open on the counter.

What kind of trouble did Jigsaw get into? Who is going in the oven?

I click the lid of the bread maker shut and punch the buttons. The machine kicks into gear with a low hum. I peer inside the small clear window in the bread maker’s top. The paddles twist through the ingredients in a rhythmic motion.

Perfect.

I pat the top of the machine.

Gretel’s curled up on my lounge chair, tail flicking once. She barely lifts her head as I slip on my sneakers and head downstairs. As I reach the bottom floor, a wave of anxiety sweeps over me. What if the person he’s bringing is dangerous?

No. He wouldn’t do that. Whoever it is probably isn’t even stillbreathing.

What if it’s Daniel?

No, last I checked he was still sitting in the county jail.

Besides, Jigsaw promised me he would let justice take its course.

Still, the gnawing in my chest won’t stop. It claws behind my ribs as I cross into the quiet dark of the funeral home. I pad down the hall, the chill of the tile seeping through my socks as I step into the prep room.

I’m not even sure what I’m looking for.

My fingers hover over the metal drawers built into the prep table. I slide one open and sort through the neatly organized packages. I pluck out a sterile scalpel, still sealed in its wrapper, and tear it open with a quiet snap. The blade glints, catching the faint glow from the nightlights plugged into each outlet.

I slip it into the pocket of my sweatshirt.

Just in case.

I return to the back door and slip on my sneakers.

Outside, the night air cools my heated skin. The last rays of sunlight streak the sky with deep oranges and pinks. Jigsaw said they’d be heresoon. It feels too stalkerish to keep checking the app.

I tilt my head, straining to catch any sound of engines.

Nothing but the usual small-town silence—crickets, a far-off car, the occasional bark of a neglected dog.

---