Page 15 of The Hunted
The Reaper went back to their table, grabbing three different color silk sashes and turned back toward the blonde. “Do you have preference? Blue, pink, green?”
When she stayed silent, they let out a sigh. “I mean I can pick if it’s necessary. But I thought you’d like to have the final say?” Her eyes flared, and she still struggled against her binds. Her breaths were coming in choppy bursts as she finally decided to fight. It was a little too late for all that though. She’d be at death’s door soon, and her body would be broken up and spread around to serve a purpose.
“You won’t get out of this,” the Reaper whispered. “Some people think death is a release…a blessing.” They walked back to their table, dropping the silk threads and picked up a different one, along with one of their sharper knives.
“And maybe it is, because there’s nothing after this. But I’ll let you in on a little secret.” They walked back to the table and placed the purple-colored sash on her stomach. Her breathing had finally slowed. Her energy was waning…good.
“You’ll be nothing but a memory. Your life summed up in a series of quotes posted on social media, and eventually, time will make life forget you ever existed. That quiet abyss you’re probably desperately seeking right now won’t be any better, and if I’m lying, maybe we should make your present hurt a little more, shouldn’t we?”
The Reaper placed the knife against her upper thigh and moved it like a saw against her skin. It wouldn’t cut through the bone, but it would be painful, and when the blonde let out one last bloodcurdling scream, the Reaper inhaled her pain like oxygen they needed to breathe.
It felt good to extinguish someone’s light. It was going to feel even better when they extinguished Alvarez.
ChapterSeven
Santino studied his notes on the Reaper and the Poet. His department had them separated as two different people because the kills were vastly different as were the victims. He knew the truth, though. They were one and the same and somehow set their sights on him. They knew his truth and the things he’d done in his free time. It unnerved Santino that someone had gotten that close without his knowledge.
Who was this person?
How were they connected well enough to know and figure out exactly who he was behind the mask he wore for everyone else?
He never left anyone alive to seek revenge on him for the deaths he committed. There were never any witnesses either. Even his early kills, he made sure to clean up after himself.
But was that always the case? You have a chunk of time in your life you can’t account for.
The thought gave him pause. He spent most of his life in foster homes up until he found the one person who had understood what was inside of him. She gave him the outlet he needed.
It was the first time in as long as he could remember that he felt safe—even if she scared him a little. There was always the chance she would turn on him, but as she got older and weaker, it had become less likely. He had become her muscle while she poured everything she knew into his mind, and he was thankful for it, but he wished he could talk to her now. She’d be able to see what he couldn’t—see what he was missing.
Like my life before she found me.
“Who are you?” he tapped his pen against the copies of files on both killers. The Reaper had been a yearly killer, or so they were led to believe. The media picked up the name because of a social media post that had gone viral from a murder scene. The victim had been an artist, and the killer used their supplies to paint the grim reaper on one of the walls with a quote at the bottom:death comes for us all.It took off after that. The killer made sure to always leave a photo or drawing of the grim reaper behind with each kill.
Santino leaned back in his chair, scrubbing a hand down his face. He was exhausted but sleep wasn’t the problem, missing his last two marks were. He cracked his neck, and his foot bounced on the floor. He felt antsy. His clothing was making him itch, and his skin felt too tight for his body. He needed to expel the gnawing feeling in his stomach, or he was liable to make a mistake somewhere.
And that’s exactly what the Reaper wants.
The thought gave him pause. He looked around his office, thankful Jordan was out doing something—he didn’t give a shit what that was—and everyone else was busy with their own work. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the note the Reaper had left for him.
Do you want to play a game? I think you’ll enjoy it.
Whoever gets to the next victim first wins.
A Sarah Brown with pretty black hair.
Sarah Brown had been on his list, right after Marcus. The Reaper was checking them off for him, and while he was curious, he wasn’t going to focus on how they knew about his list. He could worry about that later when he was thinking clearer.
He mentally went over the rest of the names he had on his list, trying to see where he’d be able to press his advantage. Sarah Brown was already dead. It would be a waste of time to go after her and only piss him off further. But how did he know the rest of the names hadn’t already been offed? He was missing a piece to this game he didn’t want to play, but it was looking like he didn’t have a choice in the matter.
“Armando, Erik, or Ashely,” Santino mumbled under his breath. He put the letter back in his pocket and pulled out his phone. He made sure his internet wasn’t connected to anything in the building and pulled up all three of their schedules. Armando would have been his next choice but that felt too easy, so that left Erik or Ashely.
No matter who he picked, he needed to change the approach. He had watched who he thought was both Chester and Marcus waltz into their home after their scheduled time out. Both men varied in size and stature. Yet somehow, at a distance, the Reaper managed to imitate the physical likenesses of both, which, he wouldn’t ever admit to anyone out loud, he was kind of impressed with.
There was also the problem of the Reaper picking someone on this list, and Santino not getting to them in time to pick up the message that would be left behind for him. He couldn’t chance someone else getting a whiff of the letters he was being left. He didn’t want anyone else in on his game.
Thepingof the elevator had him putting his phone away and focusing back on the notes in front of him until he heard the booming voice of Jordan Martin. The pencil he had picked up snapped in half. He was going to have pick his next mark soon, or Martin was going to end up missing his tongue.
“Alvarez, I got you coffee since those bags under your eyes are messing with your pretty mug. I can’t have ugly friends when we go out to the bar later.” Martin dropped the cup down on his desk, right on the papers he was looking at. “You find anything useful on the Poet case or the Reaper one?” he questioned, tapping the files.
