Page 9 of The Hunted
Could he pretend to be a civilized man well enough around her?
Maybe death at his hands was the only option for her.
“But we don’t need to worry about that right now,” he mumbled under his breath.
The death of Marcus Holding would ease the hollowness in his body, and he wouldn’t have to hunt Silva down.
Santino made his way toward the modest cabin, keeping light on his feet and avoiding any spots that seemed wet. He didn’t want to track his muddy boots through the home—it would be more work for him to clean up later.
When he reached the front door, he hesitated. That same sensation that coursed through him at Chester’s home was back. He was being watched, again. He could feel the sharp claws on the back of his neck, making his skin break out into goosebumps.
Son of a bitch.
Was the Reaper here?
Or was this someone else?
Was he about to walk into a trap, or was there another note for him waiting to be read?
The latter thought made him move, more out of curiosity and to make sure the Reaper hadn’t used his real name. He put his gloved hand on the doorknob and slowly turned it. Marcus always kept it unlocked; no one bothered him up here. Santino could hear the shower running, and once he stepped over the threshold, he held himself perfectly still waiting to hear if there were any other sounds in the cabin.
There wasn’t. It was almost too still—completely different from how he walked into Chester’s home the other night. Santino’s shoulders slumped, and he knew on an instinctual level or maybe from experience, Marcus was already dead.
He took the stairs two at a time, rushing to see what was left behind. The bathroom door was wide open, and the shower curtain was pulled back to reveal Marcus Holding laying lifeless in the tub. He didn’t bother to check the body, knowing there would be signs of strangulation—the autopsy would prove he died from that before the other wounds—if there were any were inflicted on his body. The Reaper wanted to make sure these killings looked like it was him, and the little shit was doing a good job of it.
He sighed, catching sight of the two notes left on top of the toilet. One was addressed to him and the other a poem.
He picked up the poem first, curious to see what it said:
Everyone loves pretty little girls
with their pink bows and ruffled skirts
They’re joy and innocence
too precious for this world
Cruel people always seek to taint them
paint them in their image
they become the perfect little dolls
broken and thoroughly used
till they grow claws and sharp teeth
Everyone loves pretty little girls
until it’s time to protect them
Then they become discarded
and left for the vultures
who swore to defend them.
Santino placed the poem back in its spot and picked up the note addressed to him. It was typed out. It was too much to hope for actual handwriting to analysis.
