Page 8 of Love & Other Killers
“But that’s when he also admitted he had a crush on her, so it’s actually pretty romantic if you think about it,” Lark pipes up.
“I’d rather not.” Rose spits into the dust and I pass her a bottle of water. When she’s a little cleaned up and I’m reasonably confident she won’t pass out, we make our way out of the chicken pen, leaving the body behind. But I take the hyoid with me.
We check that the brothers are still standing at the other end of the chicken farm where we left them, and surprisingly, they are. Rowan taps his watch as a slow smile sneaks across his lips.Fucker.Lachlan is a statue, his thick arms folded across his chest, his brows drawn in a worried glare as he tracks Lark’s every move. And Fionn is grumbling a string of Irish expletives as he tries to wrestle Barbara’s leash free of her jaws as she attempts to gnaw her way free.
With a brief and noncommittal thumbs-up to the men, we turn away, Lark shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand as her gaze pans across the farm. “So,” she says, “where to next?”
Rose stops beside her, downing another sip of water. Her skin is pale, coated in a thin mist of sweat. But there’s still determination in her eyes. “I vote we skip the other chicken shed. I don’t want to do a repeat. How about we just go straight for the house?”
“Yeah,” I reply, a spike of adrenaline hitting my veins even though we still have hours left before Munster is likely to reappear. We have only fifteen minutes before Rowan and his brothers will be on our tails, vying for the best positions to ambush our prey. “Let’s go.”
We stalk toward the farmhouse, which is simple but well kept, the siding freshly painted, a single rocking chair resting on the covered porch. Unless they’re well hidden, there are no security cameras. Not even a farm dog to warn of our approach. AWelcome to Munster & Son Farms!doormat lies at the entrance, green rubber work boots sitting on its edge, aspray bottle of bleach beside them. The scent of chlorine rises from their damp lugs.
I exchange a weighted look with Rose and Lark. We grip our knives tighter, and with a single nod, I pull open the screen door.
The house is nondescript. It could belong to anyone. Or no one. It could be a staged set for a movie:This is what a farmhouse looks like.Paintings of landscapes. An old upright piano. Simple furniture in neutral colors. “Fionn would like this place,” Rose says as we move through the house. She lifts the edge of a crocheted runner on a sideboard. “So many doilies.”
We sweep the whole house. Even the basement, though my heart hammers as we check its dark corners. There’s nothing to indicate a serial killer lives here.
But he does.
We end our exploration at the back entrance, which leads to an equally bland yard, beyond which sits a barn and several sheds.
“How much time have we got left on our head start?” Rose asks.
I check my watch and frown. “Two minutes.”
“I’ll check the barn in that case.”
“And I’ll try to sneak over to that building where his truck was parked,” Lark whispers. “Maybe I can take him by surprise.”
“I like it. I’ll hide here.” I tip my blade toward the front of the house. “The living room would make a perfect place for my web.”
The two women grin at me, though Rose’s smile seems a little more like a grimace, and we separate. There’s hardly a sound as they each leave the house, just a whisper of footsteps on floorboards, and then I’m alone.
With a sigh, I pivot on a heel to start rummaging through the kitchen. Nothing disturbing hides in the cupboards or the fridge, thankfully. I do find a tub of Tillamook Cookies & Cream ice cream, however, and snap a photo on my burner phone to send to Rowan.
Ahh, memories. Do you think this was milked fresh? I can check the label if you want.
Are you intending to win this year’s game by making me sick to my stomach? Because it’s working.
I smile and pocket the device, then move to the office to kill time. I rifle through papers, but the only thing remotely damning are detailed maps of the Sproul Forest wilderness. Rose has better luck in the barn, texting that she found a freezer filled with severed hands. Also that she puked again, but she still blames the chickens. Surprisingly, none of the Kane brothers come into the house, though I see Lachlan enter the machine shed where the truck had been parked. But beyond that one glance, it’s quiet. Oddly peaceful. And when the minutes become hours and it nears the time for Munster to return home, I slip into the closet at the entrance, hiding in wait to ambush my prey.
I’m just checking the watered steel blade of my knife when the closet door whips open, and I nearly stab my husband in the dick.
“For all the times you’ve threatened to cut my balls off for that Peaches nickname, I didn’t think you’d actuallydoit,” he says, his hands raised. He’s leaning a safe distance from the point of my blade, but that fucking shit-eating grin is plastered across his face.
“Fucking hell, Rowan,” I hiss through unsteady breaths, lowering my knife. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
He shrugs. “Visiting.”
“That’s rich.Get out, pretty boy. This ismyspot.”
The unmistakable rumble of a truck engine reaches us through the screens of the open windows. Rowan’s smile could be seen from space. “I think it’sourspot now.”
I glower at my husband and slip past him to peer around the foyer and furniture. Rowan is right on my heels, of course, leaning over me with the kind of familiar heat that threatens to thaw my competitive edge. We watch through the living room window as Allan Munster’s truck crunches down the gravel driveway in a cloud of dust, rolling to a stop not in the machine shed, but in front of the house.
“Dammit,” Rowan whispers.
