Page 76 of Hide and Seek
How can he claim that I broke his damn rules?
The grief turns to stone-cold rage as I continue looking over the message left on Laith’s chest.He put up a fight. I can only assume that’s referring to Laith. That he fought like a soldier right to the end, but as for the final two lines, I’m at a loss.
The clock is ticking.Obviously this must mean there’s some kind of countdown, but as for just how much time I have left, I haven’t got the slightest idea. It’s that last line that’s truly concerning me.I’ll get you at Knight.It’s not lost on me that there’s a double meaning here.
He’s warning me that he knows of my relationship with Knight, but is there more to it? Is Knight his next victim?
A part of me has hoped that he hasn’t clued in on my relationship with Knight, but I’d be a fool to make that assumption, especially after Knight made the bold move to fuck me right here in the morgue for our eager audience. And yet, I still hoped that for whatever reason, it could have been overlooked, and until now, it has, but not anymore.
I have to tell Knight. He has to know about this. He needs to know so he can be prepared. I can’t lose him, not like this.
I focus on the rest of the autopsy, and yet my gaze keeps returning to the carvings on his chest, that is until I notice the markings on his wrist. My brows furrow, and I look a little closer. Were his wrists bound?
It looks as though he’s had rope tied around his wrists for . . . shit. Parts of it appear fresh, as though it was just last night he was tied up, but other parts of his wrists appear old. At least a week old, but that’s not possible. I haven’t seen him in person for well over two weeks, but I have spoken to him plenty of times, especially over the last week. I FaceTimed him last weekendbefore Izzy and I went out, and then through the week, we’ve had our usual check-ins. But how could that be if his wrists have been bound for a week?
Has Laith been missing and I’ve been too caught up in my own world that I just didn’t notice?
Has my stalker had him all week? Is that why he hasn’t been by the morgue to terrify me, or why he hasn’t shown up in my bedroom with another creeptastic black rose?
The tears start all over again and as my heart breaks into a million little pieces, I continue scanning over his body. There are signs of stress. His hair is dirty, and there are dark rings under his eyes, and despite how he would tease both Izzy and me about doing ourselves up, he was the definition of a pretty boy. He would never leave the house with dirty hair. His skin care routine was better than mine.
There are a few random markings, small scratches, and dirt under his nails, but just like the two men from the club, there are no obvious markers that can conclude a cause of death. I finish the external part of Laith’s autopsy, and just as I go to reach for the scalpel, my hands start to shake.
I can’t do this. I can’t be responsible for tearing into his skin and cracking his chest. I can’t hold his brain in my hands . . . his heart.
No. There are some lines that can’t be crossed, some things we can never come back from, and this right here is it. When I think about him, I don’t want to remember how his organs felt in my hand or the smell of his decaying body. I want to remember his smile, his heart, the way he made me come alive.
Not this.
Moving across the table, I pack up my notes and deliver them to my desk before gripping the bottom of the body bag. My gaze lingers on Laith’s face, and as I slowly begin zipping up the bag,my heart breaks all over again, knowing this is the last time I will see him.
I won’t return to view his body, it’s too hard. Once I finish zipping this bag, it will be my goodbye.
The tears continue streaming down my face, and as his body is enclosed in the bag, every inch of me aches. I don’t stop until I reach the very top, and as I carefully deliver his body to the refrigeration unit, I vow that my stalker will never get away with this.
No amount of revenge will ever make this okay, but I will never stop fighting until he has paid for what he’s done to Laith, not even if it kills me.
I deliver Laith to the refrigeration unit, and as I close the door of locker number thirty-six, I know that number will haunt me for the rest of my life.
Finally reaching my desk, I crumble into my seat, and the moment my ass hits the chair, I let the grief drown me. I cry and cry, every last piece of my soul absolutely shattered. I sit here for over an hour, my face buried in my arms against the desk, and just when I’m about to pull myself together to try and get just a little bit of work done, my phone chimes from within my bag.
My brows furrow. Laith is the only person who ever contacted me this late, and it was always for a booty call. Not even Knight bothers to hit me up while I’m working. He’s the type to wait for me to come to him, and more often than not, I only end up at his door when my world is falling apart.
Finding my phone in my bag, I pull it out and immediately become uneasy when I find a brand-new text from Laith, and it occurs to me, if he’s been texting me as normal all week, but he’s assumedly been kidnapped and bound by rope, then who the hell have these messages been from?
I have one guess.
My hands shake as my thumb swipes across the screen, and not a moment later, the text appears.
My heart races. Laith wouldn’t text me that, not after we talked and he respectfully bowed out of the Dick-Me-Down Loyalty Program. He has too much respect for our friendship to risk it, too much respect for me. But my stalker wouldn’t know that.
Laith and I haven’t spoken about our new hands-off arrangement over text. If somebody did have his phone, which clearly they do, they would assume we were still screwing around by reading our texts.
There’s no denying it. My masked murderer has Laith’s phone and is using it as a connection to me, but not only that, it now gives me a direct link straight back to him.
My gaze shifts to the surveillance camera. Perhaps he doesn’t know that I’ve seen Laith’s body. Maybe he’s only just tuned in to the shitshow that is my night.
Uneasiness grips me in a chokehold, and as I stare down at the message, I realize that I have two choices. I can either let this asshole know exactly what I think of him, or I can play him at his own game and keep this little piece of knowledge stored safely away just in case I might need it.
