Page 3 of Grave Love
I can’t get caught here. If I want to keep my plan, I need to be careful.
The image of Ren lying on that conveyor belt, a bag covering her head, fills my groin with blood, that pressure surging through my body.
Somehow, those goals seem irrelevant right now.
After some time, Ren leaves, hastily driving away. Another ten minutes go by, then I flick through my phone’s gallery to find her address. I drive to her home.
The house is lush with blue, purple, and pink tulips decorating the front yard, a stone path lining the grass. Two cars sit in the driveway, one that I recognize as Ren’s, and another environmentally-friendly option. A boyfriend’s car, perhaps? Or a roommate? A family member?
I hop the fence. Faint snores greet me through an open window. An invitation. Bending over the frame, I see her sleeping form on the bed against the opposite wall. I climb silently inside, my heart pumping in my ears. I don’t know how many people live here, and if I screw this up, it might be my last time hunting prey.
Oil and smoke permeate the air. Ren’s legs spread across the small twin mattress. Black hair sprouts from between her legs like spindling vines, her musk thick with come from her nightly ritual.
Stringy black hair covers her face, hiding her expression. My fingers twitch, itching to rip those strands from her scalp.
A pill bottle catches my eye. I pick it up from the nightstand, scanning the label. A prescription for Xanax. I skim for the patient’s name.Donna Richmond.Ren’s last name is Kono, though a different last name doesn’t mean anything. Is Richmond her mother? A grandmother, perhaps? Does Donna—whoever she is—even use the Xanax, or is this secretlyRen’smedication?
A screw-capped wine bottle, half-empty, sits next to the prescription. Red, like blood.
A pile of laundry lies on the floor. I pull out her underwear—a stretchy mix of nylon and polyester, seamless, dampness lining the crotch. I bring it to my nose and inhale deeply, the blood rushing from my head to my bulge.
She smells like death. Faintly sour. A sweetness locked inside of the harshest scents. The musk is heady, like the foam on top of a beer, dripping with shame and desire. The violence to cut through her grows inside of me.
I move forward, then slide open the top drawer of her nightstand. A rope tied in a hangman’s knot, like her tattoo, is crumpled inside. No gun though.
Her hands are stuffed under her pillow, tucked underneath the weight of her head. A bluish-green bruise circles her neck. Visible. Fading fast.
Sheisfucked up.
Like me.
An idea burns inside of me. I’ve used a woman while she’s dying before, but I’ve never once used a dying woman thatenjoyedthe torture of her inevitable death. When I close my eyes, I picture the fear in my first, the second, the third—how tight they squeezed around me, fighting for another breath. How the will to survivealwaysoverpowered their anger for me.
I thought choosing victims that looked alike would help; that satisfaction never returned though. It was only the first that meant something to me. The only kill that got me high.
Ren is different though. She may be the exact thing I need.
I stare down at her, rubbing my palm over my straining erection. She whimpers, then gives a subtle snore, and my head rushes, being filled with air. She might’ve taken a benzodiazepine and consumed the wine. It might’ve been her goal to dietonight.An overdose may take longer, but still, it’s simpler than a noose.
The idea sparks me. How ironic would it be to use the blackmail of her after-hours activities to force her into an arrangement where we both get what we want? She could teach me to work the retorts, and I could give her that deadly rush. I could even kill her exactly how she wants.
She doesn’t look like the others, but looks aren’t enough. I need some way to confirm that she’ll scratch that itch. I won’t chase a false high again.
Which means I need to know Ren. To learn her. To consume her every moment.
The little corpse wants a taste of death?
I’ll force-feed her it.
Chapter2
Ren
“Is this a circus act?”the client asks.
I gaze down at the body on the stainless steel table. A sheet is pulled up to the clavicle. Tinted red cheeks. The unnaturally curved eyelids, like his wife is simply asleep. It reminds me of my mother. The image I have of her has changed over the years. I was too young to understand, so my brain fills in the missing pieces. I imagine her asleep, hanging in the balance, like a pendulum about to draw forth again. A mirror image of me.
Two hours. That’s all that’s left in my shift.
