Page 43 of Grave Love
It doesn’t take a genius to hear the true meaning behind his words:Why does she need you?
I grind my teeth. We both know the answer. Rendoesn’tneed me. It’s obvious to all of us, even to her. And it’s laughable that we both keep clinging to this thin connection between us, like it means something more than two people using each other.
That’s all we are: a killer and his prey. We agreed to that.
I study the plastic bags. The cases are light, almost airy. Somehow, my hands sink with their weight. It’s all Ren truly needs from me.
And at the same time, she wants the excitement. ThemeaningI can give her.
“I’m helping our fellow civilians just like you, big brother,” I smirk. I usher him toward the door, patting his back. “You get money. I get pussy and blood.”
“I’ll be in town for a few weeks,” he says, ignoring my quip. “Staying at my condo in Rosemary Beach.”
Rosemary Beach, another expensive getaway for the one-percenters living in the South. Of course he has a condo there. He’s too good—too high class—for Panama City Beach.
“Thanks for the invitation,” I say. “But for me to miss these little get-togethers of ours, I need the distance. Years, really. I’ll call you.”
He looks over his shoulder. “Call me if she needs anything.”
Not ifIneed anything. Ifsheneeds anything.
Ice pumps through my veins, my limbs cold and rigid. I don’t like that he’s taking an interest in her. I narrow my eyes at his fake righteousness.
“Right,” I say.
Then I slam the door.
The coolness extends to my fingertips like a flu spreading across a sickly body. Returning to my bedroom, I toss the plastic bags, then pick up the choke chain and leash, the weight satisfying in my palm. There’s a tangible nature to Ren’s death. She’s another insignificant blip on humanity’s timeline, like we all are. A way to perfect my technique. She reminds me of my mother—chaos, all immediate presence—and yet, she’s different too. She sees herself. Drowns in her shame.
There’s no reason to give a shit if Brody takes a personal interest in Ren. I don’t pretend to help other people, nor do I act like I’m a superior being that deserves the grace and adoration of my followers. I helpmyself.I know who I am. We’re all rats crawling around like vermin on this god-forsaken earth.
Disease. Shit. Anddeath.
And thank the fucking dirt under our hands and knees, Ren knows who she is too.
Chapter16
Blaze
An hour later,I park outside of Ren’s picture-perfect home. To anyone else, it seems as if Ren is living with her grandmother to take care of her.
Ren is the one whothinksshe needs help. Who never moved out. Who tortures herself by living with a grandmother that’s way too fucking stubborn and judgmental for a woman in her sixties.
My little devil can get what she wants; she simply hasn’t unlocked her true potential. And if she wants sex and death, she knows she can get it from me.
Still sitting in the car, I text her:Come here.
Be right there,she immediately responds.
I scroll through my phone, scanning over articles from Blountstown, waiting for news that they’ve discovered one of the bodies there, but it’s a small town full of secrets. Every once in a while, there’s a missing persons report, but the journalists would rather promote the seasonal festivals than to remind the citizens that some of their loved ones have disappeared. They can’t rub it in, or else the townsfolk will be up in arms. How dare an outsider destroy their sense of safety? They’re all just good families living in a small-town, America. They don’t deserve something like this.
They don’t realize their boogeyman was homegrown, just like they were.
The car hums underneath me. I count the stepping stones spaced out across the lush lawn in front of Ren’s house. Then I count them again.
I slam my fists on the steering wheel. She’smakingme wait. The fucking slut.
Where is she?
