Page 2 of Mine to Share

Or so I thought. Though it was all based on perspective.

Mine, I was doing the community a service. To others, they might only see the bodies left in my wake, uncaring about the destructive lives the victims lived before I took matters into my own hands.

Someone had to.

Shrugging off the thick coat, I shoved it into the black plastic garbage bag I’d brought with me, followed by the cheap tennis shoes and soggy socks. Fingers wrapped around the thin plastic, I dragged it off the single queen bed I had no plans to sleep in, then padded to the tiny bathroom and flipped the light switch.

The yellowed fluorescent bulb flickered, buzzing to life above the cracked mirror.

Hips digging into the sink as I leaned toward the mirror, I tilted my face one way and then the other, studying my pale reflection. The tiny crimson flecks along my cheek held my focus as flickers of the night’s events ran on repeat.

The beautiful, muffled screams, desperate pleas for me to stop, and insistent begging to spare their pathetic life were quickly becoming my favorite facet of this justice mission.

The sticky, thick blood that sprayed with each plunge of the knife, not so much. It made cleanup a fucking bitch. Remembering my first time had me scoffing at my idiot self as I tugged the sink’s stopper closed. Reaching beneath the sink, I looped a finger through the handle of the jug of bleach I’d brought from home. The chemical vapors burned my nostrils and lungs with every inhale as I filled the bowl halfway, saving the rest for the shower, as my routine required destroying any lingering evidence.

Not caring about splashing bleach on the clothes that would soon be scattered around the city, I tossed the still-bloody knife and sheath into the sink, watching as the liquid shifted from its original yellowish color to pink as it stripped the dried blood and all DNA from everything it touched. Hat first, followed by my shirt, pants, and underwear, I removed each article of clothing before shoving it all into the black trash bag. The cheap clear plastic shower curtain crinkled, the hooks screeching across the metal bar as I reached inside the shower and twisted the knob all the way to the right.

As the water heated, I forced my gaze to stay on my face instead of slipping lower to the still-puffy scars littering my stomach. Bile rose along my throat. My fingers wrapped around the sink, catching me before I could fall to the floor as memories from the worst night of my life tried to bombard me.

I wasn’t born a monster. I was made into one.

This wasn’t what I wanted from life, but what I wanted and what I’d become all changed in a single night.

The night my old life ended and this one began.

Of hunting, watching, and taking.

Just like they had.

The first time was an accident. I’d only brought the pitiful kitchen knife to scare him, but the fear rushing through my veins had made me jumpy. Feeling cornered, he lunged, and so did I, but I had something he didn’t. The sensation of fresh blood pouring over my hand, seeping between my shaking fingers, made my stomach roll. But his pleas for mercy, begging me to spare his life, resurrected my strength, a sense of power I hadn’t felt since someone just like him stripped it from me.

That was what made me do it again and again, the pull that kept me hunting and killing those I deemed worthy of my blood justice. I craved the power I gained by taking these bastards’ lives, even if it was for only a little while. It was wrong, but that wouldn’t stop me. I was in too deep now, too many bodies in my wake to turn back and pretend like nothing happened. To act like my new hobby wouldn’t put me behind bars for the rest of my life.

Not that I planned to go to jail. That was a death sentence for someone like me. No, if it came down to it, if that asshole detective and too-smart-for-her-own-good ME ever figured me out, then… well, I hadn’t gotten that far.

Because outside the thrill of the hunt and removing another sick bastard from this world, I wasn’t living.

Jerking my gaze away, cutting off my depressing thoughts, I yanked the curtain aside and stepped beneath the dismal spray, allowing the barely warm water to slide over my skin, erasing the minuscule drops of blood I knew would be damning evidence if I were caught. After washing my hair three times, I grabbed the bottle of bleach and tipped it until the toxic contents splashed over the opposite hand. The liquid burned my already-raw skin, but I fought through the pain, knowing it was necessary.

Getting caught because of a sloppy mistake wasn’t an option.

Not when there was more work to do.

1

JAMESON

My eyes pinched, and a sharp hiss that whistled through my clenched teeth covered the sound of the manila file folder crumpling beneath my tightening grip as a fiery pain raced down my arm, making the tips of my fingers tingle.

Being shot sucked hairy balls.

Not that I’d ever actually sucked balls, shaved or hairy. I just assumed it was as terrible as taking a bullet.

The spot where the slug pierced through my bicep pulsed in a reminder that I didn’t take pain medication before boarding the jet. The wound was healed enough for me to be cleared for duty last week, and the last few days only a barely noticeable ache reminded me of what happened. But not today. Which I should have expected, considering I was always tense as hell while soaring tens of thousands of miles above the ground in a luxurious sardine can with engines.

“Are you sure you’re up for a solo case?” Smoothing out the now-bent folder along the table, I shot my boss, SSA Rhyan Riggs, a wounded look at her question. “Stop. I know you can do it. I’m not doubting that. It’s just that the last case you went on with Cooper ended with both of you shot. I’m being a good boss and double-checking that I’m not pushing you too hard, too fast.”

“It was just a through and through,” I grumbled under my breath. “We’re down a profiler until Cooper is cleared for duty, and based on how that asshole won’t follow a single one of the doctor’s orders, we’ll be short for a while.”

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