40. Bad Moon Rising

40

BAD MOON RISING

DAISY

"Don't be cocky, Uncle Stef," I tease as I place eight empty glass bottles on top of the tree trunk before him. "We all know I'm a better shot than you."

Dad snorts amusedly as he leans against a tree with his arms crossed while Uncle Stef splutters his retorts. When I walk past my uncle, I give him a squeeze on the shoulder. "It's okay. Don't feel bad. We can't all be the best."

We're in the middle of the Desdemona Hill Forest for a self-defense session, which we do twice a month―a tradition we've upheld since I was a little girl.

"You're a brat." He gives me an unamused look, but I don't miss the way the corner of his lip pulls upward with pride. He eyes Dad. "Teach your daughter some manners."

"Oh, right." I nod, smirking. "Dad taught me to respect my elders. I apologize, Grandpa."

He lunges for me and yanks me off the ground. "You better take that back, princess."

I squeak loudly, bursting out into laughter as my stomach fills with tingles from him swinging me in the air. I quickly manage to tear myself out of his grasp, tackling him to the ground. We go down in the dirt with him breaking my fall.

I jump up and run away back to my dad, and Uncle Stef growls as he gets up, but says nothing when he remains defeated. That only makes me cackle harder, and Dad joins me as we mock him.

He brushes the dirt off his expensive slacks, then reaches for his gun and aims it at the bottles. He pulls the trigger back to back and hits every single one of them without trouble. Holding up his hands with smugness, he waves the gun in the air. "Grandpa, you said?"

"Alright, alright," I admit, high fiving him when he comes our way. He reaches for the crate that contains numerous glass bottles and heads back to line them up for my turn.

"How's it going at school?" Dad asks, wrapping an arm around my shoulder and pressing a kiss on top of my head.

"It's amazing." I sigh contently. "I'm learning so much, and I'm filled with inspiration. I feel like I can take on the world at times."

"That's good, mo luaidh. I'm so proud of you." He hands me a coke and I sip it eagerly. "And how about art shows? Are your professors hooking you up with that?"

"There's a show at a gallery in town at the end of the year for the first-year students. We'll all get to expose something there."

Uncle Stef comes back when the bottles are in place, and I reach for my gun, which is tucked into the back of my jeans. "Any boys we need to know about at school?" he asks when he jumps into the conversation. "Guys we need to roughen up a little?"

I chuckle. "No, thanks. I've got it handled."

"Handled?" They both frown and straighten their backs. "So there are boys?" Dad asks, ready to spur into action.

To avoid a lot of drama and a potential murder, I decide against telling them about the altercation with Jace. "No. Truly, people are nice at school. No one's bothering me there. And if they do, you both know I can hold my own. Just watch me."

I hand Dad my coke bottle and smugly walk away. Once I'm in position, I hold up my arm to aim my gun. I take a few beats to breathe, then pull the trigger ten times, hitting every single bottle in a matter of seconds. They break as soon as the bullet penetrates them, the glass bursting into sharp shards before they land on the ground with a clash.

For good measure, I turn and blow on the tip of the gun, arching a smug eyebrow. They both laugh and nod in agreement and satisfaction.

On our way back home, we pass the main road leading to the city center, finding the place scattered with police vehicles. I roll down the window of the backseat, leaning out of it as I try to take in the scene. "What's going on?" I ask aloud.

"No clue," Dad answers as he slows the car.

There's a line of cars before us, and police officers signal them elsewhere, blocking off the street. When it's our turn, I speak to the officer before he can focus on my dad and uncle. "What happened, officer? Why can't we pass?"

"I'm afraid there has been a murder, young lady. Something too gruesome for young eyes to see. Better make a turn here and take the other road home."

"A murder?" My eyes widen as I look up at the pale-faced man. It's like all color has drained from his skin. It must be bad, then. That only makes me more eager to find out what's going on.

Dad doesn't hesitate to follow the instructions and turns the car around. When we're on the way home, I'm anxious to get out, curiosity getting the better of me.

"Crap," I say. "I just remembered I need to pick something up from the bookstore for school. Can you drop me off there? I'll get back home on my skates and meet you for dinner later."

"Alright, sweetheart." Dad nods.

I put on my roller-skates, tying the green laces. He pulls in on the road close to the bookstore and I grab my bag before I get out. Stepping into the store, I wait for them to be on their way, looking through the window to make sure they're gone. That's when I leave the store and make my way down the street, gliding on the little wheels and passing ongoing traffic with my speed.

Once I make it back to the area where all the police cars are blocking the road, I take a detour through some pathways of the forest, changing my skates for my shoes. I make it there from out of the large trees and bushes, and since no one is likely to come from this way, there are no officers here. Despite the size of our city, the police department is always understaffed for some reason.

There's a large block of land closed off with bright red colored rope, and I walk around it, looking for the body. It doesn't take me long to find it, and I have to forcefully stifle my scream when my eyes look straight at something all too familiar.

What the fuck…? How can this be?

1969, six years ago. Alastair Hutcherson. Staged like a famous artwork by Guillaume Geefs. It was the first year that the police made the connection to other staged murders in different states of the country, and when the public officially named Lester Gilbert the Sculptor of Death.

My mind must be playing tricks on me. This murder looks exactly the same, up to the last detail. The wings carved out of the flesh on his back, the pictures hanging from the tree branches around him, the way his crotch is covered up with a cloth, with a bitten apple at his feet. Even the victim's facial features look the same, with the strong jawline and curls framing his cheeks.

This doesn't make sense. Maybe I'm still in Lester's Red Room with a whole lot of acid in my system, imagining things that aren't there.

Maybe I'm still tripping balls and none of this is reality.

But when I dig my nails into my arm to help me wake up, I'm still standing with my feet in the fallen leaves, my eyes pointed at the staged corpse.

Why ? Why would he do this? Why would he recreate a murder from six years ago―something he has already done before?

That's not him.

For Lester, it's all about the art. It's all about the inspiration he gathers out of life and wants to reflect in his kills. No matter if he wants to pay tribute to a piece of art that he admires of if he creates something out of his own maddening mind.

So many thoughts and questions blare through my brain on an endless loop like a broken record.

Why would he do it in his own town?

None of this makes sense.

If the Sculptor is known for one thing, it's that he's smart and always careful. That's why he chooses a different state every year, never one that can be traced back to him. It's also not the right date. We're well into December, and he only kills on June 19 th . His last kill was over six months ago.

What is going on? Has he lost his mind? Is he spiraling because his well-cherished control has slipped from his fingertips? The control that he claims he hasn't been able to keep in check because of me?

Is this my fault…?

I spot a blotch of navy blue in the distance and I silently disappear out of the trees when a uniformed officer heads this way.

I don't know what's happening, but I feel sick.

Something bad is going on.

The flags are so red, they're bleeding…