2. Jack

CHAPTER 2

JACK

" I think I'm gonna be sick." Bob covers his mouth and nose with his arm, turning away from our victim.

"Come on, Bob, don't be so dramatic," I tell him.

He gives me his signature stare that I'm sure is supposed to rattle my chains but never does, and I smile.

"Just because this shit doesn't bother you doesn't mean the rest of us are being dramatic, Happy."

"Whatever you say, Bob," I reply.

I know the nickname is meant to annoy me, but for some reason, I can't find it in me to be annoyed by such a cool and positive nickname.

Bob takes a few steps back from the body to take a breather and looks away. Typical Bob. He's been with CREEP for over thirty years and is still not used to the bloody cases we have to deal with.

Light floods my eyes, and I flinch.

"Sorry," the photographer says, and I blink a couple of times before I can look at him.

"That's okay. You know what they say. A flash here and there is good for eye endurance."

The photographer nods a couple of times before he frowns. Probably realizing there's no such saying.

I turn my attention to the victim. White. Male. Age indeterminate due to the condition of the body.

Where his eyes should be are just empty sockets, blood dripping down his face like tears. His mouth is foaming, and his chest is split open as if something crawled out from inside him. His heart is blown to smithereens, his stomach and guts are spilled on the floor. His testicles have suffered a similar fate to his heart, as have his kneecaps. The only parts of him not touched by blood are his fingers and toes.

"Well, I guess that's a start." I crouch and take his fingers in my gloved hands, shining a flashlight under his nails.

I can't see any DNA or anything else lodged in there. Not with the naked eye. But maybe the coroner will find something. He may be our fifth Pulverizer victim this month alone, but I can't give up trying. Right?

"Why do you even bother?" Bob asks from the door, still covering his face and avoiding looking at the body or me.

"What do you mean? I'm just doing my job."

"Ah, just give it up already. You know he never leaves any traces behind. We just have to accept we'll never find this guy."

"Or girl," I remind him. "Women can be murderers too."

"Fine. We'll never find them," he says pointedly. "Happy?"

I shrug.

"I wouldn't say happy, but you know I'm always in a good mood."

He rolls his eyes and gags, although whether from the fumes or his disgust at my disposition, I'm not so sure.

"I know."

"So why do you ask?" I ask.

"Oh, shut up, Lewis. You know what I'm saying. We've had over twenty of Pulverizer's victims this year, alone. If we were going to find them, we would have by now. April has even had monitoring and registration increased to help us. But nothing. SPAM records still show no supes that can make people"—he waves a hand at the exploded man beside me—"blow up from the inside out."

"Well, usually, when something is blown up, it is from the inside out," I point out, and he growls at me in typical Bob fashion.

He turns his back to me and shakes his head.

"Bob, I know, man. I know you want to get the Pulverizer before your retirement, but that attitude won't help, will it? We can ask April to give us more SPAM resources. Maybe there's someone, somewhere in SPAM, who can help us find them."

The photographer lowers his camera and tilts his head. "What the hell is SPAM? The canned meat?"

I smile at him when Bob spins around and barks at the poor guy. "Mind your own business. You're here to take pictures, not ask questions."

The guy literally jumps on the spot and gets back to work with shaky hands.

I get up and approach my partner with my best attempt at a frown, only it's still me, and I can't do that. Which is why my next words come out playful rather than disappointed. "Did you have to be short with the guy?"

"Well, I can't be tall with him, can I?"

I glance back at the photographer, who's closer to five foot than six, and shake my head.

"That's mean."

Bob bites his lip and has a minor tantrum as if he wants to give me some colorful expletives but is holding back before he composes himself.

"He's asking questions, and we can't have people asking questions."

I roll my eyes at him. Why does he always have to be like this? I've always wondered if he's been like this from the start or if grinding away in this job has chipped away at any positivity he may have had.

Or if he's just a mean old man, which wouldn't surprise me, considering he's been like this since my first day.

"Yeah, I know, Bob! But he's an innocent guy. We could have told him SPAM was a fucking satellite, and he'd believe it."

"Whatever." Bob huffs and walks out the door. I follow him close behind him. "We're never going to find this guy. He's as elusive as…as the fucking clitoris."

I stop and choke. Bob glances at me, frowning.

"What?"

I stare into my partner's bright-blue eyes and whisper, "You can't find your wife's clit? Do you need help?"

He goes so red that if he turned into a raging monster before my eyes, I would have shrugged and said, "Knew it."

"Haaaappyyyy!" he growls.

His shoulders rise and fall rapidly in sync with his breathing.

"Yes?"

I expect a punch, a shove, or maybe even a slap. But none of those happen. No. He rasps and spins around, speed-walking like a bull in a china shop.

"That wasn't a denial," I mumble behind him.

Poor Martha. She's been married to him for over forty years. Maybe I should rethink my retirement gift to him. I'll return the golf clubs and buy him a biology book or something. There's got to be something out there that can break it down for him. Hell, I'll show it to him if I must. It's not fucking hard.

Bob kicks the door open, ducks under the yellow tape, and makes a beeline for the car.

"We'll find him, Bob." I rush to catch up with him, and he looks up at me.

"Oh, now who's being sexist? You said him." He points at me as if I've committed murder, and I think I may have upset him a little too much with my comments.

"Slip of the tongue. We'll find them. I believe it." This is, like, our twentieth victim.

Bob pulls at his thinning hair—I have a theory I'm the cause—and cries out. "How? He's our twentieth victim."

A couple of police officers turn to stare at the CREEP making a scene, and Bob hides inside his car.

I raise my hand at them by way of apology and get into the passenger seat, turning to my partner, smiling.

"What?"

"You said it," I say. "He's our twentieth victim, which means…"

He groans before I even finish my sentence.

"We're getting even more evidence. So we're one step closer."

"Oh great. So we should let them murder more people until we can put more puzzle pieces together, right?"

"That's not what I s?—"

"Enough, Jack! Your positivity annoys the hell out of me sometimes."

"You know I can't help it."

"Yeah, yeah, but it irritates the heck out of me. Anyway, let's get back to the office and hope these idiots have found something we can use to find this guy. Or girl. Or person."

"You know you can just say person, right?"

"Fuck off!" He barks inches from my face before turning the engine on and setting off.

When we're back at the office, we comb through all the evidence from all the past crime scenes, fingerprints, DNA, MO.

We end up nowhere.

"But hey, we still haven't got the forensics for number twenty."

Bob practically growls as he puts his coat on.

"You always say that."

"Yeah, but I feel differently this time. This time, I think we're going to find them. Number twenty will lead us to our suspect."

"I'll believe it when I see it," he says and walks out on me.

But I don't mind. I'm used to it. That's just Bob.

I start tidying up my desk like I always do before I go home, regardless of how successful I am, when the alarm on my phone goes off.

"Ooh. Shoot. Shuga!"

I turn the noise off and run toward home. I've got mouths to feed, and Shuga won't be happy if her food is late.

Before I've even opened the door, a brown furball jumps on my face, barking in her deafening high-pitch and nuzzling against my neck.

"Shuga!" I'm so ticklish that I can't stop laughing, not even when I pry her off my neck and hold her in my palm so I can tickle her belly.

"Miss me, Shuga?"

As soon as my finger touches her pouch, she starts purring like a kitten.

"Missed you too, missy."

She wraps all her limbs around my hand and holds on to me for dear life, even as I go to the kitchen and try to get her food.

"Come on, Shuga. You don't want fresh, tasty crickets?"

I yank my hand away and shake the box, which makes her climb back up to my shoulder and jump off, gliding back into her cage, chirping but waiting patiently as I top up her bowl.

"There we go. Happy?" I scratch the top of her head and sigh. "What am I going to eat though?"

My pet sugar glider stops and glances from me to her bowl as if inviting me to dig in, and I chuckle.

"I couldn't possibly!" I give her another scratch before I walk away to inspect my freezer and fridge. They're empty.

"Great. A perfect excuse for delicious takeout, don't you think, Shuga?"

Shuga is way too busy munching to pay me any mind, so I do the next best thing and go on the food delivery app to place my order before plonking myself on the couch with my favorite company.

Grey's Anatomy .

It's not long before I've got my food and Shuga sleeping on my stomach, wrapped up in my top like it's a blanket.

"You know, if Bob saw us right now, he'd tell me I'm a sad excuse of a man. Binge-watching Grey's Anatomy for the fourth time, eating junk food with you as my only company…" I tell Shuga, who doesn't even open her eyes to acknowledge me. "But I think we're living quite the life, don't you?"

I rub her cheeks, and still nothing.

"Yeah. I agree. Life couldn't be better," I tell her.

Yeah. Life isn't perfect, but it's good. Maybe I think that because of my power, or maybe it really, truly is. Either way, I can't help it.

Only…

I don't know. It feels like something might be missing.

Not in a bad way. More life-will-be-more-complete-with-it kind of way.

Hm…

"You know what?" I shout before I realize, and this time, Shuga does open her eyes and looks at me as if I've hung the moon. "I think whatever I'm missing…I'm going to find it. Tomorrow. Yeah. My life will be complete…tomorrow."