Chapter 1

Chapter One

Kindra

C at peers over my shoulder as I make the final incision and wrench the warm heart from its nest in the man's chest cavity. Blood splashes into the mess of exposed organs as I tilt the heart on its side, but it isn't like the movies. This dark chunk of meat doesn't continue beating once removed. It's been reduced to a smooth, lifeless muscle.

"Sorry I was late," Cat whispers as I pour India ink through the left ventricle. "I couldn't find my gloves."

I don't respond. Not during the integral part of my mission, which is the message I plan to send. The man I killed was not a man at all. He was a monster walking among us. Now his heart is as black as his soul.

"What did this one do?" Cat asks.

"Hair," I say.

"I don't follow."

"Your fucking hair is hanging out of your skullcap. Those little blonde strands of incrimination will get you caught."

She winces as her trembling fingers work to hide the offensive hair from view.

I tuck the heart into the dead man's dominant hand. Sometimes it's the left, but it's usually the right. When they're ambidextrous, I just make a judgment call. Then I stand and answer Cat's questions as I survey my handiwork. "He was a kindergarten teacher."

"Oh."

There's no need to go into more detail. The young victim has gotten the revenge the court systems can't provide, and the world is a little brighter tonight.

Wind rushes past the eaves, creating an eerie whistle as Cat squats beside the dead guy and starts examining his body. Most of the houses on this street are abandoned. Without the constant hum of electricity, every sound can be heard. Every footstep outside, every breath from my lungs.

Bllffft .

And every gaseous emission from a corpse.

"Ew, what the fuck was that? Did you just pass gas?" Cat whispers.

"No. When you moved his leg, you might have released some trapped gas. All the muscles have relaxed, so there's nothing to hold it in."

She lowers the leg with a grimace. "Why don't you cut off their dicks? That's what I would do."

I immediately regret encouraging the girl to ask more questions.

My shoulders lift in a shrug. "They aren't always men. Women can be just as vile. But they all have a dark heart in common, so that's what I remove."

She blinks up at me, and the admiration and reverence in her blue eyes make me want to vomit.

Cat is my apprentice. A serial killer in training, if you will. She created a website that chronicled my entire murderous arc—an endearing homage to my life's work. Unfortunately, that painstaking collection of commendation had to come down pronto. While I appreciated the gesture, it laid things out too plainly. The last thing the incompetent detectives need is a competent admirer to do their job for them.

I contacted her and asked her to take down the site, and she agreed...if I would take her under my wing and show her the ropes. This is the second kill she's joined me on, and I'm debating my life choices at this point.

"We should go get a smoothie to celebrate," she says. "This was a good one."

"Yes, I'm sure the servers down at the diner will think nothing of our black catsuits, gloves, and skullcaps. If they ask about all the red stuff on my forearms and chest, I'll just say it's a fucking fashion statement."

My god, she has so much to learn.

I kneel before the man and lower his shirt, covering the gaping hole below his sternum and the knife wound in his left side. Another signature. Well, when it all goes to plan.

Sometimes I have to stab what I can, but I prefer an initial slash to the lung. It's hard to scream for help when you're struggling for your next breath, and I want them to know what it feels like to be so incredibly helpless. Just like their victims.

Satisfied, I get to my feet and head toward the door with my shadow hot on my heels. As we exit the abandoned house, I stop in my tracks. "Cat?"

"Hmm?"

"Why is your car parked in front of the scene of the fucking crime?"

She steps beside me and begins fidgeting. "Shit. I was in such a hurry that I forgot you said to park at the pump-and-dump motel. Sorry."

I sigh. What the fuck else can I do? "Just drive me back to my car."

Grass and weeds peek from the busted cracks running through the concrete walkway. I sidestep them and make my way past the rusty chain-link fence. The gate lies askew on the ground.

We get inside her beater, and I'm grateful that the busted thing blends in with the surrounding area. Which is to say, the car looks like it smokes a lot of crack.

Squatters and addicts occupy most of the houses on this street, though I use the term "houses" very loosely. These rundown buildings are mostly crumbling relics of their former selves. Long gone is their glory age—a booming mill town run to ruin when the mills had to close after the jobs were sent overseas.

I click my seatbelt into place, and the car grumbles to life. As Cat pulls the rust bucket away from the crumbling curb, her fingers flex and tap on the steering wheel. It's a nervous habit, which she partakes in—much to my displeasure—when her mind conjures a question her mouth is too nervous to ask.

The radio doesn't work, so I have two options. I can continue listening to this incessant, nerve-grating representation of her anxiety, or I can give her an opening.

"Cat, just ask the fucking question."

She needs no further invitation and promptly spits it out. "Can you tell me about your brother's murder?"

My shoulders stiffen, and my stomach clenches until I'm certain I'll shit or vomit. Maybe both. I suppose that's a natural reaction when a mind is forced to relive a traumatic event.

Cat clears her throat. "I wouldn't ask if I didn't have a reason, but I want to be sure before I say anything."

My ears perk up. I've been searching for my brother's killer for as long as he's been in business, but even though I'm a stellar journalist with a nose like a hound, the man has been a ghost. Untraceable. Undetectable. If talking about what happened can bring me closer to finding him, she can shove a pull string up my ass and yank it to her heart's content.

"Well, I was seventeen," I begin. "The killer pulled up to the house in a black van in the middle of the night, broke in, and hung my brother from?—"

"Meat hooks?" she asks.

"Yes," I say. "In the garage. I was the one who found him. The image is burned into my brain, and not just because it was the first dead body I'd seen."

"The Abattoir Adonis," she breathes.

I nod.

"So what burned it into your brain?"

"You mean, aside from the fact that my brother was levitating four feet off the ground with meat hooks through his armpits? Or maybe it was that he had no eyes to speak of, he was completely nude, and the number seven was carved into his body in several places? It certainly wasn't the copious amount of blood painting the concrete floor."

I turn to her with a deadpan stare, but she's too busy imagining my description of the scene to notice.

She nibbles her lip and takes a right turn, putting us in view of the seedy motel. I chose the place because it lacks any cameras. Its clientele doesn't like to smile for photos.

"How strange," Cat says.

"What?"

She ignores my question and poses one of her own. "What year was he murdered?"

The disconnected tone she uses when talking about my brother's demise rubs me the wrong way, though it shouldn't. It's the same way I ask questions when I'm covering a story. But then she works out the answer before I can offer it to her.

"Wait, you were seventeen, so that means...your brother was his sixth victim. He'd established his MO by that point. Why did he deviate?" Her eyebrows pull together as she turns in at the motel.

"That's the million-dollar question, Regis. If I knew the answer, I'd probably be closer to finding him." I scoff and look out the window.

My brother is the only Adonis victim to be stripped nude and have his eyes removed and numbers etched into the skin. He typically just hangs and drains.

She slides the car into a parking spot as a housekeeper pushes a trolley down the sidewalk in front of a row of doors outside the motel. It's a bit late for changing the sheets, so I'm fairly sure she's the on-site Hoover for hire. Instead of sucking grit from the carpet, she'll suck the soul right out of a man. Good for her.

Cat puts the car in park and turns to me. "You might be closer to an answer than you think, but before I say anything else, I want to be certain. Can you give me a couple of hours? I'll get everything together and meet you at your place."

This bitch.

"Is this another ploy to see where I live?" I ask. The girl has been trying for weeks, and it's the one area of my life I'd prefer to keep private.

And that's a fucking lie. I'd prefer to keep all areas of my life private.

I have no friends or romantic connections, and I like it that way. My work relationships are just as sparse, extending far enough to keep me in business so I can pay my bills. The rest of my energy is devoted to finding and killing my next victim.

And seeking my brother's killer.

To be fair, my brother and I had drifted apart before his death. He was ten years older, and we didn't really have much in common. But he was still my brother, and he didn't deserve to die at the hands of a sadist. Killers who kill indiscriminately are not in my league.

"While I'm still dying to see your house, no, it's not a ploy," Cat says. "I lied about why I was late because I don't want to get your hopes up until I know something for sure. Even though I did a deep dive on you, there was a lot I couldn't find out regarding your brother's death. I don't exactly have a press pass."

My job certainly has its benefits, one of which is my ability to discover my next victim while getting paid to do so. I typically cover crime stories, and the dirty little perverts come across my desk on the regular.

I mull over my options. Without saying as much, Cat has essentially given me an ultimatum. If I want to learn whatever secret she's uncovered, I'll have to invite her to my house. My home. My sanctuary.

Closing my eyes, I rip off my skullcap and resign myself to defeat. "I'm at 1408 Thornwood Drive."

While I wait for Cat to arrive, I don't bother tidying up. I don't give a shit if she thinks I'm dirty because I have a few dishes in the sink or a bit of dust on the bookshelves. If she doesn't like it, she can leave.

Maybe I should shit on the carpet to encourage that outcome.

She pulls up the driveway at two a.m. by way of a ride service. This was my one condition. Considering her car could have been spotted driving away from the scene of a murder, I want it nowhere near my house.

I let her inside, and she's practically agog with wonder. I'm not sure why. It's your average home, complete with a broken dishwasher, a garbage disposal that sounds like it's choking on a long-forgotten fork, and a toilet that only flushes if you hold down the handle.

She pulls off a light jacket and folds it over her arm. Her platinum hair sticks out all over her head, which tells me she didn't even shower once she got home. Fucking rookie. Showering was second on my list when I walked in the door. After tossing my murder ensemble into the wash, of course. They can do amazing things with leather these days.

Her gaze flies from the hardwood floors to the hall tree in the entryway. "Wow," she breathes. "I never pictured you with a hall tree."

I pluck the jacket from her arm and hang it on one of the wooden dowels. "Did you ever picture yourself becoming my next victim? Because we can make that happen too."

She closes her dropped jaw and composes herself. "Right. I'll try to keep my excitement to myself."

I lead her into the living room and motion for her to take a seat on the couch.

"So, what did you find out?" I ask, impatient to learn what she's come up with. I take a seat on the leather recliner beside the couch and pull my dark hair into a low ponytail.

"Um...before we get to that, could I have a drink? I'm pretty thirsty." She offers a sheepish smile, but I'm onto her.

"Jesus fucking Christ. If you want to see my glassware, I'll be happy to show you later. Hell, I'll invite you for a sleepover with makeovers and a chick flick if you'll just tell me what the fuck you know that I don't!"

"I'm sorry! It's not every day that I get to see inside the Heartbreak Killer's house." A wide grin spreads on her face. "Once you know what I've found out, you'll probably let me look at whatever I want."

Doubtful.

"Have you ever heard of the Sinners Retreat?" she asks. A mischievous glint sparkles in her eyes.

I've covered a metric fuck ton of stories over my career—and researched far more than I've written about—but a Sinners Retreat is a new one on me. I shake my head.

"Every year, a handful of serial killers are invited to vacation on a private island. The details are pretty sparse, but from what I've gathered, they get to enjoy sun, sand...and murder!" She leans forward. "Could you even imagine all the fun we could have? Maybe I could even get my first kill."

I have a self-imposed rule that I must never murder the innocent, but this nitwit is about to force me to abandon that. She baited me. Knowing I would let her into my private life if she had a juicy bit of info, she fucking baited me.

Before she can say anything else, I raise my hand and silence her. "First, those are old wives' tales. There've been rumors for years, but they're all unsubstantiated reports. Second, even if the rumors were true, I would rather suck off Charlie Sheen and swallow than go to that island. Third, fuck you for making me think you knew anything about my brother's killer. You can leave now."

I stand and begin marching toward the door.

"Don't be so quick to raise your hackles," she says, and I love that she assumes my hackles weren't already raised.

I turn to face her. "Even if it were real, how did you, the antithesis of a serial killer, gain access to such a secret?"

"Ouch," she says, though she knows I'm right. She's a straight-A student from Portland who flew to New York to live out her big dreams of becoming an actress.

People in the limelight do not make good serial killers. I'd say you could ask Rodney Alcala, but he died in jail.

I rest my case.

"Don't take offense," I say with a wave of my hand. "Not everyone is cut out for this life. Whether you are remains to be seen."

I'm being too kind. Like a naked man running through Times Square on a Tuesday, it's been seen. She is not cut out for this life, and I have very little hope of making anything of her.

"I'm on a message board on the dark web. I met a guy who knows a guy who?—"

I roll my hand in the air, urging her to wrap this up.

"I showed a guy my tits and he let me in."

My eyes drop to Cat's chest. Cat's very full, very perky chest. Possibly fake, but still impressive, nonetheless. But top-secret info for a flash of nip? I don't buy it.

I raise an eyebrow.

"Okay, I let him titty-fuck me, and then I pretended to smoke some meth with him. Once he was good and gassed, he forgot I was there, and I was able to access his laptop while he talked to the men in the wallpaper. See? My acting skills come in handy sometimes."

Maybe for porn.

"Look," she says, "I've brought an offer you can't refuse. Do you want to know what I've discovered, or are you going to keep being a judgmental asshole for the rest of your natural life?"

My eyes widen, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't at least a little curious about what has her so goddamned excited. "Go on," I say.

Her smile returns, and I feel like I've been blasted with a ray of radioactive sunshine. "For your consideration, I present the guest list for this year's Sinners Retreat."

She leans forward and pulls a piece of paper from her back pocket. I take it from her and unfold it, ready to admonish her for doing something as ignorant as printing off something so incriminating—if it's even real—but then I see the first name on the list.

The Abattoir Adonis.