Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Ezra

A s I prepare for dinner, I've swapped my beachy attire for something a little classier. I roll down the purple collar, folding it at the crisp seam. As I dress, I feel dapper as hell, which is why I prefer suits to t-shirts and jeans. Also, despite my earlier setback, I've renewed my devotion to wooing Kindra. The whole murdering-her-brother conundrum will sort itself.

Eventually.

A knock on my bedroom door tells me that Bennett has let himself in.

"What's taking so long?" he yells through the flimsy wood separating us.

"I'll be out in a jiffy, Bennett."

"Yeah, yeah. You better not be dressed like a?—"

I cut him off when I whip open the door dressed precisely the way he hoped I wasn't. He's in Hawaiian bathing shorts and a sleeveless black shirt. We are not the same.

"You look like an advertisement for a midlife crisis."

"Yeah? You look like a James Bond villain."

"That good, eh?"

Bennett scoffs.

"Can we get going so we can escort the ladies to the party?" I ask.

"I've been waiting on you! But now I'm feeling insecure about my clothes."

"Most people don't dress up. You're fine."

"I'm trying to be as unattractive as I can to your girlfriend's little friend."

"I don't think that's an issue, as the dislike appears mutual. What was that kerfuffle on the plane about, anyway?"

Bennett begins to pace because that's what he does when he's mad. Whatever those two fought about must have been big.

"She thinks Kemper is the superior serial killer. And I think he's not even playing the same game as Bundy. What is Kemper known for? Banging his mom's skull? Bundy escaped from prison. Twice . He also killed three people on the lam."

I stare at him with my mouth gaped like an imbecile. Really? That's what has his hackles up?

"Who the hell cares?" I say. "And who's the superior killer between us?"

"Obviously me."

I laugh. "And why's that?"

"Because I change up my MO. I'm chaotic. I'm untraceable. You? Calculated. MO is well known. Have you seen your wiki page?"

"You do know anyone can put anything they want on Wikipedia, right? In fact, I've made my own personal contribution to your page. I added that you were a weapons-grade cockwomble just last week."

"Mature."

"Says the man arguing with a pretty lady over who's a better serial killer instead of trying to wine and dine her. She's not my cup of tea, but she's very much yours."

Bennett scoffs. "She looks like she'd be a great ex-girlfriend, I'll give you that, but she's insufferable. And she has a cat! You know how I feel about those fleabags. I've never met a nice one, and they stomp all over you with their gritty, shit-covered paws too. Useless creatures. Cat women are an insta-no for me."

"Seems like Cat gave the insta-no this time."

"She'd have fucked me, Ezra."

"Sure looked like that on the plane."

"Whatever. Your girlfriend doesn't look like she wants anything to do with you either."

I take steps toward the door before turning around.

"That's not the same thing, and you know it. I have to push her away."

At least, I thought I did. Now I'm not so sure. If I can pull off the con of the century, I could at least keep fucking her for the duration of the retreat. If I decide I want more...

I step out of the villa. The sun has nearly set, casting a pink glow along the horizon. The gulls and pipers have retreated inland for the night, and only a few stragglers linger at the water's edge. I start down the beach as thoughts of Kindra wind through my mind.

Bennett catches up with me as I approach her villa. I knock on the door, then adjust my sleeves as I wait for her to step into the glorious twilight.

When she opens the door, she's wearing a long black dress that accentuates each dip and curve of her delicious figure. I want to get my hands on that extra bit of stomach and squeeze.

And I would, if she didn't have a bit of a distaste for me at the moment.

Her dark eyes scan me up and down, and the corners of her lips twitch as she loses grip on her million-dollar smile.

"You look striking, pet," I say, low enough that only her ears can hear. Cat slips out behind her, dressed casually like my brother. As much as he hates her, they sure are Tweedle-deepthroat and Tweedle-dumbass.

Kindra's hand rises to my face before grazing my ear. When she pulls her fingers away, I catch the glimpse of red on the tips. Realizing it's blood, I swipe it away.

"Must have cut myself shaving," I say. I can't tell her the truth. I reach for her fingers and wipe the tips of them on my sleeve. "Nothing to worry your pretty head about."

"I guess," she says, but she hesitates before looping her hand through the crook of my arm.

She seems like she'd rather I pull her teeth out one by one than take her to this party. I sure hope she can loosen up and enjoy herself. We're at a retreat after all.

The retreat owner—Jim Madigan—lives on the island year-round. He calls himself the Siesta Hunter, and he's a present-day Butcher Baker. He started by bringing prisoners to the island so that he could hunt them, but he ended up going a little stir crazy from being so alone.

I get it. It's a lonely profession.

Several years later, he started hosting these retreats to bring like-minded people together. This fancy mansion, which is located in the island's interior, is his home. It's a centerpiece, and a beautiful one at that, with massive columns standing like sentries in front of the entrance.

Kindra, Cat, Bennett, and I pass the large fountain in front of the mansion. In its center stands a woman gripping a severed head. Beside her, water shoots from a decapitated marble man's neck stump. In October, Jim likes to drop red food coloring into the pump. It's quite the sight, but his groundskeepers pay the price when they have to scrub the pink tinge from the marble each November.

The four of us pass through the columns and enter the house. Having been here enough times, Bennett and I take the lead and guide the women into the dining hall.

Soft classical music plays from overhead speakers near the fireplace. Jim didn't light the logs this year, and I'm grateful. We nearly sweated to death last year. This tropical heat and humidity are no joke.

I pull out a chair for Kindra, and she throws me a half-assed thanks as she plops down. She swipes a hand across her forehead to snag an errant bead of sweat, and I fight the temptation to bend down and lick the salt from her fingertips.

I ease into my seat and begin unfolding my napkin to place it into my lap. Kindra plants her elbows on the table and drops her forehead to her arms. She lacks refinement, but I find this more endearing than off-putting.

Bennett and Cat argued the entire walk over here. About the history of the domesticated feline, of all things. It was unbearable to listen to. No one should have that much to say about cats, let alone two people. I'm grateful for the silence that falls over them as Kindra and I sit between them. If they want to argue over our heads, however, this seating arrangement may need to change.

When I look around the table, every seat is full.

Except for the chair directly across from us. That place setting remains untouched.

The retreat owner enters the dining room, and all eyes turn to him as he struts to the table. He isn't in his finest attire, as he saves that for the last night of the retreat, but he's still resplendent in a tailored suit.

Kindra glances around the dining hall, then leans close to me and whispers, "Where's the guy with the mullet?"

"He's probably lost track of time. I'm sure he'll join us at some point. He was pretty drunk earlier."

Kindra stares at me for an unnecessary amount of time before she finally looks ahead again. I swallow as soon as her eyes leave mine.

"Welcome, Sinners," Jim says, raising his hands toward the ceiling. "I'm so glad you have all chosen to join me this evening." He looks toward the empty chair. "Where's Eighties?"

I clear my throat. "He was drinking down by the beach. He was pretty lairy when we left him."

"Right." As he sits at the head of the table in what can only be described as a throne, I don't miss the annoyed glance he tosses at the empty seat across from me. "Chef Maurice has been in the kitchen all day preparing a feast for us, and I would expect everyone to be excited and on time, but here we are."

Our attention turns to the front of the room as the two double doors swing open and Maurice rolls a cart from the kitchen. The first course is salad and when he sets it down in front of Kindra, she frowns down at the leaves drizzled in Italian dressing.

"I'm not a big fan of salad," she whispers as she pushes the plate forward a bit.

"Just put some on my plate so it looks like you ate from it."

"Does the chef care that much?"

"Cooking is his sole reason for breathing, so yes."

While the chef is busy placing plates in front of everyone else, Kindra transfers half her salad to my plate. I stab into the green lettuce and bits of mozzarella and baby tomatoes, then bring them to my mouth. I've hardly made a dent before Maurice retreats to the kitchen and appears once again.

He tootles around the table and sets a serving dish in front of each of us. When Kindra goes to grab the cloche, I place my hand over hers and guide it back to her lap. Her eyes go wide as she registers just how serious Maurice is about table manners.

Once Chef Maurice has placed the last dish, he turns to us with a smile and a nod. Everyone reaches forward in unison, and like actors in a play, we perform our parts and reveal delicate slices of roasted meat lying on a bed of mashed potatoes.

Before I can warn Kindra, she picks up her fork and knife and heads straight for the meat.

"Kindra," I whisper, but she's already bringing the food to her lips. And, well, down the hatch it goes.

She's going to regret that.

She can't be saved, but I still have a chance. "Thank you so much for your service, Maurice, but have you forgotten that I'm a vegetarian?" I ask.

Maurice flicks a pointed finger toward me and scurries back through the doors, disappearing into the kitchen.

With her mouth full of meat, Kindra turns to me. "Since when are you a vegetarian? I'm pretty sure I saw you double-fisting a cheeseburger before the flight here."

I'm interrupted as Mortimer sets down some kind of bean soup in front of me.

"You need to use the loo?" I say to Kindra.

"No," she answers.

"Yes you do," I whisper.

"I guess I do." She takes another bite before setting her utensils on the thick fabric napkin beside her plate.

"I'll show you where they are."

I help Kindra out of the chair and smile at everyone as we walk by. We follow a long, dark hallway lined with candlelit lamps.

"This is creepy," Kindra says, her gaze roving around the hall. "I think I'd have pissed myself if I actually had to go. What is this, a mile long?"

I pull her toward the bathroom and put my hand on the handle.

"You'll need this."

"I told you, I don't have to go."

"You just ate someone's arse."

Kindra chuckles. "I think I'd remember doing that."

"The roast."

"Yeah?"

"Do I have to spell it out for you, Kindra?"

"I have no clue what you're talking about."

I guess I do. "C-A-N-N-I-"

I don't get to finish the word before she turns and bolts into the bathroom. Without closing the door behind her, she flings the toilet seat open and falls to her knees.

"I cannot believe you let me eat a person!" she says between heaves.

"I tried to get your attention."

"Cannibalism deserves a bit more effort than a whisper, don't you think? Grab my fork and throw it across the room. Yell fire. Do something !" she screams as she wretches again.

"I couldn't make a scene, pet."

She raises her head and looks at me with steel eyes. "Make a scene? Make a fucking scene? I'm about to make a bigger scene than anything you could have done." She wipes sick from her lip. "And don't call me that while I'm vomiting up the contents of a person's ass. A human person."

"I'm sorry."

"And wait until Cat finds out!"

"Something tells me that girl would eat arse willingly."

She stands without taking her eyes off me as she steps into me and pushes my chest. "This was non-consensual cannibalism. You know that, right? I didn't choose to eat this."

"You dove right in."

"Because I didn't know Jeffrey Dahmer was cooking tonight!" Her eyes narrow. "No wonder you didn't eat it. You and Bennett both had burger bags at the airport. Vegetarian my ass."

"Many apologies," I say as I guide her back to the dining hall. "But I'm pretty sure the dessert will be safe."

"Pretty sure?" she whispers, her eyes widening as we enter the dining room once more.

We take our seats again, and I stifle a laugh as Kindra tries to hide the shreds of meat beneath the mashed potatoes. The bean soup is immaculate, though, and I make a mental note to request it again.

Halfway through the main course, Jim excuses himself from the head of the table. He's likely concerned about our missing guest. If he plans to find Eighties in his room or on the beach, he'll be looking for a while.

Because I lied.

Well, I partially lied. He was definitely drunk when I last saw him, but he wasn't lounging by the seaside.

Someone will discover the body soon enough. I don't know what I was thinking. When I walked by the Blood Grotto and saw his smug face looming above the water in the hot tub, his cruel words to Kindra had repeated in my mind until a figurative red curtain fell over my eyes.

I normally prefer for my kills to be regimented, with each chess piece placed strategically for maximum odds of victory. Securing an alibi typically occurs before I've even lured my target to his or her demise, but I killed Eighties in the heat of the moment. I have no cover.

Turning to Kindra, I clear my throat. "Listen, I need to ask a favor."

"After allowing me to eat braised butt cheek, you have the audacity to ask me for help?" She shakes her head with a laugh. "Ain't happening."

Seeing no way out but through, I push on. "I killed Eighties, and I need an alibi. Can you say I was with you before dinner?"

Kindra lowers her hands to her lap, and I can't read the expression on her face. Then she turns toward me, and her words leave no room for misinterpretation. "Absolutely not."

My skin goes clammy, and a light sweat slicks my forehead. For the second time in my illustrious career, I'm faced with the risk of exposure. I once allowed a witness to escape after seeing me, and I worried for years that her description of my face would give me away. But my face was one of thousands, and the police never put the scant pieces together.

This time? This time, I'm well and truly fucked.

There are only so many people on the island who are capable of killing, and we're all seated around this fucking table. Jim is a smart man. He'll have me sussed out before the sun comes up in the morning.

The rules for the retreat are clear. No killing fellow guests. If Jim knows I killed Eighties, not only will he remove me from the island posthaste. He'll also make sure Kindra knows my identity.

I pull my glasses from my face and wipe the lenses. "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important," I whisper. "Jim won't allow me to stay if he knows the truth."

"You should have thought about that before you let me eat someone's roasted ass meat. I'm on a mission here, and lying to the head of the event won't get me any closer to finding the Abattoir Adonis."

She doesn't realize how right she is.

Jim returns to the dining hall before I can say anything else. He takes a seat at the head of the table, then raises his glass and gives it a clink with his butter knife. An immediate hush overpowers the quiet conversations.

"My dear friends," he says, "I regret to announce that someone has broken my most cherished rule and has killed a fellow guest. Eighties was just discovered in the Blood Grotto, and while I'm thrilled the sacrificial slab has received an offering, I'm displeased that it is one of our own. Does anyone care to own up to this travesty?"

All heads begin turning toward me, and I can't blame them. By now, everyone will have heard about my beef with Eighties in the pavilion.

"Ezra, it seems the fingers are pointing in your direction," Jim says. "Would you care to say anything?"

I look at Kindra, pleading with my eyes, but she looks away.

"Eighties and I had a bit of a dust up earlier, but I didn't kill him," I say, hoping I sound convincing. "Like I said earlier, I last saw him on the beach when I was on my way to Miss Amato's room."

Jim places his glass on the table, then steeples his fingers in front of his mouth as he turns to look at Kindra. "If you were with Miss Amato, perhaps she can vouch for you?"

Kindra shakes her head and stands.