Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Ezra

I 've been in America long enough to blend in—just over twelve years—but no part of me has ever stopped longing for the rainy afternoons spent in a British pub. This place is a far cry from London, but I'm not here for pleasure.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket, but I'm a bit indisposed at the moment. It's probably just my brother calling to give me the flight details for the upcoming trip. It can wait.

I lean against the bar to snag the bartender's attention. That's what it looks like I'm doing, anyway. I'm actually trying to get a better look at the guy on the last stool.

He's pressed against the wall, nursing a pint of something gold and frothy. A dark-green jacket hangs from his thin frame and drapes over the back of the stool. It's nearly eleven p.m., yet he's wearing sunglasses. Indoors. It's likely an attempt to hide his bloodshot eyes.

Has he been losing sleep?

God, I hope he has.

His receding hairline does him no favors, especially when he could charge people to advertise on his massive forehead. A few reddish-blond sprigs attempt to bridge the thinning area over his crown, but his scalp still shines through. The nose above his thin lips can best be described as a cross between a pug and a pig—round and flat to his face, with a little point at the tip. His bulging eyes top off the look.

The bartender appears in front of me, and I lean back. I've gotten a positive ID, so there's no need for false pretenses now.

"I'll take a Negroni," I say.

She smacks her gum and shakes her head. "We're out of Campari."

"Gin and tonic?"

"Soda gun is busted."

Now I can see why this bar is so empty. "Just give me a gin on the rocks. That's if you have ice?"

She spins away from the bar, but I don't miss the subtle roll of her eyes.

I start toward the man against the wall, but a woman steps in front of me and blocks my path. Her nails stretch to a length that leaves me wondering how she wipes her ass. Also, she should have stopped bleaching her hair at home about four sessions ago. There's hardly any left.

"Hey, cutie," she slurs. "Where do you think you're going?"

Probably to the nearest health department for a lot of testing if you come much closer, I think.

The woman is the human embodiment of a walking STD. A crusty cold sore obscures the left side of her bottom lip from view. Judging by the scars and sores on her face and arms, she either has a compulsive skin-picking issue or a chronic drug habit. The veins in her left arm look like they've reenacted the bombing of Pearl Harbor, so I'm guessing it's the latter. They're completely destroyed.

She places a hand on my arm, and I can't wait to throw this jacket into the fireplace when I get home. "Don't you want to buy me a drink?" she slurs.

I try not to squint as her breath reaches my nose. God help anyone who lights a match within five feet of her. "I don't, but thanks for the offer."

As I try to pull away, her grip tightens. "Aw, come on. You look like a movie star, and I ain't ever shared a drink with a British movie star before."

"If you don't release my arm, you'll be sharing your next drink with a group of medical experts as they try to dislodge a chair leg from your brain. Or what's left of it." I shake off her loosened grip. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

I stride away before she can say anything else. I don't normally like to draw any attention to myself, but needs must.

The man at the end of the bar brings the pint glass to his lips and takes another short pull. I'm not surprised he's drinking, but I would have expected him to hit something a little harder after the night he's had.

I slide onto the barstool beside his, hold out my hand, and muster my best attempt at a smile. "Howdy, stranger. Haven't seen you for a while."

He turns to me, perplexed. "Do I know you?"

Ah, here it is. My second-favorite part of the dance. They should have called me The Chameleon, but Rasmussen already holds that title.

"Don't act like you don't remember me, Gary. We went to school together back at Georgetown High." I clap him on the back and lean closer, holding my hand in front of me as I lay out the scene. "I certainly remember you. Fourth quarter, we were down by a touchdown against the Riverside Bengals. Thirty seconds left in the game. Then here you come, bolting down the sideline like a madman."

A smile lights his face as I pull him into the farce. "Oh, yeah! I remember that game! We had a real rager that night."

I know nothing of the party he speaks of, but that doesn't matter. My foot is firmly in the door.

"A couple of the guys are getting together for a few rounds of poker tomorrow night," I say. "You should join us."

I wish I could have said tonight, but there are too many witnesses that might recall my face. You don't fly under the radar for as long as I have by making yourself memorable.

When the bartender slides my iceless gin in front of me, I put my beliefs into practice. She receives payment, along with a tip that is of a forgettable amount.

"Aw, I can't make it tomorrow," he says. "I just started a shift job, and I'm on nights. Can I get a raincheck? I'd love to see everyone again. I've lost touch with all the guys."

I'm well aware of his new job. And his schedule. He's playing right into my plan.

Before I can respond, my phone once again rattles against my ass cheek. It's not like my brother to be so incessant, so it must be something important.

"How about this weekend?" I ask as I stand from the stool.

"Yeah, I could do Saturday." He takes another swig and smacks his lips.

I pull my phone from my back pocket and swipe to answer the call. "I'll only be a moment," I say to the man at the bar.

Heading for the front of the building, I bring the phone to my ear. "Bennett, I'm a bit busy. Is there any chance this could wait?"

"Are we talking elbows-deep-in-a-vic kind of busy? Or muff-diving kind of busy? If it's the second one, send her my way when you're done." My brother was raised in America, so he lacks my refined accent. And manners.

"First, you're disgusting. Second, neither. I've got one on the hook, so if you don't mind?—"

"Two more just signed on for the trip."

I grip the phone a little tighter. With every new name that appears on the trip roster, the odds of meeting my idol increase.

HBK.

The Heartbreak Killer.

The vast majority of serial killers choose to enter this hobby as an outlet for some frustration in their lives. Strange sexual urges, a need for power—the reasons are endless. But a rare few are vigilantes like me. We kill as a way to end the suffering of so many.

And the secretive Heartbreak Killer is one of us.

"Names?" I ask.

Fingers clack on a keyboard, and then my brother says, "The Sunshine Strangler and The Cat Scratch Killer."

"The Cat Scratch Killer? What a stupid fucking name."

"To be fair, over half of the provided names appear to be made up. I haven't heard of most of these people. At this point, you may be the only one I have heard of."

I'm not surprised. Many of the attendees are probably first timers. Too scared to put down their real names, they prefer to make something up. By the end of the retreat, their MO will shine like a beacon in the night and tell me who they really are. I can only hope that one of them enjoys cutting a heart from the chest and leaving it in the victim's dominant hand.

Discovering people's secrets is a gift, really, and I use it often. That's why I'm a private detective. The only person to elude me has been the Heartbreak Killer.

"Have you received the flight plans yet?" I ask.

"Yeah, but they canceled the private flight on Sunday because there weren't enough people to fly out. Now we need to take a commercial flight on Saturday, spend the night in Miami, then catch the private jet to the island from there."

Well, shit. Looks like I'll have to cancel that poker game.

"Don't get your hopes up too high," Bennett adds. "The odds of HBK learning about the retreat are already slim. The odds of him showing up are even lower."

"It could be a woman. You never know," I say.

"And what if HBK turns out to be a man? You gonna get on your knees and suck him off?"

I shrug. "I might consider myself an equal-opportunity sex god for the right person."

"Sex god?" Bennett huffs a single laugh into the phone. "A blind gynecologist sees more pussy than you do."

"Are you kidding? With looks like mine, I'm spoilt for choice."

"Jesus fuck. Don't start with the British lingo."

I glance back at the woman who made a move on me earlier. "I'm only stating the obvious. I could have any woman I wanted if I actually found someone worth wanting. In the interim, I have my right hand and the internet."

The man at the end of the bar tosses back the rest of his drink and eases off the barstool.

"I gotta run," I say before ending the call and stuffing the phone into my pocket.

Gary approaches me with a smile. If he knew what I'd originally planned for him this weekend, the grin would melt from his face.

Then again, maybe I can still take care of him after all.

"Hey, man," I say as I slap my arm over his shoulder. "How would you like to take a trip this weekend?"