Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Kindra

T he black cat stares into my soul as it squats in the litter box and proceeds to shit, its spindly tail flicking back and forth. Its ears lie back against its head, and its eyes stare into the distance. Whatever is coming out of its ass end seems to require more concentration than a calculus equation, because that creature is fucking focused.

"What possessed you to put the litter box in your living room?" I ask over the sound of kitty claws raking grit over a turd the size of a Snickers bar.

Cat—the person, not the animal that is now climbing out of the blue plastic box—shrugs. "I used to have two cats. The other would piss all over the furniture, so I put a box in every room thinking it would help. It didn't, so I had to get rid of him."

I blink up at her. "You mean . . ."

"What? No! I would never hurt an animal. He lives with a nice elderly lady now. Her house already smelled like cat piss, so I figured he'd be right at home. What kind of sick fuck do you think I am?"

"There's no reason to take offense. I only ask because you want to be a serial killer, and sometimes they use animals for...practice."

Her eyes go wide. "I'm well aware, but I love animals. People, not so much."

I agree with her sentiments wholeheartedly, but I don't say as much. I don't want to give her the wrong idea. This current arrangement isn't a friendship, as much as she seems to think it is. Allowing her to believe we have things in common will only bolster her belief that we should be pals.

As she retreats to the kitchen, I glance around her sparsely decorated living room. My eyes land on some mail sitting on the unbalanced coffee table in front of me.

"Your real name is Caterina?"

"Did you think my parents would actually name me Cat?" she calls from the kitchen.

Fair.

Picture frames line a small coffee table, and from the center, a creepy family photo stares back at me. Cat, her mother, and her father sit on a family couch with furry felines crawling all over them. There have to be at least five cats in the picture. It's mayhem.

"I thought maybe the feline fascination was genetic," I say as I study the photo of them in horrid nineties garb. Even the cats had little headbands.

No wonder she's a bit . . . eccentric.

My foot knocks into a box. She's lived in this city for six months, but moving boxes still clutter most of the living room. When I agreed to come over this evening, I didn't expect to sit within a cardboard fort. Maybe I should just move the conversation along so I can get the hell out of here.

"You booked our flights and paid for the retreat, correct?" I ask as she fiddles with something in the kitchen. Glass clinks together, and something spills.

"Yes, everything has been taken care of. How do you take your coffee?"

I look back at the litter box and recall that she has one in every room of the house. "I'm not very thirsty right now. Besides, it's almost midnight. I'll never sleep if I have caffeine this late."

Cat enters the living room and plunks down beside me on the couch.

I motion toward a stack of U-Haul-emblazoned cardboard. "You planning to move again soon?"

"No. I thought I might have to, but I got a job today. Now I won't have to give up my apartment and head back to Portland. Isn't that great?"

To think I was so close to ridding myself of the little tick...

"Yes, wonderful," I say.

"Don't you want to know where I'll be working?"

Not really, but I nod.

She holds out her hand. "Hi, I'm Cat. Your new personal assistant!"

I scream in my head. "The fuck you say. I have never and will never have a PA. I don't need one."

"I booked our flights and reserved our spots at the retreat, so I've already proven myself useful. I've also spoken with your boss, who agreed to pay for the trip since it's for work."

"You what ?" The scream makes its way to my throat, but I swallow it and force my hands to remain in my lap so that I don't gouge out her eyes with my nails. "I had vacation time saved up, which I planned to use. This isn't for work! Whatever happens on that island, I can't fucking write about it, Cat!"

The girl is unfazed. She just sips her coffee and smiles at me. "I've worked that out too. I didn't give your boss any details, but he knows you plan to reveal the identity of a serial killer. He doesn't know it's the Abattoir Adonis, but he'll probably give you a bonus when he finds out. You can get an exclusive interview, pictures...just think of the possibilities. And after you've outed him, he gets to spend his nights staring at a cell wall. The revenge is just the cherry on top."

"You consider jail time revenge?" I blink. It's all I can do at this point. "Do you know how many murder fantasies you've just wrenched from my grasp?"

"I mean, I just?—"

"You just what? Fucked up? Ruined my life? Destroyed any hope I had of torturing this asshole?"

Tears brim at the edges of her lashes. "I'm sorry, Kindra. I didn't mean to fuck up. I thought I was helping."

Closing my eyes, I begin to count to ten. I make it to four before the urge to strangle her overwhelms me. To prevent myself from committing a second murder this week, I stand to leave.

"Please don't go," she says. She sounds almost lovesick as she pleads for me to stay. "I won't do anything else without asking for your approval first. I didn't know this would backfire like this."

I take a deep breath and turn around before I reach the door. "Do you realize what you've done? It's so much worse than you realize. I can't interview or bring to light any of the killers at the retreat. They will have seen my face. I'll be dead before I write the first line of the exposé. Now my boss expects a big story, so I either have to forfeit my job or my fucking life."

"Well, while you're busy murdering, maybe I can come up with a solution to this problem. We could always?—"

"You will do no such thing. For the remainder of our time together—which will hopefully last only until the end of this trip—you will refrain from anything you consider helpful . Now, I'm going home. Email the flight information, and don't contact me otherwise."

The girl couldn't look more stricken if I'd actually struck her, but she nods and walks me to my car. I allow it because I'm not entirely heartless.

Part of me feels slightly guilty for raking her over the coals, but she stoked this fire herself. Now I'm left to make sure all the cinders are reduced to ashes.

"I'm really sorry," she says again as I slide into the driver's seat. "Maybe we can figure something out."

I grip the steering wheel and look into her eyes. " I will figure something out."

After slamming the door, I start the car. I need to get out of here before I become even more fucked than I already am. While I don't see how that's possible, I'm sure Cat can find a way.

As I pull onto the road, my mind is already whirling with ways to get myself out of this mess. My boss is a shrewd man. He'll likely fire me if I don't return from this trip with something salacious. I only hope I can come up with an angle before the return flight.

My mind clicks off a mental checklist as I drive. I'll need to do some shopping tomorrow. Never having been one for a hot-girl summer, I fear my wardrobe is a bit lacking in the swimsuit department. It's a five-day retreat, and I can't be seen in the same thing twice, so that means I'll have five swimsuits to toss in the trash when I return.

As for the activities...I have plenty to bring along in the way of weaponry. Throwing stars, my trusty serrated knife, my beloved garrote. The options are endless, and I don't get to use most of my arsenal because it doesn't fit with my MO.

On the island, though, I could be anyone.

I have exactly zero plans to use my usual methods. The risk of discovery is too high, and even in a crowd of people who are just as high up on the FBI's shit list, I have no desire to reveal my identity. Only one person could possibly fuck this up for me.

And now she's my personal assistant.