Chapter 28

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Margot

If God exists, He watches over the mischievous with affection. At least that's what I tell myself on these missions. Somehow, I haven't been caught yet. Maybe it's because I choose my targets carefully and for just reasons.

No one probably works all that hard to find the killer of child molesters, wife-beaters, and baby killers.

It's still risky. I could get caught. I could get killed . These are, after all, dangerous men that I hunt. I'm not like Jigsaw and his biker brothers, with their muscles and strength. I have to pick and choose my targets carefully and work out a solid plan.

I check the mirror of my rental car and adjust my short, black wig. Pin-straight, chin-length bob with heavy bangs that end right below my eyebrows. I even put in brown contacts. Tight black leggings and sleek, black high-top sneakers hopefully give me the illusion of a little more height. A padded butt enhancer and thin shoulder pads under my black long-sleeved cropped jacket alter my shape just a little. It's all about perception and illusion. If anyone remembers seeing a woman at Patrick's door, none of the characteristics someone might mention to the police have anything to do with me—shy, blonde Margot Cedarwood from Pine Hollow.

Little Lady Death. Jigsaw has no idea how on the nose that nickname is.

Thinking of him brings on a wave of longing. I miss him. He's sent me a bunch of texts since he left for Tennessee, but I still have no idea when he'll be back in New York.

I wish I could tell him about my favorite side hobby.

I've been watching the Horizon Inn motel for days. Every day since Jigsaw left on his trip to be precise.

Every night around seven p.m. a delivery driver shows up with food. Always a different driver. Sometimes it's bags of groceries, other times a pizza, or even just a plain brown bag covered in grease stains.

Once I knew his room number, I placed a small camera on the balcony across from his door, so I can monitor him throughout the day. He never leaves the motel room. Never lets a maid in either. Laurel was wrong about the hookers; so far, I've only seen food arrive at Patrick's door. This might be my easiest kill yet.

A car swoops into the parking lot. Music, loud and thumping. The car slows to a crawl as the driver reads the room number signs.

Perfect.

I turn off the dome light in my car and step out.

Here's the riskiest part of my plan. Running along the side of the building, I pop out near the bottom of the stairs leading to the second floor and scurry up a few steps. Large, unkempt shrubbery obscures the bottom half of the staircase, making it dark and shadowy. A perfect temporary hiding spot.

A few seconds later, the delivery driver approaches the stairs.

Please let this be the right one.

I grab the banister and act like I'm running down to meet him. "Oh, hey. Is that for Room 242?"

He squints at me, then smiles. "Yup."

I hold out my hand for the bag. "Thanks."

A frown creases his forehead. "Patrick…?"

"Larsen, yup," I confirm, giving him the correct last name.

"Excellent. Thanks."

"No, thank you." I hand him a folded-up twenty-dollar bill, hoping surprise at the amount of the tip will override any other details about our encounter, like the black latex gloves I'm wearing.

"Whoa, thanks ma'am." He grabs the bill and unfolds it, his attention not lingering on my hand. "You sure?"

"Yeah, I think he always forgets to tip in the app, you know?"

"Glad I didn't spit in his chili now." He laughs and darts away.

Gross. I sigh. If that guy's my undoing, then I deserve to be caught.

The hard part isn't over for me yet. I'm exposed outside. It's dark but anyone could walk up on me at any time. The motel isn't exactly deserted. I drop my butt to the stairs and plop the bag between my feet. To anyone observing, I could just be checking to make sure my whole order's here. Totally normal, right?

The syringe I pull out of my sweatshirt pocket isn't at all normal, though.

Chili, the kid said, right? I pull the two twine handles apart and peer into the bag. Chips, what looks—and smells—like several wrapped hot dogs, a tall white cup with a clear dome-shaped cover with swirls of whipped cream underneath, and finally a wide, white cup with a plastic lid—complete with ventilation holes—in the corner. Perfect, I don't even have to puncture anything. I uncap the syringe and plunge the tip into one of the holes in the chili container and slowly empty about half of it.

Enough odorless, tasteless fentanyl to kill a football team slips into the hot, smelly cup. Just in case, I pluck a napkin from the bag, wipe the tip of the needle and empty the rest of it into the milkshake. The perfectly swirled whipped cream at the top deflates a little but that shouldn't look too strange. It's sitting in a bag with a bunch of hot food, after all. Even if he decides not to drink the milkshake, hopefully he doesn't skip the chili.

I tuck the empty syringe and the dirty napkin in my pocket and stand. A quick scan of the immediate area shows it's still empty.

Time to make my delivery.

I hurry up the steps and walk down the long corridor, trying to stay in the shadows. I stop outside his room and crouch down to grab my small camera. No reason to leave evidence that could lead straight back to me.

Once I unfasten the camera and stick it in my pocket, I tap my knuckles against the door. My heart pounds wildly and an invisible band of fear tightens around my forehead—or maybe my wig's too tight. Sweat breaks out on the back of my neck.

"Just leave it!" someone barks from inside.

I pitch my voice into something worthy of a helium-drunk cartoon character and garble a few nonsense words.

"What?" The door flies open.

Face-to-face with evil, he's not all that impressive. Just another pathetic excuse for a human who enjoys taking out his anger on those who are weaker than him.

"Patrick?" I ask sweetly, holding up the bag.

His hostile attitude switches to interest as his gaze lands and stays on my chest.

"That's me." He opens the door wider. "Come on in."

"Oh, we're not allowed to." I giggle like an airhead.

"Aww, come on, you can break the rules for a minute." He snatches the bag out of my hand and peers inside, then back at me. "I just gotta grab my wallet for a tip."

A ditzy, and possibly deranged, smile spreads over my face, "Sure, okay, then."

I follow him inside, stopping to wad a piece of napkin into the lock so the door doesn't close all the way.

The room's disgusting—dirty clothes strewn everywhere, overflowing trash can of takeout bags, boxes, and wrappers—but Patrick seems to have no shame about inviting a stranger inside.

He sets the bag on a round table next to the curtained window and pulls out the milkshake.

My breathing freezes. Blood pounds through my ears in a steady, terrified rhythm.

He doesn't so much as frown at the wilted whipped cream.

Come on, fucker. Take a sip.

He pokes a straw into the hole at the top of the dome and sucks a long, frosty pull from the cup.

A slow exhale passes my lips.

Fentanyl is an extremely potent opioid. With the amount swirling around in that cup, he should feel it soon.

He smacks his lips and sets the cup down. "What'd you say your name was?" he asks.

"Ashley." I wait for his reaction.

A flicker of recognition at the name his wife chose for their daughter crosses his face, then disappears with a shrug of his shoulders.

Not one fuck given.

A wallet rests in the center of the table. He picks it up, flips it open and pulls out two dollar bills.

Really, you brought me in the room for two dollars?

He drops the wallet on the table and picks up the milkshake again.

Giddiness surges through me as he takes another long sip.

Lap it up, scumbag.

Still holding the cup, he approaches me with his arm outstretched, pushing the money at my face.

I swipe the dollars out of his grasp.

His gaze narrows on my gloved hand and his forehead wrinkles.

"What're you..." He blinks rapidly and sways on his feet.

"Thanks for the tip." I stuff it in my pocket.

As if he'd downed a case of beer, he staggers to the messy, rumpled bed and drops onto the edge. He sucks on the straw again.

The sugar rush isn't going to clear your head. A giggle slips past my lips, and he frowns in confusion.

"What's…" He clutches his stomach and the cup tips precariously to the side.

"Whoa, mister." I grab the cup. No reason to spill potential evidence all over the place. "Maybe we should get some food in you instead of all that sugar?"

"Yeah…gimme one dem hot dogs," he slurs and vaguely points toward the table.

"Sure thing." Keeping as much distance between us as I can in the small room, I scurry to the table, set down the cup and unwrap one of the hot dogs.

"Here ya go." I press the revolting onion-smothered hot dog to his lips.

His eyelids droop but he opens his mouth and takes a bite, sloppily chewing.

"How's that?" I ask, peering into his eyes. "Better?"

"No." He clutches his stomach and stretches his mouth into a wide yawn, like he can't draw in enough air.

"Want some chili?" I ask.

"N…no." He waves his hand through the air frantically.

I set the hot dog back on the table and stand with my back to the window, watching him struggle to breathe.

"Help…me…"

"No thank you," I say sweetly.

Wretched choking sounds tear at his throat. He slides off the bed, hitting the floor with his knees and flopping over on his side.

I approach slowly, still wary he might be onto me and faking.

"This death is too good for you," I whisper, staring down at him.

I'd rather wale on him with a baseball bat. Replicate the same bruises on his face that he left on Laurel's. But that would leave too many obvious clues. Police would be looking for a suspect. There'd be a chance I'd leave DNA behind. Hell, there'd be a chance he would've overpowered me and I'd be the one to die.

So, this way is smarter.

Cleaner.

And solves the problem. For good.

Vomit bubbles out of his mouth and his entire body spasms.

Almost time to go .

I pull a plastic baggie from my pocket and a small pair of scissors, then crouch next to him.

"Don't mind me. I need a little souvenir for my collection." I ruthlessly grab his thick, greasy black hair and clip a handful. "Be thankful I'm not taking one of your eyeballs. That'd be my preference, but it would raise too many questions."

His eyes bulge, as if daring me to scoop one out. The temptation gnaws at me, but I resist the urge. A missing eyeball would scream murder, not accidental overdose.

He tries to twist away, his torso contorting weakly, but he's too far gone to escape my grasp.

I sprinkle the hair into my bag. Without the root it'll be hard to get DNA from it. Besides, by tomorrow night, it'll be encased in a little resin ornament that I'll hang next to my others.