Chapter 44

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Jigsaw

Margot is the most exciting and terrifying woman I've ever known. So hesitant and concerned about running into girls from my past one minute. Then stone cold the next, reminding me she knows how to dispose of bodies.

Absolutely intoxicating. My perfect woman.

Adorable too, because I can't picture her hurting a fly. She's too sweet. Too sensitive to ever hurt someone. All that means is I need to keep her close and protected when we're at the clubhouse.

"I'm not taking more shifts at Crystal Ball either," I announce.

She tilts her head and sits on the edge of the bed next to me, tucking her leg up so it grazes my side.

I rest my hand on her knee, sliding my thumb over her satiny skin.

She's quiet, waiting for me to elaborate.

"I'm not saying I'll never have to work there again. But I didn't volunteer this week when Dex asked."

"Why? Don't you lose money then?"

Dex, or the club really, pays me well for those shifts. But I didn't factor that into my decision. "I make money with the club other ways. It's not a big deal."

"I didn't ask you to do that."

"I know."

She bites her lip. "I don't want you to be mad at me later."

"Margot. It's my decision. I just wanted you to know."

Is now a good time to mention one of the other ways I earn with the club is through our porn production company? Probably not. All of that's done electronically. I rarely have to see the girls in person.

"You realize I look at naked bodies all the time too, right?" she asks with a teasing lilt to her lips. "They're just dead ."

I sit and stare at her, then shudder. "That absolutely never occurred to me until this minute."

She stares at me, waiting for…something. Does she think I'm judging her? Or that I'm going to bail? "I know you treat them with respect and care, Margot."

"Thank you."

"You can always tell me anything."

She glances at her closet door. "Since you've been spending a lot of time here lately, you can leave some things here. If you want."

"Already left my toothbrush in the bathroom."

She winces. "Yeah, I had to get you a new one. I caught Gretel gnawing on yours."

"What?" I laugh for a solid minute. "Glad you caught her before I used it."

"Anyway," she says. "Are you a fold stuff and put it in a dresser guy? Or hang everything up?"

"Uh, both?"

She nods once. "I'll move stuff out of that dresser." She points to a large multi-drawer piece of furniture across from the foot of the bed. "I have more drawers and stuff in my closet. And I can clear a space for you right inside the door."

My heart pumps a little faster. I've never wanted to share closet space—or any space, really—with a woman before.

She pats my thigh. "Come shower with me?"

"Don't have to ask me twice."

Laughing, she hurries out of the bedroom. Maybe she wasn't kidding about wanting me to chase her down.

"Can you bring me a robe?" Margot calls from the hallway.

"You know I prefer you naked." And in the spirit of her beautiful nakedness, I snatch a condom off the nightstand in case I get the urge to nail her to the shower wall with my cock.

"It's in the closet behind the door!" she shouts.

Closet behind the door? My eyes dart to the long, narrow closet she mentioned clearing out for me. I swing the door open, surveying the space, mentally measuring it again.

This house is like a labyrinth, each level occupying space in ways that defy logic, as if the walls themselves are playing tricks. It's even weirder than the eighteenth century homestead of horrors I grew up in.

The closet's a long, dark corridor. Above me, a string dangles, and I pull it. Bright yellow light flares, illuminating the space, chasing away the shadows but not making the closet seem any less strange.

Clothes. So many clothes hang from rods and colorful hangers. Different clothes. Lots of black on one side of the closet. All bright colors on the other. Dresses and cardigans. Leggings and sweatshirts. Like each of Margot's personalities has its own wardrobe. Not sure how she plans to make room for my sad little collection of T-shirts, jeans, sweats, and flannels.

No bathrobe in sight, yet.

I move farther into the long, deep corridor that seems to open up into a wider square at the end. Creating a T-shaped room. What a strange fucking house. No wonder she compared it to the Winchester Mystery House.

Maybe this was originally used as a nursery? A room close to the main bedroom, connected by a hallway, that was then converted into a closet when she had the place remodeled? No, the original builders wouldn't have placed a main bedroom on the third floor. Would they? What do I know? I'm a biker, not a fucking architect.

I pull another string that illuminates the far end of the closet. Shoes. Enough shoes to fill a damn store. Lots of heels. Lots of urban-style sneakers in a variety of colors. My girl really likes bright colors on her feet.

To the right there's a desk with a mirror over it and makeup scattered all over the top. Two big ring lights on either side of the desk probably help brighten the space so she doesn't do her makeup Dr. Frank-N-Furter style. A shelf with a few different styles of wigs. Huh. I can't picture Margot wearing a wig. Maybe she's really into dressing up for Halloween?

No dust or cobwebs in here. She uses the space often. I turn to investigate the other end of the T shape. One wall is just a long mirror. Across from it, little pegs and hooks have been affixed to the wall to create a display of hair accessories. Barrettes, bows, scrunchies, clips, all sorts of things I can't even identify. Funny, since so far, I've only seen her use simple elastics and a few fancy hairpins. Under that stands a tall, ornate chest made of cherry wood and brass hardware. A jewelry armoire. Rooster's aunt had a similar piece of furniture where she stored jewelry and other sentimental items.

Above all of that, some sort of rod hangs down from the ceiling. Odd, opaque, marble-like crystals hang like pendants suspended from thin velvet ribbons about eye-level for me. Ornaments?

Wait, is the first one an eyeball ?

No, that's nuts. It's probably some Halloween decoration from a discount home store. My girlfriend doesn't have an eyeball hanging in her closet, for fuck's sake.

She does have access to a lot of bodies.

Jesus Christ, now I'm doing what everyone else has done to her. Assume the worst because of her job. Besides, even if it really is an eyeball, who am I to criticize? I collect pinky fingers from people I've murdered for my club. And I've got a jar full of my father's teeth stored in an old trunk in my closet. Maybe Margot collects weird shit. Everyone needs a hobby.

I pluck one of the other ornaments between two fingers and study it. Clear glass, maybe? And what looks like…hair clippings suspended inside? I release it and it sways back and forth. Creepy. I understand why she keeps them hidden here. I grab another ornament, This one's not suspended by velvet. It looks more like a shoelace or more specifically, a round boot lace. Same strange hair clippings inside. Another one has the hair and what looks like a fucking tooth encased in it. This part of the closet dead-ends. Unless I've totally lost my bearings, I think the back of the hall closet must be on the other side of the wall.

Between that and the armoire with the freaky ornament collection, there's a flat space with nothing. Margot has every inch of wall space in this closet covered with something . The blank space seems strange. I press my palm flat against the dark-stained wood. The faint edge of a seam scrapes along my fingers and I push.

A piece of the wall swings open. No, not the wall. A hidden door. Similar in size to a cupboard. Someone Margot's height can probably stand inside but I'd have to duck.

Keenly aware that I'm naked and exploring hidden compartments in my girlfriend's home, I swing the door shut. Never mind how much I hate small, dark, confined spaces. With my luck, I'll walk through it and somehow end up in her cousin Paul's dining room with a condom in my hand and my dick on display. That's not the impression I want to make on her family.

"Jigsaw?" Margot's voice comes from what seems like miles away. "Where are you? The shower's getting cold."

Keeping my distance from the "ornaments" I return to the long corridor leading back to Margot's bedroom.

And bump right into her.

Hair damp and a plaid flannel bathrobe wrapped around her body, she stares up at me with alarm flashing in her eyes. "What are you doing back here?"

When I don't answer right away, she cocks her head.

"I was looking for your robe," I say.

She turns slowly and points. "It was right inside on that hook by the door. You didn't need to come all the way down here."

Breathing hard, I just stare at her.

Ask about the eyeball? Or pretend I didn't see it?

"This closet is something else. Was it another room or something originally?" I step forward, but she's blocking my path.

Her gaze drops to my fist. "What's in your hand?"

I slowly uncurl my fingers, revealing the crumpled condom packet. "In case we got frisky in the shower." My voice comes out flat and hollow, the furthest thing from frisky imaginable.

My heart pounds with the need to get out of the closet. To grab Margot and drag my beautiful, sweet, innocent woman away from whatever's back there in the corner.

No. I can't run. From the day I returned to my father's farm, whipped him raw and slit his throat, I've never hidden from anything. I do whatever my club asks, get bloody when I need to, and protect the people I care about without hesitation.

I back up a few steps. Margot follows.

I reach up and tap a fingernail against the eyeball ornament. "What the fuck is this?"

Please say a cheap ornament from The Dollar Tree. Please don't tell me you keep the eyeballs of your clients .

The unhinged version of Margot who's peeked out from time to time makes a full appearance. "If your eye causes you to sin, pluck it out, right?" She beams wide and bright.

A chill runs over me. Obviously, she's referencing a biblical quote but it doesn't explain why there's an eyeball in her closet . And the sin talk reminds me a little too much of my father.

"I'm familiar with the concept," I say slowly. "And all the ways anything from the Bible can be twisted to fit someone's needs. Believe me."

"I believe you." She nods and seems to drift into thought, weighing several explanations. "Remember how you told me your father is scattered across the country? So he can never hurt anyone again?"

A dark cloud of impending doom fills the small space around us.

I claw at my throat while trying to hang onto my sanity. "I told you that because I trust you."

"And I trust you ." She tips her head back and studies me. "I struggle with this all the time." She paces in front of the armoire, keeping her eyes fixed on the ornaments above her. "I'm supposed to offer comfort to our clients and their families. I see things no one should ever see. Things bad people do to innocents. I have to sit through sermons all the time. And when someone pulls quotes from Genesis and claims they're about God's love, I want to rip out my hair and scream."

"‘Now I know that you fear God, since you have not withheld your son from me.'" The ancient line I couldn't have recited yesterday if someone held a gun to my head suddenly falls from my lips.

"Yes." She whirls around. "What Abraham does is evil. If someone did that today, they'd end up in jail."

I thought being trapped in the elevator with a casket was my worst nightmare. But discussing the Old Testament in a narrow closet with my girlfriend, when t here's an eyeball pendant swinging from the ceiling , just shot to the top of my things I never, ever want to do list.

"Not always," I say.

She stops and a smile worthy of the most unhinged version of Harley Quinn lights up her face. "Exactly."

What the fuck? "Uh, I kind of agree with you but that doesn't explain why you have a fucking eyeball pendant in your closet."

"It's from my first kill." Red splotches spread over her cheeks. "My last one was while you were in Tennessee."

Her last one?

How many were there in between?

I stare at her. She's dead fucking serious. This isn't an elaborate prank. My sweet, soft woman who cares so compassionately for the dead, wears quirky pins, asked me to teach her about sex, and looks like innocence personified, is a fucking serial killer .

My stomach twists in horror, a cold sweat breaking out across my skin. She's not a slightly kooky woman who collects pieces of her clients—that would actually be preferable.

She murders people.

The sledgehammer of truth slams into my body, knocking the air from my lungs.

Shattering everything I thought I knew about my woman into a million pieces.