Page 11 of Vetted for Vengeance
“Oh, wow. Thanks.”
“Thanks?” He's thanking me for all this? His gratitude feels…misplaced.
I smile, hiding admiration from my tone. Not many people can outsmart me, and those who can deserve respect. Fewer still live long enough to benefit from it.
“I need to finish my task here. The reason we’re here in the first place.” I mutter bluntly. “I'm sure a smart boy like you doesn't need to be told what is going to happen.”
“Do I have to watch, or is there a cupboard you can lock me in?”
“You don't want to watch?” I tease, unable to think of a better answer to his bluntness.
“Just knowing they'll be gone is enough, thank you.”
“Head out of here and turn left. My office has a chair you can sit in while you wait. It's a little more comfortable than a cupboard, but it’s your choice.”
He takes my permission, instantly scurrying out of the room. Too fast for his sluggish limbs to keep up with eagerness to flee.
“Good boy.” I praise his shadow. He learns quickly.
Staying here would have destroyed his argument and instantly ruined his innocent, dog-obsessed story.
And I prefer privacy for these special moments.
Being a killer is one thing; taking pleasure in another person's agonizing last moments is a whole different level. Frank and Derek won't just die; they'll get the pleasure of watching their own deaths with their insides on the outside.
Live autopsies are my favorite.
Chapter eight
Noah
The room is dark, barely more than a cupboard with a desk and a chair. I sit in the chair Rhys directed me to and search through the desk. Half the desk drawers are empty. The others hold odd items. A pencil sharpener. An elastic band. A fork. A dozen other items with no obvious purpose.
I wonder if these are his murder souvenirs. I roll the elastic band between my fingers, wondering if it once snapped around some paperwork in the clinic or if it served some darker purpose.
It looks innocent.
Just something random he picked up at a scene. Or something he found in a victim’s pocket.
Serial killers always keep trophies in documentaries. Locks of hair. Jewelry. Driver’s licenses.
Rhys keeps a fork. And a pencil sharpener.
Somehow that feels worse.
These aren’t sentimental objects. They’re practical ones. Tools with a hundred uses, depending on how creative the person holding them is.
I’m strangely comforted by how deliberate it all feels.
The chair is comfortable, but the speaker is still on and I can't figure out how to turn it off. I try to sleep in the chair, under a coat that smells faintly of straw…and my episode of Follow the Vet has taken on a much darker tone.
I twist sideways in the chair, tucking my knees under the coat as if I don’t quite fit. Sleep should be impossible. I’ve been kidnapped by a serial killer and locked in his murder cupboard.
Yet my body is so used to exhaustion that it keeps trying, anyway.
My eyes close.
Open.
