Page 53 of With Spite

He looked amused that I’d done so, but kept talking anyway.

“It’s unclear whether the Corpse Dude killed this agent as a ‘fuck you’ to the man that said on national television that he was going to make his career on catching him. Or because he was pissed that you were hidden from him. He probably thinks that they helped you escape and they know where you are.”

“The FBI agents weren’t the ones that would be handling my new identity. It was the US Marshals,” I pointed out.

“Regardless, the FBI would’ve known some details,” Hux contradicted. “But that’s neither here nor there. I did some digging with Apollo and contacted a few of my friends that have clearance that can find them answers. Turns out, in the three months that you’ve been missing, there have been six deaths. All of them related to you and this case in some way. Your old landlord was killed. Your boss at the hospital. And four other women that look exactly like you.”

My stomach sank. “What?”

“Silas Mackenzie, he’s the national president for the Dixie Wardens MC, was able to get in touch with a few of his contacts. I also have a friend named Wolf that lives in Uncertain, Texas, that’s also an FBI agent. They’ve both come back with the same information. They think that the UNSUB…” He saw the confusion on my face and clarified. “UNSUB means unidentified subject. Corpse Violator is a mouthful, and I can’t even say it. It’s so stupid and generic. I swear to Christ, why can’t the media come up with something else?”

My lips twitched.

“Anyway, the UNSUB is pissed, they think. A profiler came in and determined that he’s unstable now that he hadn’t been able to finish your kill. He’s starting to make mistakes, and he’s killing women that look like you indiscriminately. They think that eventually, he’ll fuck up and make a mistake big enough that they’ll catch him. But until then…”

Until then, the death toll was rising. And it was all my fault.

“Shit,” I said quietly. “What does that mean? What do I do about that?”

“You keep living your life,” he ordered. “You don’t feel bad about anything, because this serial fuck’s actions aren’t your fault. It’s his messed-up brain and his actions that are hurting innocent people.”

I held up my hand. “I’m not one of those lame-ass heroines in my romance novels that does the gallant thing and give themselves to the serial killer so he’ll stop killing indiscriminately. I’m a realist. I’m not a fighter. I’m not a runner, either. I won’t put myself in danger for someone else, so you can calm down.”

He relaxed. “Good.”

“I also have no plans on helping with this case,” I continued. “My brother’s life is more important to me than just about anyone else’s. I won’t bring trouble to his door. I want him to have a good life, because he’s never had one before. It’s my turn to take care of him.”

“You deserve to be happy, too,” he replied softly.

I scoffed. “Being happy is overrated,” I grumbled.

He twisted his neck from side to side, causing the bones and joints to pop.

“Being happy is the ultimate goal in life,” he contradicted me.

I didn’t really see the point in arguing with him.

He didn’t know my life. Didn’t know everything that had happened to me.

I was seriously cursed.

So unlucky in life that I gave up a long time ago.

“My wants and needs are flawed anyway,” I brushed him off.

His eyes narrowed for a long moment before he said, “Why do you say your wants and needs are flawed?”

“Because I only attract weirdos.” I shrugged. “Or cheaters. I think that I’m just broken.”

“You’re not broken,” he growled. “Who hurt you?”

He sounded like this question was important to him. That he wanted to know my answer because it was integral to his happiness.

So I shrugged and told him my life story.

I walked to the fridge, because it was always a necessity to drink beer when talking about the shit show that was my life.

I caught up a beer for myself and one for Hux—my brother’s contribution to my fridge—and handed him both.