Make Me (The Silent Hollow)

Chapter 1

ONE

Heaven Was Full (I’m Headed Straight to Hell) - TX2

Killing a person is remarkably easy. It feels wrong how easy it is. All those memories, favorite meals, bad singing, family vacations—gone in an instant.

Well. I try to make it longer than an instant. It’s more fun that way.

I slam my brass knuckles back down into the face of the man in front of me. He’s on his knees in the dirt, trying to get away, but there’s nowhere to run. It’s midnight in the middle of a nature preserve.

I hit him again and again, following the man as he crumples to the ground. Every time I hit him, it sounds like punching a wet bag of rice. I hit him everywhere except the eyes. I know the rules.

I don’t bother wearing gloves. The instant the brass knuckles cut through the rubber, I get grossed out by the blood squishing between my skin and the glove.

Excitement buzzes right under my skin. I feel it, tingling up my arms and into my palms. The chill from the spring air hovers on top of my skin, unable to get to me.

Nothing can get to me. Not right now. I’m in control.

I slam my boot into the man’s torso. He’s twitching. I must have knocked him out. Whoopsie.

Not enough. It’s not enough.

I heave for breath, pacing in front of his prone form, waiting for him to wake up. My knuckles are warm and sticky. Like I dipped them in pancake syrup right off the warmer.

Fucking gross. I did not need that image. I hate sticky things.

I shake my hands to get rid of the buzzing right as the man groans.

“Oh, hello, sunshine!” I can’t keep the excitement out of my voice. In the dim light from the moon, I see the fucker twitch. He’s old. Sixty-four, to be exact. With long, white hair that goes down to his shoulders and crazy eyes. Eyes that are still intact. Can’t say that for the rest of his face.

I lean down, sucking in a breath, smelling the spring dirt, the coppery blood, and…pancake syrup? I shake my head. Fuck. Can’t get that out of my head now. I have a way of ruining things for myself. Call it a special talent.

I roll him over. The man is wheezing for breath. It sounds wet.

I lean into him, gripping his hair and yanking him to me. Once he’s close, I whisper a message into his ear, then drop him to the ground.

True fear enters the man’s eyes. Something about the pleading look snapping into the realization that I am his god makes a tingle run down my chest and straight to my dick. I grin.

“It’s time, Summerman.” I grab the insert from the bulletproof vest I brought with me and toss it on the ground by his head. I kept it from when I was a cop. And by kept, I mean I stole it when I quit.

Hey. We can’t all make our parents proud.

I grip Summerman’s head and yank it over the body armor. Then, I grab the pistol from my waistband and jab it into his mouth. The power makes me feel heady. I smile down at the man. “You have the right to remain silent.”

Then, I pull the trigger.

It’s messy but not as bad as you’d expect. Hollow Point bullets are designed to expand and break apart as soon as they hit the body, causing as much internal damage as possible. But, being that this is a contact shot and my pistol is a 40 cal, the bullet does go out the back of his head. Hence, the bulletproof insert. I don’t want to go digging for the bullet, especially not in the woods. Getting dirt under my nails bothers me. Also, if I were to lose that bullet or the casing, things could get a little dicey. I don’t need the cops running forensics on them, getting my gun, and finding a match.

I stare down at Summerman’s body. His mouth is open, blood seeping out of it, and his right eye is a bloody mess.

“I knew it!” I whirl. “Pirate eye! Mark me down for a win.” I gesture at my bag. “Gonna need an eye patch, ey matey?”

The woods are silent. Victory runs through me. It’s always the best right after I kill them.

I suck in a breath. The woods remain quiet and dark.

I want to yell. Get someone to celebrate with me. Or fight me. I want to bring Summerman back to life so I can do it again. And again and again and again.

I dart to my bag, realizing that my stuffed highland cow is on top of the bottle of Hydrofluoric acid, and my hands are covered in blood. I grab my cow with my elbows, carefully putting him to the side, then snatch up the bottle.

I’d been watching Summerman for days, waiting for a chance to get him alone. If you want to get away with killing someone, doing it alone is the key. Well, a few other things, too, but for the love of god, don’t do it in front of anyone. So when Summerman came out to the woods alone at night? It was my time. There wasn’t another car in the lot, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t meeting someone. I mean, this area used to be known for gay hookups. Old church-goers would meet here after service and jack each other off. The cops got enough complaints that the sheriff’s department put up trail cams and caught them doing it. I used to work two counties over—don’t murder where you eat, or however the saying goes—but the deputies still enjoyed showing me the videos of men jacking each other off. And I couldn’t look away. I was horrified that they would do that. I mean, why? The sheriff’s department even put music over the video so their hands were moving on beat.

Fucking gay.

But that happened years ago on the other side of the park. Right now, I won’t look a gift murder in the mouth.

I dart back over to Summerman’s body, yank the vest out from under him, and grab the bullet. It went right through him and into the vest. I dig it out, and it takes me a second to grab it because it’s so slippery with brain matter.

The casing takes a hot second to find. I don’t have my phone with me, so it’s hard to fucking see. I spend a fucking annoying length of time running my hands over the dirt, trying to see in the dark. The cold starts to seep in, making it past the numb buzzing.

It always works this way. The heat goes away faster than before. I swear it’s faster every time.

As a rush of wind moves over me, the hair on my arms sticks up. I freeze, eyes locked on the dirt.

Suddenly, I realize that the forest is oddly silent. Is it too silent? I stop breathing, trying to listen. There’s the rustle of branches as the wind moves through them. Nothing else.

I shake my head. I’m being dumb. It was this silent before. It’s a fucking forest in the dead of night. Of course it’s gonna be quiet. Finally, I brush up against the casing and snatch it up. I drop it and the bullet in my pocket. I’ll destroy them elsewhere. Metal takes longer to dissolve than flesh.

It takes a few trips back to the car to get all the acid I need. I also put on gloves and lug a water trough out. It sucked getting into the backseat of my Honda Civic, but not as bad as a bloody body. Have you ever tried to stuff a full-grown body into the backseat?

As a former cop, I’d advise you not to answer that question.

Dissolving a body in acid is wildly inconvenient. But it’s one of the only solutions I have available at the moment. Pigs were another option, but I’m not friends with any pig farmers.

Clearly, I need better friends.

I yank my respirator on. I can’t get Summerman’s whole body in the tub at first, so I start with his head. While his body is soaking, I strip—which is quite annoying with the respirator—and toss my clothes and shoes in with him. His blood is all over them, so I change into my spare set of clean, evidence-free sweats and a hoodie.

The heat is gone. The vibration running under my skin is almost out of reach, and I feel empty.

I toss a stick at the tub. It bubbles but does nothing to bring the high back. I need a drink. I need a drink and a fucking shower.

Fuck. When did it get so cold? The wind changes, and I’m not sure if it’s the temperature or me, but a shiver runs over me again.

It takes longer than is convenient for Summerman’s body to dissolve. It’s not fully done by the time the trough gives way. Which is fine. With gloves on, I bury the rest of him. With the damage done to his flesh and bones, it’ll be hard to determine a cause of death. Other than death by human bath bomb.

It takes even longer to bury the tub in a separate location. I can’t make things easy, as my ex would always say. By the time I walk back to the car, I swear I feel eyes on me.

I whirl, but there’s no one there. Fuck. I’m being paranoid.

I fling my backpack into the car and slam the door. I barely hear it. The numbness is creeping in, and along with it, cold.

But I can still feel one thing. Dirt. I have dirt under my nails. Under my fucking nails. I fucking hate that shit.