Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Jigsaw
Pants.
I need to put on my pants.
My brain might be slow to clunk its way into action, and it’s definitely having trouble instructing my body to move, but one thought keeps hammering against my skull—I can’t have this conversation with Margot while my dick’s swinging in the breeze.
“Can we…” I wave my arm toward the bedroom, but it doesn’t do anything to stop the prickling sensation creeping over my skin. “Talk about this in there? I’m not a big fan of enclosed spaces.” I don’t even give a fuck about admitting that to her. I just need to get out of this closet .
Margot blinks and steps back. Her lips purse, and a flicker of sadness or disappointment ripples over her face. That’s the last thing I want. I hurry past her and down the long corridor, leading into her bedroom. Once I’m free of the closet, I inhale a long, sweet breath.
What the fuck?
Pants? Where did I leave my pants?
There. Draped over the bottom of the bed.
That’s not where I left them. Did Margot put them there?
Who cares?
Images of Margot’s souvenirs dangle in my mind. Twisted trophies turned into ornaments.
Pants first.
My Margot. Soft and sweet. But also dark and deadly. How could I not suspect…anything?
Maybe I did, and that’s why I started calling her little lady death. Is that why I’ve been drawn to her since the first time we met? Have I always been drawn to the darkness in her even if I didn’t recognize it right away?
Nope. I’m not that deep.
I yank my jeans on, buttoning them and fumbling with my belt like I’ve forgotten how my own hands work. Why am I so rattled? I’ve killed more than my share of people. Watched my brothers kill. Helped my brothers clean up after they killed. I keep my own box of murder souvenirs. Who am I to judge anyone?
This is different.
Why? I don’t know.
I’ve only known one side of Margot—the sweet, shy, kind woman who captured my interest the first time I saw her. It’s not her kill trophies that have my heart tied into a knot. It’s the religious bullshit she started spouting that unnerved me. That’s where it all went wrong.
I slip my shirt on and scrub my hands over my face, still trying to make sense of it all.
“Are you leaving?” she asks in a low, uncertain voice.
I turn and find her with her back to the now-closed closet door—the door to so many mysteries I don’t want to solve.
But I kinda do.
Call me Detective Murder, but I want to know every last detail.
“No. I’m not leaving.” I might be freaked the fuck out, but I’m not a damn coward.
She blows out a relieved breath and closes her eyes.
“Meeoww.”
Gretel slides her sleek body through the open bedroom door and hurries toward Margot. She weaves herself around Margot’s ankles, then gracefully sits, wrapping her tail neatly around her legs. She tilts her head up and stares at me as if she demands I hear Margot out. “Meeorrww.”
Freaky-ass cat.
“You…” My voice comes out rougher than I intended. “How long have you been… doing that ?” I vaguely gesture toward her closet of horrors.
“A few years,” she admits, her gaze steady now but still guarded. “Only in…extreme cases.”
A few years . I stare at her hands, clasped in front of her. The same hands I’ve seen tenderly care for the dead…have also caused death.
“When you say ‘extreme cases’…”
Her chin tilts up, her eyes brimming with a mix of defiance and vulnerability. It’s possible I’m the only person she’s ever told about her murderous hobby.
“I mean exactly that .” She crosses her arms over her chest.
I force a smirk onto my face that probably looks deranged as fuck. “I’m still gonna need more details, sweetheart.”
She shoots me a glare that could freeze blood.
Fucking hell, she’s hot.
Have I found my Harley Quinn?
“Are you sure you want those details, Jensen?” The grave way she uses my given name snaps me back to our discussion.
“Every fucking word.”
She nods once and pulls her robe tighter around her body. “Let’s go out there.” She tilts her head toward the living room.
Yeah, this isn’t a bedroom conversation. I nod and hold the door open for her.
Gretel scurries out ahead of us, leading the way.
When Margot and I are seated at the counter, she swivels her stool to face me. Gretel bats her little paws at Margot’s legs until Margot leans over and settles the cat in her lap.
“What?” I reach over and rub behind Gretel’s ears. “My lap’s no good anymore?”
She purrs and rubs her cheek against my fingers but stays right where she is.
Margot absently strokes her hand over the cat’s shiny black fur. “When I was about eight years old, a friend from the neighborhood—a boy my age—was…” She swallows hard as if it’s too painful to share. “Murdered.”
The word lands between us like a cement block. Whatever explanation I expected, it didn’t start with the death of a kid.
“He was m…murdered by a…a…a predator in the neighborhood.” She stutters through the words, then takes a deep breath.
“Jesus. I’m sorry. That must’ve been awful for you.”
Margot nods, her face pale, fingers still stroking Gretel’s fur even as her gaze turns distant. “I…I saw him. His body.” She tilts her head slightly toward the front door of her apartment. “Downstairs. I…used to sneak around the house at night when I was little.” She lets out a soft laugh. “Aaron, one of my brothers, thought it was funny to teach me all the ways to avoid getting caught. That night started out no different than many others. I heard a noise downstairs and trotted off to investigate.”
Dread curls in my stomach. This story isn’t going anywhere wholesome.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my thighs and slide my fingers around one of her hands. “Take your time.”
She squeezes my hand briefly. “I wasn’t supposed to go in there. I knew what we did—the family business. But Mom always told me we helped families give their loved ones a proper goodbye. I didn’t really understand what that meant. Like, the behind-the-scenes stuff.”
“Yeah, eight seems young to explain the nitty gritty of funeral prep.” That sounds stupid to say to someone who grew up in a funeral home. When death is literally her family’s business. What do I know about what’s appropriate or not?
“So, I peeked. And I saw him on the table. Heard my mother talking about what they needed to do…” She swallows hard. “To cover all his bruises.” She chokes on a sob and shakes her head.
I wait while she gathers her composure. “My mother sent me back to bed. We had the funeral here. It was…surreal. All of my classmates were here. Some didn’t understand and made horrible jokes…”
“Kids can be fucking awful.”
She nods once. “After that, my parents were different. They’d always given me these really intense stranger danger speeches. But now they kept reminding me that sometimes the people you know—neighbors, teachers, friends of the family—weren’t safe either.”
Smart move. I remain silent so she doesn’t stop talking.
“At the time, I didn’t understand what had happened. But later, when I learned the truth…” She clears her throat before continuing. “It wasn’t until I was in high school that I looked up all the information I could find about what happened to Hoyt. That’s when I finally realized how bad it had been,” she finishes on a whisper. “How much he suffered.”
My stomach tightens. I don’t think I want the details, and I didn’t even know the kid. I can’t imagine Margot as a teenager piecing it all together.
“Hoyt and I used to walk to the bus stop together,” she says softly. “He was one of the only kids who didn’t make fun of me for living in a funeral home.” The corners of her mouth tilt into a sad smile. “He’d try to defend me when kids bullied me, but he wasn’t much bigger than I was.”
“Sounds like a good kid.”
“He really was.” Her eyes shine and she drops her head, hugging Gretel closer. “He loved to be outside doing stuff. I was allowed to walk down the street to play in his backyard. His mom was really nice. She used to make us these magic cookie bars on the weekends. Sometimes he’d come over here to play. Nothing scared him.”
By eight I’d already had a brutal education in how evil people could be. I almost envy the childhood Margot’s talking about, except I know the dark turn that’s coming.
“One day Hoyt didn’t show up for school. When I came home the police were here. They questioned me about the last time I saw Hoyt. I’d said goodbye to him on the sidewalk in front of his house the day before. That was all I could tell them.”
The guilt in her voice tears me up. I reach over and rest my hand on her knee, offering my silent support.
“There was a man in the neighborhood, Mr. Gade. He seemed harmless—always tending his garden and giving out candy. Someone must’ve told the police they saw Hoyt near Mr. Gade’s house.” Her hand strokes over the cat’s fur faster. “He was a man who lived down the street. Hoyt and I always ran into him. He was friendly enough but kind of…strange. He’d stop us to ask questions about school. I used to be jealous because he’d give Hoyt candy, and little toys. Hoyt loved Hot Wheels. I did too but Mr. Gade never had any for me. As a kid I was jealous. Later on…”
“You were just a kid,” I remind her gently. What kid wouldn’t be jealous?
“When I was eight, I didn’t understand all of it. All I knew was that Hoyt was gone. But later, I learned the truth about Mr. Gade…” She shakes her head quickly, as if she’s eager to purge the rest of these memories. “They found Hoyt in Mr. Gade’s house a few days later. Stuffed into some cubby in the walls like insulation.” Her voice cracks. “The things that man did to him…” She takes several deep gulps of air. “I briefly saw his body…but I didn’t comprehend…”
“Margot.” I slide off my stool and wrap my arms around her. “It had to be traumatic to see your friend like that.” What the fuck were her parents thinking? Why didn’t they take better precautions to protect Margot? Something so deliberate and cruel happening to a friend at that age had to be devastating for her.
“It was. The neighborhood was so different after that. Even though they arrested him rather quickly for Hoyt’s death, there were stories that he’d abused a lot of other kids over the years. Kids stopped going outside to play. My mom or dad always drove me to school after that. But the worst thing was that he was only sentenced to fifteen years in prison.”
Fifteen years. Grinder, the SAA of my charter, served that much time for a crime he didn’t even commit. Some fucking child-murdering sicko did the same amount of time? “Jesus Christ.”
“I remember how angry my parents were. They called representatives and judges. My father worked on the campaign for the man who ran against the DA in the next election. It was a pretty big deal out here.”
“I can understand why.”
Her lips tighten into a flat, angry line. “He didn’t even serve the full sentence. I had just graduated from college when there was an uproar about him possibly returning to the neighborhood.”
“Really?”
Margot nods. “His mother had passed away and left the house to him.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I wish I was.” Her hands clench into fists in her lap. “I was so…furious. That wasn’t justice . All I could think about were Hoyt’s parents. They never recovered from losing their son. They moved away. But that disgusting creature was out and about, free to live his life.”
The answer to my question is dangling in Margot’s closet but I ask anyway. “What did you do?”
She lifts her head. Slowly, a wicked gleam replaces the sorrow in her eyes.
“I started planning.”