Knife to Meet You (The Hemlock Society #2)

Chapter 1

Jiya

Another shift, another man trying that sad little magic trick of slipping off his ring and hoping his conscience vanishes with it.

This one has good taste, I’ll give him that.

The kind of whiskey I keep locked up, reserved for customers who don't flinch at triple-digit prices.

But the tan line on his ring finger is practically glowing under the bar lights, and his eyes do that slow, undressing-me-with-his-mind thing that men seem to think is subtle.

He’s making a strong case for becoming my next project.

But not tonight.

The cocktail shaker sweats against the thin latex on my palm. Customers assume it's about hygiene, but really, I prefer not to leave fingerprints.

I slide the finished Manhattan across the polished bar. He winks, a predator’s lazy invitation. I give him nothing back. My focus is already three stools down, where my real prey waits.

He came in ten minutes ago, a pocket of stillness in the Thursday night noise.

Calloway Frost.

He moves with a grace that parts people before him without their noticing.

Most men would kill for a date with me. Ironic, since I’m the one doing the killing.

Seven monsters down, approximately 47,000 to go. I’m really making a dent in the problem.

“Who’s the whiskey for?” Jake bumps my hip as he reaches for the glass I just poured.

I pull the drink back before his fingers can touch it. “I’ve got it.” My voice is low. “This one’s mine.”

Jake raises his eyebrows as he follows my gaze, but backs off, grabbing Campari instead. “The photographer? Generous tipper. Intense though.”

Intense doesn’t begin to cover it. Three months of research confirmed what I suspected the first night he walked in. Calloway Frost isn’t just another pretty face. He’s a killer.

Takes one to know one.

And if the universe didn’t want me to eliminate him, it wouldn’t have delivered him to my workplace like takeout. Right?

I tap the cherry juice off my bar spoon. “I find him interesting.”

“Course you do.” Jake’s eyes flick to my hair. “Matches your aesthetic. What color is that anyway? Electric bubblegum?”

“Pink Killer.” I twirl a strand of hair between gloved fingers. Last week it was midnight blue, the week before lavender. The hair stays consistent only in its inconsistency.

Jake leans into my personal space, his cologne filling the narrow gap between us.

“So when are you going to let me take you out?” He polishes a glass with unnecessary focus, stealing glances at me. “There’s this new Thai place on Newbury. Heard the chef worked at Nahita before it closed.”

His words land, and I feel...nothing. Like always. It’s a dead circuit. A signal with no receiver. I’ve watched people fall in love my whole life, seen them go on dates like it’s a seasonal flu they’re all susceptible to. My immune system, apparently, is flawless.

I reach for a sprig of fresh mint from the prep station. “Your girlfriend might object.”

“No girlfriend.”

I let a small, dismissive smile play on my lips.

“And ruin this beautiful workplace dynamic? Dream on.”

“Your loss.” He shoots me a pair of finger guns, the gesture so hopelessly boyish it’s almost charming in a pathetic sort of way. He turns to a customer waving for his attention.

My loss. The words hang in the air for a second, meaningless. There is no loss in turning down something you don’t need. There is only the hunt. And my eyes are already back on the prize.

Calloway Frost. Not your garden-variety predator who drugs college girls. No, he’s the apex version. The Gallery Killer.

It’s not every day I figure out the identity of a serial killer, and getting rid of him would be like winning the first-place trophy in my personal Olympics.

He sits alone, examining each person who enters as if they’re subjects for his next kill. The sight of him sends my pulse racing in a way Jake never could. Those pale blue eyes miss nothing. Index finger tapping an exact rhythm against the wooden surface.

I set the drink in front of him. “Nikka From The Barrel. Seemed to suit your taste last time.”

Calloway glances up. Our eyes meet.

My stomach flutters. An alarming sensation I haven’t felt since before I started killing men. Those eyes… Pale blue like the sky, clear against his sharp cheekbones and that messy, dirty-blond hair.

Not that I’m noticing. Much.

“You remembered.” His voice carries that slight rasp, like he’s been talking all day. Completely unremarkable voice. Absolutely.

“I remember everything about my regulars.”

“Everything?” One corner of his mouth lifts in a not-quite smile.

My eyes track the movement of his hand as he reaches for the glass. Long fingers, elegant but strong. Artist’s hands. Killer’s hands. The small camera aperture tattoo on his wrist peeks from beneath his sleeve as he lifts the drink.

“Your usual order. Your preference for the corner seat.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Impressive.”

“It’s my job to notice details.”

“Is it your job to look so...” He tilts his head, studying me like I’m a composition he’s framing. “Vibrant?”

Heat prickles at my neck, and it’s irritating, like a rash I can’t scratch. I refuse to touch my hair or check my lipstick.

“The aesthetic helps with tips.” I gesture toward the jar on the bar.

Calloway sips his drink, and I catch myself watching his throat as he swallows, the clean line of his jaw, the way his collar falls open to reveal the hollow at the base of his neck.

“Does it?” He sets down the glass, his fingertip tracing its rim.

“Exceptionally well,” I say, my voice steady.

His fingers stop mid-tap. The silence hangs between us before he looks up.

I linger, wiping an invisible spill. “I saw your exhibition at Northside last month. Your composition style is unlike anything I’ve seen before.”

The liquor touches his lips again. No change in expression. No tells.

“Would you like to discuss it further? Perhaps tomorrow night?”

“Discuss what exactly?” His finger resumes tapping. One-two-three, pause.

“Your process. Your inspiration.” I write my number on the napkin. “Over dinner at Carmine’s. They serve an exceptional steak tartare.”

Raw meat. Let’s see if he catches the subtext.

His lips curve into a genuine, devastating smile. It transforms his face from a cold sculpture into something warm. “I know the place. Their meat is always fresh.”

Oh, he caught it alright.

The napkin with my number slides into his hand. Success pulses through me. The familiar rhythm of the hunt.

“Unfortunately, I’m on deadline tomorrow.” He places my napkin back on the bar, centered beneath his glass. “A magazine spread that requires my complete attention.”

Nordic god says no to dinner. Fine. His loss. Clearly, his taste in women is as questionable as his victims' survival instincts.

“Perhaps another time.”

“Perhaps.” He finishes his drink in a single swallow, places cash under the glass. Precise. Exact. Twenty-two percent tip.

I watch him stand, gather his camera, and slide into his coat. He moves with that unconscious grace some people are born with.

At the door, he pauses and turns his head, just enough to let me know he feels my eyes on him.

Then he’s gone.

“Motherfucker.” The word escapes my lips in a breath. Rejection, cold and sharp, slaps across my face. My hand trembles.

I press it flat against the cold surface, trying to mask the churn of emotions that Calloway’s calm dismissal ignites.

A woman in a charcoal pantsuit enters, eyes scanning the room before landing on me. Detective Ramirez.

Perfect fucking timing.

My heart doesn’t slam; it sinks with a weary dread. I pour myself a shot of Jake’s tequila, knock it back, and fix my professional smile in place as she approaches, her sensible shoes making barely a sound. The alcohol does little to quell the familiar tension coiling in my gut.

She smiles. “Rough night?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” I wipe away his fingerprints with a bar rag. “Gin and tonic?”

“Light on the ice.” She places a manila folder on the bar.

Victim Number Six stares up at me from a partially visible crime scene photo. Elisha Briggs, hedge fund rapist. I remember the way he gurgled when the paralytic hit.

I squeeze lime into the gin, watching juice drip like the potassium chloride I’d added to his nightcap a month ago. My hand steadies as I stir.

“Working late?” Ice clinks against glass as I slide her drink across the bar.

“Following leads.”

She slides Briggs’ photo across the marble. Professional headshot, all cocky smile and predator’s eyes.

“Did you know this man?” Her eyes never leave my face. “He’s the second man in six months to have his last known drink right here before turning up dead.”

“That’s terrible.”

I pick up the photo, letting my brow furrow as I study it with curiosity rather than the intimate familiarity I have with those features. I know the exact pattern of broken capillaries across his nose. I know how his eyes bulged when the paralytic kicked in. “He doesn’t look familiar.”

“Take another look.” She taps the edge of the photo. “He was here about a month ago, according to his credit card statement. Elisha Briggs.”

I study the photo with feigned curiosity. “We get hundreds of people through here every week, Detective. I can’t remember everyone who passes through, especially from a month back.”

“You seem to remember your regulars well enough.”

“The repeats, sure. That’s my job.” I shrug. “But a random guy from a month ago?” I raise my eyebrows. “That’s asking a lot.”

“I suppose it is.” She doesn’t move the photo, leaving it between us like a challenge. “His friend says he met someone here. A woman.”

“He probably did. People hook up here all the time.” I mix another drink for a waiting customer, giving my hands something purposeful to do. “It’s kind of the point of a bar, Detective.”

Detective Ramirez sips her gin, watching me over the rim of her glass. The ice shifts as she sets it down, her fingernail tapping against the photo.