Little Twisted Things (Buried #2)

Prologue

I picked the lock and slowly opened the door, stepping inside the home where the moonlight streamed through the windows.

Everything smelled expensive. Leather. Mahogany.

A hint of sandalwood lingering in the air.

I wandered through the kitchen, my fingertips grazing the cool marble countertop.

I made my way into the living room, which overlooked the ocean through towering glass walls.

The house was immaculate. Nothing was out of place.

Running my finger across the glass table, there wasn’t a speck of dust.

I entered what appeared to be a study. A computer sat on a large mahogany desk, with files neatly placed in one corner. I opened the drawers. Nothing. Something wasn’t adding up.

I climbed the staircase quietly and entered the master bedroom.

It was exactly what I’d expected. Neat. Organized.

Controlled. I noticed a man’s watch on the dresser beside a pair of silver cufflinks.

When I opened the closet doors, everything was arranged by color.

White shirts. Blue shirts. Gray suits. Black suits.

Raging OCD perhaps? I opened the nightstand drawer. Nothing. The second drawer. Nothing.

I started back downstairs, and something caught my eye. How hadn’t I seen it before? There was a tiny scratch on the hardwood floor. A few inches long. Barely noticeable. Directly in front of the built-in bookcase. I bent down and ran my finger across the mark. It was fresh.

Looking up at the bookcase, I noticed it didn’t sit flush against the wall. Most people would never have noticed. But I did. Predators always notice the little details. I stood back for a moment and examined it.

“What are you hiding?” I whispered.

I swore I smelled bleach. Leaning closer, I inhaled deeply through my nose, and I was right.

There was a bleach smell coming from behind the bookcase.

I started pulling the books one by one, and when I reached the tenth book on the shelf, I heard a click, and the entire bookcase shifted outward.

A hallway stood before me, and at the end was a steel door slightly ajar.

I slowly walked and pushed it open, immediately covering my mouth and nose with my hand to shield them from the smell of death and bleach.

Just like the rest of the house, the room was immaculate.

A stainless-steel table sat in the center.

Cabinets lined the walls. The counters held surgical instruments in perfect rows.

My eyes drifted to the shelves filled with a neatly labeled plastic bin.

Watches. Necklaces. Cell phones. Locks of hair.

These were the trophies of a killer. It was then that I realized the cheater I was hunting was also a serial killer.