Chapter 2
TWO
Blood Runs Cold - Rain City Drive
By the time I make it back to my apartment complex, the sky is turning gray, casting a dim light over my town. It settles over the nursing home, soybean field, and cluster of lackluster businesses I live next to.
Ah yes, fucking Ohio. The seedy gas station of the United States. Ugly but annoyingly necessary for industry and human-grade corn. And meth, if you count that as a business—which it is. How in the fuck did I get stuck here anyway?
I park outside, quietly shut my doors, and walk into my building. My place is on the second floor—a fact I hate to no end. It means I have to leave through our shared hallway to go anywhere, which means people who have the potential to see me leave and come back. Which means my alibi that I’m “sick at home” gets shot in the foot.
Which, by the way, is a stupid fucking metaphor. Why would you just shoot someone in the foot? To just leave them alive to tell on you? Unless you enjoy the idea of prison? Smooth gray walls, no privacy, maybe an inmate or a guard to shove something up the ass? No, thank you.
Anyway, the lack of control makes my skin itch. I need a shower. Badly. I drop my backpack on the dining room table and hang a quick left to the bedroom, passing a few pictures on the walls. Pictures of my family that I hung before going to the police academy and I lost all of my faith in the world.
I was embarrassingly naive, and that thought makes anger run through the numbness that has crept in.
Moving to the kitchen, I down three shots of tequila before ripping my clothes off and jumping into the shower. I crank it as hot as it can go. I want the water to burn my skin off.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t burn my skin off. Instead, I just get more numb. Which probably means I’ll be able to sleep without the persistent nightmares. But all I can focus on is the loss of rage. I’m fucking tired. Exhausted. Instead of the alcohol giving me a buzz, it’s putting me to sleep. And now I just want the bed to swallow me whole. I want to sleep for weeks.
I feel like that thought should make me restless. I can’t sleep for weeks. I have another body to my name. I absolutely cannot get sloppy.
I flop down in bed, naked and hot and restless. Something isn’t right. Oh fuck, I forgot Buffalo. I shoot up, dizzy a little at my sudden movement, and dart to the dining room. Snatching the stuffed cow out of my backpack, I move back to the room. Buffalo is a highland cow with soft tan fur and curved horns. He has kind, wide-set eyes, although he’s anything but kind. I notice a glob of blood in his mohawk.
“Fuck!” A stab of emotion pushes through the numbness, and I rush to the sink to wash him out. “I’m sorry. I tried to keep you farther back this time!”
Silence.
“Fucking hell.” I scrub until Buffalo’s hair is rough in my fingers. There’s nothing but the sound of running water and my fingers gritting over his hair.
I failed. I got blood in Buffalo’s hair, and now he’s mad at me.
I let out a laugh. It’s not a happy laugh. It’s more high and manic. Fuck, maybe that tequila did go straight to my head.
I bring Buffalo back to the room with me, close my eyes, and wait for the noise to start. Wait for the voices to tell me what a failure I am. To harp on all the ways I left clues at the scene. To tell me to do more, more, more .
But there’s nothing. I got blood on Buffalo, and now he won’t talk to me. There’s nothing but the hum of distant noise in my mind because, of course. I wanted to get drunk, but the buzz died inside me like a dick at the sight of a meat grinder. Although it’s been so long since my dick has gotten action, who knows? Maybe a little pain would turn me on. Physical pain, not emotional. My ex liked to try the emotional pain, and it didn’t work.
Pro tip? Never fall for someone you work with. Especially if she’s a smoking hot cop who likes her ex’s dick more than yours. Mind you, there’s nothing wrong with my dick. At least, as far as I can tell. No diseases, no lumps, and it’s a decent size. My ex used to compare it to her ex’s dick, though. Of course, that motherfucker had a giant cock. Because, of course, he did.
My phone dings, and I jerk up. The phone is right where I left it—on my nightstand. Huge fucking pro tip: don’t ever take your phone with you on jobs. It’s easily tracked, and by easily, I mean a pleb straight out of the police academy could write a search warrant for it, and wham bam, thank you, ma’am, you’re getting railed in prison for the rest of your life. Wham bam, thank you, sir .
The text is from my sister, Ember. She’s a few years younger than me and blind. She’s also my current alibi.
Ember: Hey, bro. Hope you’re feeling better. Let me know if you need me to Doordash you some meds.
The words blur together at the end, and I groan. I’m drunk without the buzz, and Ember is being too nice. She thinks I was home sick all night ‘cause that’s what I texted her so I’d have a solid story. I left my phone on the nightstand so the GPS would only plot here. But now she’s worried.
Way to make me feel bad about using you to get out of a murder. Because, of course, she would.
I’m not a good brother. Never have been. Sure, I took most of the beatings at home, but I was also a fuck-up. Ember was always great. The family favorite. Charming, social, and smart. Never talked back. Fucking annoyingly good at everything. Except seeing. That was the only thing I was better at. And look at me now (not talking to you, Ember. I know you can’t “look”). Now, I’m unemployed, with only enough savings for the next four months and then not a plan in the world. Probably dead. Or in prison.
I scrub my eyes. There’s no way I’m falling asleep now. I grab my phone and scroll through the news. I wonder if fuckface has been reported missing yet. I doubt it. He wasn’t loved. Alienated his whole family and then ran from his problems while living in his car.
I scroll across a news article about a murder in Cleveland. I sit up straighter. “Man Found Dead in Silent Hollow, Brutally Murdered.”
Did they already find me? I blink away the blur, reading the article. Nothing is familiar, and confusion runs through me. Then, I follow the article to a few more, all of which are linked to more dead men. Dead men whose cause of death isn’t listed, but Reddit tells me there was damage to the eye. Like someone stabbed their eyes out with something.
But I didn’t do any of those kills.
My heart beats faster. The eyes are my thing. Mine. Is someone copying me? Terrible copy because get it right. I don’t stab the eye; I blow it out from the inside. The eyes are the softest part of the head, so with the increased pressure from a bullet, they sometimes blow out. But to an untrained person, it could look the same as stabbing their eyes out.
Suddenly, my hands are clammy. Is someone sending me a message? Did they see me?
My phone buzzes again, and I look down. It’s an unknown number.
Unknown: You took my mark, Ronan Carter.