Chapter 2
Two
Ryell
My finger lightly traces the lines on the page, careful not to smudge the charcoal. The image leaps to life in my mind.
A woman, white, long hair.
Arms bound behind her back, the rope lashed around a tree.
Head down, her tresses obscuring her face. Her hair only serves to cover that she no longer has eyes, the orbs plucked from her head and resting on the ground, as if looking up at what I’d done to her.
A dress, floral. Long and lovely.
Feet bare with an ankle bracelet. Gold, of good quality.
The sketch is beautifully rendered, showing me what I want to do to my victim.
Perfect.
When I’m ready for a kill, I see the image in my head first, then I sketch it to bring that image to life. Only then do I find a victim, but they have to be what I’m looking for. Janet fit my sketch.
Now it’s time I execute it.
Execute.
What an apt word for what I have planned for Janet Ingram, the woman that’s tied down to the dental chair I installed in my renovated basement. As an oral surgeon, no one batted an eye when I ordered an extra chair, since I kept my own inventory.
My eyes trace the lines of the image I drew, my heart rate rising as I think about how I’ll kill her. It’s been a while since I’ve sliced someone. Feeling their blood drip down my fingers, the coppery scent filling my lungs, the bright red color tinging my olive skin.
I just need Janet to wake up so I can look her in the eyes as I take her life.
I chanced upon Janet quite by accident. She wasn’t even supposed to be in my clinic, but circumstances worked in my favor.
My patient, Angela Waters, needed an escort after a routine rhinoplasty since her husband had to work an extra shift. Janet filled that role for her friend and also for my latest sketch.
For a few days after she provided my patient an escort, I followed Janet, learning her schedule and breaking into her home to learn the layout.
She’s single, didn’t have an animal to alert her to my presence, and she didn’t have an alarm system. It was almost too easy.
Once I had her schedule memorized, I went and bought the items I would need to bring my sketch to life. Next-day delivery saved me a lot of hassle.
When I had everything I needed, I went home and prepared the cell in my basement for my guest.
A cloth soaked with chloroform pressed to her nose, and I was able to abduct her from her bed with no fuss.
She woke up two days ago in the cell I had constructed in my basement—I killed everyone that worked on it, so no one alive knows it exists—wondering where she was and why anyone would want to do this to her.
“Please,” Janet cries from where she’s tied to the dental chair. Tears spill down her face, streaking through her already ruined makeup.
Stress drains from my body as I take in the scent of her fear, the terror in her wide eyes blinking back at me.
I needed this.
I smile at her, letting her see the intentions in my eyes. She screams at the top of her lungs, her dread and anguish sending euphoria crashing through my veins.
Fuck, this is what I live for.
Her eyes lock on the small fifteen-blade scalpel I have in my hand. I twirl it around deftly, used to the feel of it during my times as a general dentist and now as an oral surgeon.
She visibly quakes, and her bladder releases, making a mess in her chair. I give her a dry look but continue to walk closer to her. Her wrists bleed as they wear on the coarse rope I have her bound with.
I run a gloved hand through the vital fluid that sustains her, wanting, fucking aching, to see more.
Like all my captives, she asked what I wanted and what my plans were for her.
My plans were simple: I wanted to kill her. Once I laid eyes on her in my clinic, my drawing came to life, and she was marked for death.
When her screaming stops, I place a gentle hand on her chin. She tries to pull away from my touch, but I tighten my hold. “Janet, begging won’t help. Your life will end today, right here in this room.”
She cries loudly, her shoulders quaking. Her sobs do nothing but send more zings of excitement pulsing through me.
“Why are you doing this?” Her voice thick, tear-drenched, her words barely audible.
I tilt my head as I look into her eyes. Eyes I plan to pluck from her skull. “Because I can.”
With that, I drag the sharp blade across her carotid artery, watching the blood spurt from the wound, coating my gloved hand, wrist, and running down my arm. The warm liquid makes tracks over my skin, turning the olive hue into a burgundy playground.
Janet pulls against the bindings, her eyes wide with fear and pain. I tuck a lock of hair behind her ear as she bleeds out, making her more perfect than she already is.
When her chest heaves its last, her eyes dim and focus on me, the last thing she saw before the Grim Reaper claimed her.
Sure she’s dead, I grab a melon baller and deftly pluck her eyes from her skull, careful not to damage the skin around her eye sockets. I gently place the orbs into a small glass mason jar, then I complete my ritual.
It takes me about thirty minutes to wash her body with a chemical solution to remove any trace of DNA and dress her properly. Then I wipe the trails of blood from her eyes and reapply her makeup, light and with a steady hand to mimic the sketch I first saw in my mind’s eye.
Finishing applying her lipstick, I step back and rake an eye over her. She’s beautiful. The vacant caverns in her face where her eyes used to be are mesmerizing. Like I was staring into her soul and took what I wanted.
Gently, I run a finger around the empty space, feeling the softness of her flesh and the give of her eyelids.
Janet made the perfect canvas, the perfect kill.
My gaze drifts down to her wrists, the deep grooves where the skin broke and blood pooled under her in her bid for freedom. A flash of white catches my gaze, the bone bright under the soft overhead lights I set up.
“You were more flawless than I could have asked,” I whisper to her corpse, thumbing over her visible radiocarpal joint. “Ready for your debut appearance?”
After I don new gloves and stuff the jar of her eyes into my jacket pocket, I lift Janet into my arms, taking her through my basement and up to the garage where my van is waiting. Carefully, I arrange her in the back and place the jar next to her.
I drive to a semi-secluded park close to forty-five minutes away. Traffic is light this early in the morning, and there are no cameras in the park, so I can take my time setting up the scene. I park by a bank of trees, looking around to be sure the coast is clear.
Rope in hand, I exit the van and pull Janet from the back, throwing her over my shoulder. I trudge through the woods, searching for the perfect backdrop to place my new canvas.
I find a stretch of pine trees that have some brambles flanking their bases, the lower part of the tree free of any branches, and the trunks thick and sturdy.
They’re far enough away from the running trail that Janet won’t be seen unless someone crosses her path directly in either direction.
Whoever ventures here will be in for a shock.
I wish I could see the look on their face when they see my masterpiece.
I toss Janet to the ground and arrange the ropes around the trunk the way I want them. Then I grab Janet’s wrist and drag her over before angling her body and tying her in my desired position. I arrange her dress so it hangs just so over her slim frame and attach the bracelet to her right ankle.
When I have her body posed perfectly, I step in front of her and adjust her hair, making sure it obscures her face. Then I pull the jar with her lifeless brown eyes from my pocket and, with care, arrange them so they’re gazing up at her, taking in her beauty.
A faint smile crossing my face, I survey my work. I pull her sketch from my pants pocket, noting the similarities and how exact the pose matches what I saw in my mind’s eye.
“Thank you for tonight, Janet. You were perfect.” I roll my shoulders, feeling relaxed after claiming her life.
Folding the sketch until it’s small enough to fit in my palm, I place it into her dress so it won’t get ruined by any inclement weather or blow away in the breeze. After one last long glance, I turn back to the van, leaving my latest work behind.
As I’m driving home, my phone rings, the vibration making it bounce around in my cup holder.
I don’t need to check who it is—only one person calls at such odd hours.
Sighing, I answer the phone and put it on speaker. “Jacob.”
“Hey. What are you up to this early?” My brother asks in a cheery voice that seems out of place after what I finished doing.
“I was…working.” Jacob knows what I mean.
He sighs. “Really? You were just out ‘working,’” I can hear the air quotes in his tone. “Why again so soon?”
My brother and I are the same but only in diagnosis. While I like to channel my urges into acting out my sketches, Jacob uses his to be a ruthless businessman. As far as I know, he doesn’t have a body count, but he doesn’t bat an eye at all the death I collect.
I roll my eyes as I pull my van into my detached garage, where I store this vehicle when I’m not transporting a body. Day to day, I drive a sleek European sedan worth more than most people’s mortgage.
Being an oral surgeon in private practice is very lucrative. Not to mention the life insurance policy Jacob and I received after my dad was finally declared dead. Jacob invested my share, and we made a lot of money.
“No reason,” I say, turning the van off but not exiting the vehicle. “I just wanted to. What do you want?”
“Alayna has been asking when you’re coming over for dinner. She wants to set you up with some woman that goes to her gym.”
I grunt. “Tell your wife I don’t want to date anyone.”
Jacob laughs. “I told her. She doesn’t care. She wants you to double date with us for some gala my office is hosting next month.”
“No.”
“Come on,” he begs, and I crack a small smile. “Be my wingman, and I’ll give you a condo.”
Jacob might be older than me, but he doesn’t act like it.
Even though we’re both missing something vital in our brains that is supposed to make us human, Jacob blends in far more easily.
He actually loves his wife, an emotion I can only muster for him.
If they weren’t on the other end of his ire when it comes to business, no one would suspect he’s a psychopath.
“Don’t need a condo,” I say in an exasperated tone. “You don’t need a wingman, you’re already married.”
“My wife will be talking to the wives of the business owners trying to kiss my ass. I need someone there to hang out with. You never know, you might see someone…interesting there.”
That’s an incentive.
“Who is the woman?” I ask.
Jacob chuckles. If anyone can get me to do something I don’t want, it’s my big brother. “Don’t know her well. She’s cute, though. Short, brown skinned, long hair, fit body. Could possibly get your dick wet if you play your cards right.”
I frown as I walk to my house. Sex isn’t something that’s high on my priority list, and I don’t often do random hookups. Jacob knows that. He also knows I lean more heavily toward men than women if I do have a random hookup. I like to toss my partner around and be rough with them.
I also like the feel of a dick in my mouth.
“Send me the details,” I finally say. “I gotta go clean up.”
“Take a break for at least a month, Ry,” he warns. “It’s getting hot outside.”
Translation: stop killing people without a cooling off period before you’re caught and thrown in fucking prison.
“Heard. Talk soon.” I hang up and head inside, wanting a shower.
I need to clean off any blood that soaked into my pants.