Chapter 3 Finder’s Keepers
Finder’s Keepers
RIPLEY
SOMEWHERE ALONG THE ALBERTA-SASKATCHEWAN BORDER
It’s pitch-black. I can’t see shit out here.
Normally I could use my phone for light, but of course I didn’t bring a phone, because phones ping cell towers, and pinging cell towers means someone can track your location.
I found a road map in Gabriel’s car, but it turns out I can’t read the damn thing. All those lines and numbers? I don’t have the patience for that bullshit. All I need to find is a bed to sleep in, and that’s it.
Well, after I bury the body.
Right now though? I’ve been busy picking out a name for myself.
Christine Annabelle Winter died yesterday in that bedroom.
Ripley is my fresh start, a brand new me, and all I know is that she’s heading straight toward Saskatchewan.
I don’t know why I picked that direction, I just wanted to get as far away from Jericho as possible, but it might not be so bad.
Maybe I could sling drinks in an old cowboy bar, really lean into the whole being on the run thing.
I could come up with a fake backstory, something sad to get men to fawn all over me.
And then I take them back to a hotel and tear them to pieces.
Jill the Ripper.
I kind of like the sound of that. Derivative? Sure, but every killer has to start somewhere. Or is it a faux-pas to give yourself a nickname, like George Costanza calling himself T-Bone?
I smile at my reflection in the rearview, gripping the steering wheel as I belt out the chorus to Kokomo into the night. You’ve got to listen to The Beach Boys after you decapitate your ex-boyfriend and stash his tongue in your getaway bag. It’s the rule.
That’s not weird, by the way. Plenty of killers keep trophies: heads, clothing, driver’s licenses, jewelry— Hell, Alexander Pichushkin made a mental chessboard, with each victim occupying a square. His goal was to kill 64 people, the number of squares on the board.
He only made it to 60.
So, a tongue? Not the weirdest thing you could take from a crime scene.
Maybe if I start making a habit of this it’ll become my signature. Men talk an awful lot, it’s about time a hero came along and shut them the fuck up.
I stare down at my bandaged hand, feeling it throb as I grip the wheel.
I managed to get the bleeding to stop by heating up a knife and cauterizing the wound all at once.
It hurt like a son of a bitch, but I wasn’t planning on passing out on the highway for some dumbass cop to find me and take me in.
I left my finger on the bathroom counter, and probably more importantly: Gabriel’s head sitting on the bookshelf.
The goal is to make it look like Adonis broke in, slaughtered the two of us, and left a warning behind.
My DNA being all over the house is irrelevant, or maybe even a positive.
The cops are going to take one look at those text messages and know exactly who was responsible.
And they’ll know I was just collateral damage.
I press down a little harder on the gas, relishing my newfound freedom.
I’ve already got a new name, which means maybe I’ll get a new look once these bruises heal.
I’ve always felt more like fractured pieces of a human being, glued together through careful observation and rehearsal of social norms, so the idea of becoming someone completely different doesn’t really phase me.
It could be due to my upbringing and the trauma I endured at the hands of my father, or it could be the way my brain is wired, but I think I’ve always been fucked up.
At the very least, I’ve been fantasizing about picking up a knife for quite a long time.
But with all that weight on my shoulders, everyone still expects me to be a pretty little thing and smile. Wanna know how? How to smile like you’re a normal fucking person? The trick is to squint a little, just the tiniest bit.
Makes people think you’ve got that light behind your eyes, just like them.
I glance up at myself again in the rearview, flashing my perfectly curated smile just long enough to feel accomplished before everything becomes flooded with red and blue lights.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
I whip my head around to see a fucking cop right on my ass and my stomach drops, my heart thumping so hard it feels like it’s going to explode. Psychopaths aren’t supposed to feel fear, that’s what the textbooks say, but that has to be wrong because I’m pretty sure I’m shitting myself right now.
Or maybe I’m just not the class of killer I thought I was.
I pull over to the side of the road, my hands shaking on the wheel as the police car rolls to a lazy stop behind me, lights still bathing everything in that rotating red and blue.
There’s a duffel bag filled with clothes, cash, a few wigs and zip ties in the trunk, incriminating enough on their own even without mentioning the headless fucking corpse jammed in there.
Of course, the pig is going to make me sweat it out.
He’s gotta be running the plates, probably going to figure out the car is stolen, and then he’s definitely going to haul my ass off to jail.
So now I’m caught in a debate with myself over stepping on the gas, and right into a high speed chase, or crawling into the back to get my knife.
Suicide by cop could be pretty gnarly, and either option guarantees going out in a blaze of glory.
The media could weave together a brutal but heart-wrenching tragedy.
I can see it now: A beautiful, young woman caught up in the world of drug lords and crime, corrupted by the devil and taken from us far too soon.
So long as they made me look good, I wouldn’t even mind being the subject of a Fifth Estate piece.
That’s some high calibre shit.
After a minute or two that felt like they stretched into hours, I finally see a flashlight bobbing toward the car, and I can feel my body immediately coil up like a spring: jaw tight, gritted teeth, and my heart thumping in my throat.
Even through the closed window I can hear his boots grind into the pavement, and all too suddenly there’s a bright light shining in my face.
I let out a hiss as I avert my gaze, quickly rolling down the window.
“License and registration.”
He’s young, maybe mid-twenties with slicked back blond hair and green eyes.
I spot the big RCMP badge on his shoulder, the emblem of a federal agent shining like a beacon.
He’s kind of cute, and I have to admit the aftermath of all of this has left me…
well, let’s just say I may even be horny enough to fuck a cop.
But only if I get to kill him afterward.
God, can you imagine the kind of power you’d feel?
Am I crazy?
Wait, maybe I can plead NCRMD.
Not Criminally Responsible Due to Mental Disorder, a lawyer's favourite loophole.
But then we’d have to prove that I didn’t know what I was doing, because the actus reus—
“Ma’am?” The officer snaps, yanking me back to reality. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Wh— oh, yeah. Sorry.”
I reach for my purse, cursing myself for not slamming my foot on the gas and gunning it while I had the chance.
“Have you been drinking tonight, ma’am?”
“No, sir. Sober as a judge.”
Oh, God. I’m going to fucking jail.
I flash him an awkward smile over my shoulder as I search for my wallet.
It seems to make him a little more suspicious, but there’s an uncertainty in his eyes that screams rookie to me.
My bet is he got put on late-night traffic duty until he works his way up the ranks to be a respectable officer— whatever the fuck that means.
All these sons of bitches are just as corrupt as the gang banger in my trunk.
“Having trouble?” He asks, tapping his finger on the doorframe.
“Uh, no. Sorry, it’s just… it’s in here.”
He turns the flashlight slightly, leaning in a little closer toward the car.
“Hey, what happened to your face, sweetheart?”
I swallow as he examines the bruises from Gabriel’s last attack, the light making my eyes water as I continue digging through my purse.
“I, uh…” I blink furiously before glancing back over my shoulder. “I fell.”
He gives me a blank stare in return.
“You fell.”
“Yeah.”
He sighs.
“You sure that’s what you’re going with?”
I bristle, feeling the hairs on my neck start to stand up. It might be time for that blaze of glory after all.
“Look, am I in some kind of trouble, officer?”
“Not yet, but I still need to see that license and registration.”
There’s only so long you can stall with a cop on the side of the road, and there’s no way in hell I’m giving him I.D. that directly links me to a less than 24 hour old crime scene.
“Alright officer, I—”
A car blasts past us, nearly clipping the cop and making me jump in my seat as it careens down the highway .
“Jesus Christ!”
He drops his flashlight, and I hear it clatter against the asphalt as he practically vanishes into thin air. A door slams, sirens wailing angrily as tires squeal; the smell of burning rubber floods my nostrils as I watch him speed off into the night.
I sit, dumbfounded, staring straight ahead, my hand clutching the knife still half-buried in my bag.
I can’t possibly be this lucky.
Terror gives way to relief and I start to laugh, tears are streaming down my face as I open the car door and take a look up and down the highway, one last precaution in case he had called for backup.
But the only thing on the road is that big, shiny black flashlight.
“Finders keepers, officer fuckwit.”