Bound to a Killer

Prologue

LEDGER

Iwatch her steps falter, slowing until she comes to a full stop. Her body tenses before she turns, hesitant, like she’s bracing for what she might find. She startles, shoulders jolting sharply, but it’s not me she sees.

Not yet.

She freezes, gaze snapping to the corpse suspended beside the kitchen island. The ropes creak under the dead weight as it sways back and forth. Pale, bloodshot eyes, locked open, seem to fix on her with eerie intent, almost accusatory in their stillness.

The rope’s pressure carves deep into the dead woman’s neck, cinching tight until the skin splits in a raw blend of blood and blistered flesh. Thin streams of crimson glide down her arms, dripping onto the once-pristine hardwood.

She draws in a sharp breath and holds it, rooted in place by the horror in front of her.

The air grows cold, and I’m close enough that I can almost see the goosebumps prick along her skin from where I’m hidden in the shadows.

But she doesn’t react the way I expect. No screaming. No running. Not even a breath escapes her.

How long before she snaps out of it? Before she registers the body swaying in front of her?

The seconds stretch. I wait.

She’s a ticking time bomb, one sound from blowing my cover to the whole neighborhood. I should act now. I should…but I don’t.

My eyes stay fixed on her like a moth to a flame, only darker. A sharpening hunger pulls me in, not just a dazzling light. It’s sinister. Far more predatory than the lull of a moth, and I watch for her next move, even though I can’t afford to wait much longer.

After a long beat, my gaze drops to the slope of her neck, to the chestnut strands spilling over her tense shoulders, proof she’s not related to the woman I just hung.

They’re all redheads. At least, that’s what I was told.

My gaze dips lower, studying how the silk drapes over her frame before pausing at the edge of her shorts, lingering a beat too long on the smooth, tanned length of her legs.

Christ, they make those things short.

A tremor runs through her, small and involuntary, and she doesn’t even seem to notice.

Maybe it’s shock. The blush-toned tank top clings to her, offering no shield against the fear rippling through her.

The fine hairs on her arms rise higher the longer she stands frozen.

It’s the only reaction she’s given so far.

Nothing about this looks like she’d be in immediate danger. The scene is gruesome, but it’s been staged to appear self-inflicted, hiding any sign of malice.

My involvement.

She may think she’s safe behind all that shine and wealth, but that veneer shatters easily when it collides with my world. It won’t protect her from men like me.

Men who slit throats and spill guts without so much as a flinch. The kind who won’t hesitate to break into a woman’s home while her husband and daughter are out of town, drug her, and string her up to die.

I’m no stranger to cruelty.

When it’s earned. The Shaws dug their own graves, but this girl is innocent. Her only crime is being caught between the brutal fallout.

One wrong move and she’ll turn on me. One sound and her screams will tear through the quiet, ripping apart everything I’ve kept hidden. I can’t let that happen. It’s my job to make sure it doesn’t.

There can’t be any witnesses. But there can’t be any signs of foul play, either. Two murders under the same roof will draw the exact kind of attention we’re trained to avoid.

So where does that leave us?

Hesitation coils in my gut as I step forward while she’s still distracted, slipping from the dark corner’s shadows and moving along the edge of the dimly lit kitchen to keep out of her line of sight. Each step closes the gap until I’m standing behind her.

The clock ticks offbeat to the dripping of Evalyn Shaw’s blood, splattering on the floor, creating a dissonant rhythm that muffles my approaching footsteps. Each tick grows louder than the last, like it’s counting down faster than I can move.

My eyes narrow in on her. I take slow, deliberate steps, each going unnoticed. She doesn’t hear the heavy pounding of my heart or the ragged breaths I can’t seem to control.

Fear has swallowed her whole, pulling her somewhere far away, as if she’s no longer in the room.

I finally close the small gap between us, the faint scent of her shampoo hanging in the air, drawing me into something crisp and floral. Bergamot and peonies.

Her hair is close enough to touch. I’m half-tempted to take a strand, wrap it around my finger, draw it close, and lose myself in its intoxicating haze. It’s been so long since I’ve given in to that kind of temptation, my brain almost doesn’t know how to react.

Her shoulders hitch, the rest of her body going taut with an instinctive dread that tells me she knows something’s behind her now.

Before she can react, I slide the kitchen knife across her throat, forcing a broken cry past her lips. It dies in her throat when I press the jagged edge harder against her skin, careful not to draw blood, only to silence her.

She jerks in my hold and claws at my hands, trying to twist free from the blade pinning her in place. Her nails dig into my skin, sharp enough to sting, but not enough to make me budge. All it does is push her body tighter against mine.

Most people would’ve started pleading by now, thrashing and sobbing. But she just grips my arm like a silent prayer.

A prayer for what, I'm not sure. But one thing’s certain—she’s not trying to save herself.

She’s already given up.

Her head tilts back toward the ceiling, surrendering with a shallow, trembling sob. Then it dawns on me. She’s trying to distract me from whoever else is still up there.

A bitter film coats the back of my tongue as I weigh my next move. I don’t know who else might be awake or how soon they’ll come looking for her.

I need to move. Now.

“Follow me,” I say, low and quiet. “Make a sound, and I swear you’ll regret it.”