2 | Liam
Liam
Ihad been driving for an hour already when the first drops of rain started to fall, and now, thirty minutes later, it’s pouring like God is making his disappointment known.
I am sure that if there is indeed a God, he truly believes I have lost my path.
I won’t deny that I have thought this plenty of times.
I have always wondered if my father was right.
I have always wondered if we will eventually come face to face with all our victims seeking justice when we leave this world ourselves—maybe in hell, or whatever is after this.
I often think about the afterlife. I am not sure if it’s because I am regularly the reason women cross from this realm to that one, or if it’s simply how human nature works.
You wonder what’s beyond this existence.
Not that we will ever get an answer. It’s not like anyone will return to let us know.
Which is a good thing if you think about the fact that, over the ten years our group has been hunting, the number of women we have killed has reached the triple digits.
I let my mind travel as I continue driving through the rain, the windows of my van fogging as the temperature drops outside.
I welcome the rain, even though it will make things a little difficult for my next task.
I find it harder to dig a grave when the ground is wet and rain is actively pouring down on you, but it also hides your traces.
It’s one thing I won’t have to worry about tonight.
I don’t need to hide my footsteps myself; by morning, with the rain continuing to get worse as time passes, any footprints will disappear.
The sound of rain has always been one thing that calms me down, almost like washing my sins. It is a little harder to wash them, though, when they hit the side of your car with every turn. The sound coming from the back reminds me with every turn that I have a dead body in a bag back there.
I should have strapped her down with the chains we use for the bikes or something, as I did for my motorcycle.
I will admit I wasn’t expecting the road to be so slippery.
It’s not only harder to drive in this weather, but I have been close to losing control of the car a couple of times already, which won’t be a good thing if I get in an accident.
Imagine trying to explain to the police and the ambulance arriving at the scene the dead body in the cargo area of my van.
Suddenly, the sound of sirens breaks through the sound of rain. Blue and red lights fill my vision through the mirror, making me freeze. I can’t do anything else but stop when I see the officer’s signal in the rear-view mirror.
“Okay, calm down, Liam, this is not your first rodeo,” I whisper to myself, giving the worst pep talk in the history of pep talks.
It’s not like I am indeed worried; I am not.
I know I can convince this officer, who is now approaching my car, that I am no one to worry about.
It’s one of the things that has kept us free for so long.
We all have a specific type of charm that has taken years to perfect.
A smile, a steady voice—all part of the facade we put up for the world.
I know how to keep my voice from cracking.
I know how to lie through my teeth with a smile, and I can do it convincingly even if I am standing over a dead body, covered in blood with the knife that took their life in my hand.
Not that I would ever find myself in this position, but if I did, I would get away with it.
I am an excellent liar, and that’s one ability I have my father to thank for.
When you grow up in a household where violence and pain rule, you learn how to navigate life with lies and deception.
You learn how to protect yourself, no matter the cost.
I pick up my phone and quickly type a message to Nathan.
It’s a communication signal we decided upon years ago, back when, after our first hunt, Mike seemed to have a lust for it, begging for another before our first victim was even cold.
Neither Nathan nor I could deny him. But we all agreed we needed rules.
Rules are meant to protect us, and this is one of them.
I stare at the message on my phone: “I am getting milk.” Simple enough to carry the hidden message to them without raising any alarms if the wrong eyes fall on it.
I hit send. The boys will know the meaning.
It’s our code in case we get stopped by a police car or questioned for any reason—a simple enough message that won’t raise suspicion in the wrong hands, but will sound the siren in the right ones.
Nathan will be ready to call the lawyers if my next message doesn’t arrive within the first thirty minutes after this one.
I quickly zip my jacket, making sure no bloodstains are visible.
I have always chosen to dress in black to avoid any visible stains.
When your main activity is killing women, you learn to revolve your life around your hobby, and for me, that includes my wardrobe, my vehicle, and my entire existence.
For the same reason, a scented keychain bought from Amazon in bulk hangs from my rear-view mirror.
It’s to mask the scent of death that seems to linger in this car no matter how much I clean it.
The officer finally approaches my window, and I lower it for him.
I put on my most innocent smile before I speak, using a soft voice that screams, ‘I am a cinnamon roll and I could never commit a crime in my life.’ It’s a practiced tone, well-measured for situations like this.
With my brown hair brushed back, just two pieces falling on my face, and the jacket covering every bit of ink on my body, I almost look the part, too.
I look younger than I am, and without visible ink, you would probably assume I am in my early twenties.
“Hello, officer! May I ask why I am being stopped?” I keep my voice at the same tone—soft and polite—and my breathing calculated. I don’t allow myself to seem worried, because cops can smell fear like hounds.
He smiles back, which is a good sign. I keep mine on my face as if it’s stuck with Gorilla Glue, never letting it slip out of place.
“Hello, sir. License and registration, please.” The usual words when you are being stopped in the middle of the night fall out of his mouth before more follow.
“The weather is going to get really bad. We are just informing people and checking if they have the necessary means to stay safe while driving,” he informs me in a soft tone that shows concern rather than suspicion.
I reach to the side and grab the papers before handing them to him.
He takes them from my hand, and the smile never leaves my face as he looks through them.
I remain calm, looking at him—not as if I am scrutinizing him, but as if I am simply waiting.
I allow myself to show only positive emotions, and concern isn’t one of them.
I appear calm, happy, and eager to continue my way.
“Nothing to worry about; your car seems to be completely up to code,” he tells me finally before checking the papers I handed him once more, just to make sure.
He won’t find anything out of place, though.
We do everything by the book. We use our real names.
We rent everything we use or buy it legally.
To the world, we appear as three young men traveling through the country.
We have enough money to support ourselves, and when you are rich enough, no one truly cares.
They leave you alone. It’s a privilege only a few are granted.
“Where are you going this late?” he questions as he gives me back my documents, and I chuckle.
I want to say, ‘I am just disposing of a body, officer; nothing to be concerned about,’ but I am not a fool, and I would never put my cousin and his boyfriend at risk.
If I get caught, it won’t be too long before they are, too, and that can never happen.
“I am visiting my girlfriend—going to surprise her. I can open the back if you want to check the vehicle.” A lie.
A bluff. I am hoping he won’t really ask to see the back, but as I wait for his answer, a new, idiotic comment comes to mind: ‘I only have a body back there, nothing to be suspicious about, sir.’ I swallow it like the previous one.
Because, again, I refuse to be the reason we get caught.
He shakes his head, and relief washes over me. Once again, the rules seem to be keeping us safe. I make a mental note to rub this in Mike’s face, because the bastard always tries to tell me they are pointless.
“There’s no need,” he says after a long pause, as if he were considering the option. The rain is now pouring harder over him, soaking his uniform with every drop. “You should be careful, though, and maybe stay at your girlfriend’s place once you arrive.”
He gives me a piece of advice the way an older brother or a father would.
It’s sweet and sincere; I can tell by the tone in his voice.
He truly is worried about me. I swallow the low laugh that gathers in my throat, making sure I sound grateful when I speak again.
I shouldn’t sound too excited—just the normal amount of hyper.
The amount a man would have being eager to see his woman in the middle of the night.
“Have a good night!” I yell as he turns around and walks away.
I wait for him to enter the police car, and then a little more until his engine comes to life, watching him drive away.
I don’t move—not until he is well out of my view.
Only then do I grab my phone again. My finger slides over the screen, unlocking it before I open the chat thread with Nathan.
I type a new message that follows my latest one directly: “Milk is secured.”