Kiss, Marry, Kill

Prologue

I never set out to date a serial killer. But, let’s face it, it’s really just a matter of time before you stumble upon a murderous psychopath. No hate, but the dating pool needs work.

Pardon my die-single energy. I’m just questioning my life choices, as one does when zip-tied, wrists and ankles bound, my left cheek pressed into the soft, neutral gray carpet in a nicely finished basement, complete with foosball table, built-in bar with granite countertops, and tasteful dark leather love seat.

My fingers feel a little numb, I’ve got a raging headache from the roofie used to knock me out, and I’m facing what can only be described as my fragile mortality.

I’m staring at a shelf of board games inches from my face.

If you asked me what I’d see before I died, I never would’ve guessed the worn corners of Twister and Operation.

The air smells faintly of vanilla scones, thanks to the oversized white candle in the tasteful brass holder in the shape of a jack-o’-lantern, a festive fall addition to the middle of the expensive square mahogany coffee table.

I wonder if the candle is for ambiance or if it’s just to cover up the odor of the bodies my captor has hidden in the crawl space.

I should be scared. I should be terrified. Honestly, though? I’m just disappointed in myself.

I let down my guard for one second, and bam! How did I miss this? Granted, I’ve been distracted. That’s what dating three men will do to you. A love square, if you will.

Can you blame me for not having my head fully in the game? I’d been flattered by the attention. I can imagine the clickbait headline now:

Woman Dies in Basement Because She Thought She Had Swagger, but She Was Just Another Warm Body for a Psychopath

I sigh and wriggle against my constraints.

The plastic bites into my wrists in front of me.

Zip ties? Really? I expected something more creative from the Canceled Killer.

The plastic cuts into the delicate skin, definitely leaving a mark.

I dig my cheek farther into the carpet for leverage, basically begging for a rug burn. On my face.

Honestly, though, the worst part, and I hate to admit this, isn’t waiting for my imminent demise. It’s the fact the man had said he was falling in love with me.

I’m thinking that was a lie.

And now I’m probably going to die. Betrayed and alone without even a pint of Gordon’s Frozen Custard to drown my sorrows in.

It all began when I moved back home to Lake Sanguis, Wisconsin, this quaint resort town where the wealthiest tourists from Chicago bought summer homes. That’s when I thought I’d hit my lowest point, when I thought things couldn’t get worse.

Boy, was I wrong.