Chapter 4
Dolly
S itting in a dark corner of the bar, I keep my hood up while listening to the chatter going on around me. Although they would claim otherwise, men are as much gossipers as women. The topics might differ, but the result is the same.
I dredge a french fry in ketchup as I strain to better hear the conversation in the booth to my left. Three men, most likely fishermen by their clothing and the scent of fish hanging over them like an aura, drown their woes in cheap beer and greasy burgers.
“The man was skinned!” the eldest of the three says, thumping his fist on the worn wooden table. He pushes back the royal-blue beanie he wears, revealing shoulder-length hair the color of snow.
“Someone told me he was one of those kiddie diddlers,” another one says. I risk a peek in their direction, my lip curling into a sneer. He must sense me, as he tries to peer over his friends’ shoulders in my direction, but I put my head back down. Staying invisible is the name of the game.
“Betcha it was Sinister that’s done it,” the third says, a portly fellow with sun-damaged skin and heavy lines etched in his brow.
“Shh!” the eldest admonishes. “He has ears everywhere.” He lowers his voice, but I can still make out when he adds, “Roddy told me there was an S carved into his back. It was definitely The Carver.” The other two nod wisely, as if that explains everything.
I’ve recently discovered that Sinister and The Carver are the same person. Since moving back to Arcadia City, I’ve heard his name whispered in both reverence and fear. I haven’t been able to glean too much information about the man; it’s as if he’s a ghost.
But I made a vow to help rid this city of corruption, and my conscience won’t allow what appears to be a serial killer to run loose on the streets.
The men finish their drinks before tossing a few notes on the table and vacating their seats.
I dart a glance around before reaching over the seat and helping myself to the newspaper they left behind.
The Herculean Gazette’s stories must always be taken with a pinch of salt.
Or better, an entire bucket of salt. Once corruption settles into the heart of a city, it gradually spreads like a fungus.
It creeps into every home, every office, every street.
It lies dormant, waiting for its opportunity to strike before spreading anarchy, malfeasance, and apathy throughout the population.
The Gazette is no different. The editors print what Governor White wants the people to believe.
His specialty is dividing the populace. One week he attacks minorities.
The next, the disabled. The following, the poor.
It keeps the people in a constant state of hatred and discontent—all to prevent them from looking too closely at what he does behind their backs.
But news is news, even if I can’t trust all of it to be truthful.
The front-page picture takes up half the page and displays a body bag sitting at the edge of Hera Bay.
“Fuck,” I whisper as I scan the article.
The body was dumped a mere three hundred yards from my warehouse—far too close for my peace of mind.
The article mentions the S carved into the victim’s back but doesn’t accuse Sinister directly. They never do—at least in the ones I’ve read. It hints at him having power or some kind of sway, and that makes me nervous.
Especially if he’s dumping bodies in my neighborhood.
Some rumors say he’s a vigilante, killing only the most evil of society.
Others claim he’s nothing more than a hitman for Aidan O’Brien—the head of the local Irish Mafia.
And some refute both of these, dismissing him as nothing more than a scapegoat, a convenient fictional character they can blame their crimes on.
No, officer, it wasn’t me that killed that man. It was Sinister. See the S?
How convenient.
I scan the rest of the paper before dropping a twenty on the table and making my way out of the bar. The thick clouds and heightening winds predict rain, so I lower my head and pull my hood tighter over my face before disappearing into Arcadia’s streets.
Trying to decide if I should focus on luring another victim to The Dollhouse or searching for more information on Sinister keeps my mind occupied as I weave through downtown.
There is a disproportionate number of homeless here, begging outside of businesses.
Passersby ignore them for the most part, turning them into nothing more than scenery.
I drop a few dollars into cups here and there. I have little myself, but I like to spread around the money my victims pay me where I can .
After checking both ways for cars, I dash across Styx Avenue and turn right onto Eros Lane.
Even though it’s only 4 p.m., prostitutes already line the street, dressed in skimpy clothes grossly unsuitable for the weather.
At least the street receives a bit of protection from the wind because of the tall buildings lining both sides.
My gaze jumps from one person to another, my heart breaking at how young many of them are.
I wish there were more of me, an entire army that could clear the city of corruption and make it new.
A place of safety, where kids could play outside and women could walk down the street.
But I’m only one person, and I can’t solve it all on my own.
“Mary,” I murmur, coming to a stop alongside one of the women. She’s thinner than she should be and wears a hot-pink miniskirt and matching crop top. Goosebumps cover her arms, blending in with the fingerprint bruises decorating her forearms. She startles, a hand coming to rest over her heart.
“Dolly! You need to stop sneakin’ up on people.”
My lips turn down. “Sorry. Are you and the others doing okay? You look cold.”
Her right shoulder lifts. “Ain’t gonna cover up the goods, sugar. There’s no money in that.”
I slide a fifty-dollar note into her palm. “I was hoping I might pick your brain. What do you know about the man called Sinister?”
“Jesus Christ, girl, keep your voice down. That’s not a name you say out loud.” She grabs me by the shoulder and hauls me into a nearby alley, glancing wildly over her shoulder.
I lean back against the brick building and cross my legs.
An exhaust vent rains heat down on us, and Mary’s shoulders relax as the warmth brings back some color to her cheeks.
“He’s real, then?” I ask, searching her brown eyes.
Close up, her age is more apparent. Her cheap box dye doesn’t fully cover the grays at her temples, and wrinkles line the edges of her mouth.
Her hands shake as she pulls a ratty box of cigarettes from her purse. After lighting it, she pulls in a deep drag and holds it before exhaling. “Yes, he’s real. He comes down here now and again. Drops off sandwiches and bottles of water.”
Wow. That, I wasn’t expecting. “Why are you scared of him, then?”
Mary shakes her head and takes another drag. “Have you seen the papers? The man’s a monster. He doesn’t just kill, he tortures. I wouldn’t want to be the one that captures his attention.”
My brows furrow. “But?—”
“Child, not all monsters are all bad. The Carver is one of ’em.
If rumors are true, he enjoys the killing.
But he also seems to give a shit about those of us with nothing.
” She drops the butt on the ground and puts it out with her boot.
“He doesn’t like people talkin’ about him and has ears everywhere.
I don’t wanna know why you’re interested in him, but I’d be careful. ”
“What about where he lives or what he looks like?”
Mary’s eyes grow big, and she backs away, shaking her head. “Dolly, you’re gonna get yourself killed. I’ll have nothin’ to do with it. Leave it alone.” With one last worried glance my way, she scuttles out of the alley and rejoins the others.
I make my way down the opposite end, coming out onto Dionysus Square.
Out of the periphery, I notice a hand reaching for me, and I dodge out of the way.
A short man, dressed in ratty clothes, peers at me with watery blue eyes.
“The Carver’s coming for you,” he says with a cackle.
He throws his arms out, tilts his head toward the stormy sky, and spins in a slow circle. “The Carver is coming for us all.”
A shiver of apprehension slides down my spine, and I hurry away, my feet eager to put distance between us. The entire way back to the warehouse, I feel eyes on me. I know there can’t be—it’s impossible—but logic doesn’t seem to be my friend right now.
Hysteria rides my back until I’m safely in the warehouse with the door bolted behind me. I suck in ragged breaths and try to shake off whatever has my blood in a frenzy. It was just some random man. Calm down. There’s no way you could be on Sinister’s radar.
Once my breathing returns to normal, I stride across the warehouse, pull open the hidden panel, and jog up the stairs to my room. The problem is, I don’t have enough information. But there is someone—two someones, actually—who might help.
There are advantages to being friends with hackers’ wives.
Throwing myself onto my mattress, I grab my laptop from under my pillow and boot it up.
It’s seen better days but works well enough for what I need it to.
In the top left corner, an icon of a red kiss with blood dripping from it glows with a pulsating light.
I click on it, and the screen goes black before the picture clears, showing me a room I haven’t seen before.
Sunlight pours through the windows of what is clearly a living room, making me frown. It should be dark outside.
“Hello?” I say, wondering if the connection went awry.