Chapter 7
My neighbor had texted me about a package in front of my apartment, making sure I was home because she was worried that it might get stolen. I have absolutely no idea what is going on. I called the building”s concierge and asked him if he had left it there. But he had no idea what I was talking about and assured me that no one other than the residents of the building had been in or out of the complex today.
Unlocking my phone screen, I open the Security app and scroll through the video feeds from my camera. I go straight to the time stamp when the box appeared. But no one is there. The camera freezes for a second, and the image jumps from a hallway without a box to one with a box outside my apartment. I bite my lower lip, nervously chewing on the soft flesh as the reality of the situation sets in. He hacked my security system. Taking a look up and down the hallway, I make sure no one is there before I pick up the box. I shouldn”t be doing this. I have no clue what is inside; it could literally be a bomb, but at this point, I have no other choice.
Taking the box back to my apartment, I place it on the coffee table in my living room before sitting down on the sofa to observe it from a distance. For the first time, I get a good look at what kind of box it is. It”s a burgundy shoebox. The small label on the side reads John Lobb, Oxfords, Color Black, Size fourteen, along with the proud price tag of $1,429. I gulp at the number. Who in their right mind would pay that much for a pair of shoes?
I”m pretty sure there are no shoes in the box, though. Why would anyone send me a pair of men”s shoes? That seems ridiculous. I scoot closer to the edge of the sofa. There is no way around it; I have to open the box to find out what’s in it. I take a deep breath, preparing myself for what is about to happen. When I lift the top of the box, I flinch back a few inches, afraid that something will jump out and attack me. But nothing does. Lowering the lid, I see the box”s contents are neatly wrapped in crimson-red tissue paper.
I put the lid down and scoot closer. With sweaty palms, I carefully unwrap the paper, making sure not to tear it in the process. My breath gets stuck in my throat, and my heartbeat quickens, pounding against my ribcage when I see what is in the box in front of me: a white pocket knife, a black leather glove, and most importantly, his calling card, a white feather. This box is meant to tell me who he is. It is supposed to tell me what is going to happen to me.
I jump up from the sofa and bolt to my front door. My body slams against the metal and I double-check that it’s still locked. With shaking hands, I put the additional security lock in place. Even though I know it won”t stop him. Nothing can stop him. I lean my forehead against the cold metal. This can”t be happening–it could have been anyone; why him of all people?
I take a deep breath in an attempt to calm my raging nerves. Hurrying back to my living room, I slump back into the soft cushions of my sofa and pick up the box, moving it to my lap. I lift the soft white feather, careful not to damage it. It is in perfect condition. Not one of the crisp, clean barbs is out of place. I then look back at the rest of the box.
I”m fucked. Of all people, they really hired the White Dove Killer? I was confident that I could handle whoever was out to get me, and that I would be able to get out of this alive. But this revelation changes everything. How am I supposed to beat the one man everyone is afraid of?
Everyone knows to stay away when his nickname is mentioned. He has made it clear over the years that he doesn”t want to work with others or be involved with other killers. I remember a prominent incident involving our group. The contractor didn’t trust an individual hitman and thought hiring a known group that was part of our network would be a good idea. As someone who works independently, the Dove Killer is very eager to keep his identity a secret, as are most of those who work alone. As far as I know, he warned both the client and my colleagues that this would not end well if they took the job. Despite his notorious reputation, they didn’t listen. He killed all three of my colleagues and apparently delivered them to the client along with the original target. Rumor has it that he also cut off the client”s hand as a reminder and warning to future clients not to pull such a stunt when they hire him.
Has it stopped any of them? No. Every year, there are new guys who think they can beat him. It is a stupid game of dominance: men wanting to be the strongest, the most dangerous. It is ridiculous.
There are many rumors about the man, ranging from superficial things like his looks or age, to people claiming to know him. They try to use his name to scare other killers. It never works in their favor, though. Lying is part of the job; lies keep us alive and the ones we love safe.
I sigh and put the feather on a pillow beside me before I reach for the glove. The moment I lift the piece of leather from the box, a whiff of aftershave fills my nostrils. The scent is masculine. Trying to identify the ingredients, I bring the glove closer to my face. It smells citrusy with a hint of pepper and cedarwood mixed with the faint remains of cigarettes. He is a smoker. I have to admit, he does smell very good. Closing my eyes, I allow myself to fully savor the scent. My heart flutters in my chest as the mixture of fragrances creates a warm and fuzzy feeling in my stomach.
When the cold surface of the leather touches my cheek, my eyes snap open, and I realize what is happening. Heat rises to my cheeks, and I throw the glove back in the box and bury my face in the palm of my hands. How pathetic. I can”t fall for the way he smells, no matter how good and seductive it is. This is wrong. So fucking wrong.
I take a deep breath and reach for the knife. With a quick flick of my wrist, the knife jumps out of the handle where the blade was once hidden. It is a simple but good knife, high quality, deadly and beautiful. I put it back down again and collapse back into the cushions of my sofa. Turning my head toward the windows, my gaze religiously finds the balcony from which he has been watching me for the past few weeks. But no one is there; at least, I can”t make out the outline of the person who usually stands by the railing.
What are you trying to tell me with this package? Why the knife and glove? I know that he sends parts of doves to his victims to announce their upcoming deaths. It is a sick game he plays. He wants to scare his targets beforehand so that he can enjoy the killing even more. But I have never heard of him sending more than the body parts of the birds. According to how much of the birds he sends, I know that your death will be either quick and painless or slow and painful. From the single feather he sent me, I”m not in for one of his extensive torture sessions. At least, that”s one good thing, I suppose. Because he knows his craft–I”ve seen the photos.
I close my eyes and let out another heavy sigh. My thoughts wander back to the man I saw at the crosswalk while I was having brunch with Lily. Could it be him? I’m unsure how old the Dove Killer is. The man looked to be in his early thirties. Could he still be that young? People were already talking about him when I first started out. I always assumed he was older, maybe in his forties or even fifties.
I reach for one of the pillows, and hug it close to my chest. He is playing with me. What he is doing right now is completely out of character for him. Maybe, even if it is tiny, there is a chance to get out of this, if I just stay calm and play along.