Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 121578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 608(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 608(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
Margot blinks and steps back. Her lips purse, and a flicker of sadness or disappointment ripples over her face. That’s the last thing I want. I hurry past her and down the long corridor, leading into her bedroom. Once I’m free of the closet, I inhale a long, sweet breath.
What the fuck?
Pants? Where did I leave my pants?
There. Draped over the bottom of the bed.
That’s not where I left them. Did Margot put them there?
Who cares?
Images of Margot’s souvenirs dangle in my mind. Twisted trophies turned into ornaments.
Pants first.
My Margot. Soft and sweet. But also dark and deadly. How could I not suspect…anything?
Maybe I did, and that’s why I started calling her little lady death. Is that why I’ve been drawn to her since the first time we met? Have I always been drawn to the darkness in her even if I didn’t recognize it right away?
Nope. I’m not that deep.
I yank my jeans on, buttoning them and fumbling with my belt like I’ve forgotten how my own hands work. Why am I so rattled? I’ve killed more than my share of people. Watched my brothers kill. Helped my brothers clean up after they killed. I keep my own box of murder souvenirs. Who am I to judge anyone?
This is different.
Why? I don’t know.
I’ve only known one side of Margot—the sweet, shy, kind woman who captured my interest the first time I saw her. It’s not her kill trophies that have my heart tied into a knot. It’s the religious bullshit she started spouting that unnerved me. That’s where it all went wrong.
I slip my shirt on and scrub my hands over my face, still trying to make sense of it all.
“Are you leaving?” she asks in a low, uncertain voice.
I turn and find her with her back to the now-closed closet door—the door to so many mysteries I don’t want to solve.
But I kinda do.
Call me Detective Murder, but I want to know every last detail.
“No. I’m not leaving.” I might be freaked the fuck out, but I’m not a damn coward.
She blows out a relieved breath and closes her eyes.
“Meeoww.”
Gretel slides her sleek body through the open bedroom door and hurries toward Margot. She weaves herself around Margot’s ankles, then gracefully sits, wrapping her tail neatly around her legs. She tilts her head up and stares at me as if she demands I hear Margot out. “Meeorrww.”
Freaky-ass cat.
“You…” My voice comes out rougher than I intended. “How long have you been… doing that?” I vaguely gesture toward her closet of horrors.
“A few years,” she admits, her gaze steady now but still guarded. “Only in…extreme cases.”
A few years. I stare at her hands, clasped in front of her. The same hands I’ve seen tenderly care for the dead…have also caused death.
“When you say ‘extreme cases’…”
Her chin tilts up, her eyes brimming with a mix of defiance and vulnerability. It’s possible I’m the only person she’s ever told about her murderous hobby.
“I mean exactly that.” She crosses her arms over her chest.
I force a smirk onto my face that probably looks deranged as fuck. “I’m still gonna need more details, sweetheart.”
She shoots me a glare that could freeze blood.
Fucking hell, she’s hot.
Have I found my Harley Quinn?
“Are you sure you want those details, Jensen?” The grave way she uses my given name snaps me back to our discussion.
“Every fucking word.”
She nods once and pulls her robe tighter around her body. “Let’s go out there.” She tilts her head toward the living room.
Yeah, this isn’t a bedroom conversation. I nod and hold the door open for her.
Gretel scurries out ahead of us, leading the way.
When Margot and I are seated at the counter, she swivels her stool to face me. Gretel bats her little paws at Margot’s legs until Margot leans over and settles the cat in her lap.
“What?” I reach over and rub behind Gretel’s ears. “My lap’s no good anymore?”
She purrs and rubs her cheek against my fingers but stays right where she is.
Margot absently strokes her hand over the cat’s shiny black fur. “When I was about eight years old, a friend from the neighborhood—a boy my age—was…” She swallows hard as if it’s too painful to share. “Murdered.”
The word lands between us like a cement block. Whatever explanation I expected, it didn’t start with the death of a kid.
“He was m…murdered by a…a…a predator in the neighborhood.” She stutters through the words, then takes a deep breath.
“Jesus. I’m sorry. That must’ve been awful for you.”
Margot nods, her face pale, fingers still stroking Gretel’s fur even as her gaze turns distant. “I…I saw him. His body.” She tilts her head slightly toward the front door of her apartment. “Downstairs. I…used to sneak around the house at night when I was little.” She lets out a soft laugh. “Aaron, one of my brothers, thought it was funny to teach me all the ways to avoid getting caught. That night started out no different than many others. I heard a noise downstairs and trotted off to investigate.”