Total pages in book: 247
Estimated words: 248926 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1245(@200wpm)___ 996(@250wpm)___ 830(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 248926 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1245(@200wpm)___ 996(@250wpm)___ 830(@300wpm)
I raised my view to him and growled, “What?!”
“This speaks of some sort of ritual. Every slice is exactly the same. The throat, the crosses on the chest, the stabbing to the groin.” Jean-Pierre gestured to all the death in the room. “I wonder. . .while she was doing all of this, did she sing or recite a poem or maybe a—”
“Naw, man. Dark Em stays silent.” Maxwell rose from the ground and smoothed blood away from his pants. The movement only smeared the liquid further onto him. “She cuts for a while and then passes out.”
“That’s not true.” I got up. “She said a chant about Jesus.”
“Very interesting.” Jean-Pierre headed off to the pile of penises. “Then, the ritual is a sort of religion for her.”
Maxwell stared at me in horror. “She did what now?”
“She said a chant about Jesus and His eye being on the sparrow.”
“No. No.” Maxwell waved his hand. “Dark Em doesn’t talk. She’s silent and—”
“Lunita also told the guys she would give them candy if they were quiet—”
“Lunita?!” Maxwell jumped back like a ghost had popped out. “Who the hell is Lunita? W-why did you say that name?”
“It is what I am calling her.”
Maxwell quickly looked around. “W-who told you that name? D-do you know people in New Orleans?”
What is he talking about?
I touched my chest. “I told Lunita that we needed a name for her so that it wouldn’t be confusing—”
“Wait. Wait. You’re talking to it?” Maxwell held his hands to his head. “And naming the monster. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“She’s not a monster.”
Maxwell began pointing at the different piles. “Then, what is this shit. Let me tell you something. It’s not some Martha-Stewart-housewife shit.”
“Martha Stewart?”
“You don’t name the monster—”
“She’s not a monster!” I pointed at Maxwell. “Stop saying that.”
“She’s not a monster?” Maxwell waved his hands in the air. “Eh?! Look the fuck around, man. You don’t think this is some Boogeyman shit.”
“Boogeyman?” I laughed. “The Boogeyman is nothing.”
“Oh really? Because I guess the Lion is scared of nothing. Not even the Boogeyman.”
“Understand this, Maxwell.” I stepped forward. “Before the Boogeyman goes to sleep, he checks under his bed for me. So fuck the boogeyman and stop fucking calling her a monster.”
“So, you smoking weed again?”
“A chant about Jesus.” Jean-Pierre kneeled by one of the chests and traced the holy cross with his screwdriver. “Is this when she said the chant? Was it while she cut this?”
I eyed him. “Yes. Why?”
“My guess. She’s angry with God, but has a healthy respect for Him too.” Jean-Pierre pointed to the sliced throat. “Secrets. That’s what that says. You see how deep it is?”
Reluctantly, I nodded and walked over to him. “Yeah.”
“Lots of secrets. The kind that make you bleed. The sort of secrets that made her want to cut her own throat.”
Maxwell paced in the center of the room. “Dark Em is talking now? It’s. . .evolving.”
I rolled my eyes. “Lunita is not an it.”
“Oh really?” Maxwell stopped and looked at me. “So, tell me what she is, since you’re so well educated on this.”
“Lunita is another personality of Emily.”
“We don’t say that.” Maxwell waved his hand. “It’s not that bad. X and I always just said light Em and Dark Em—”
“It’s another personality.”
“I don’t believe in that shit, man.”
“Yet, you’ve cleaned up enough bodies to know that Emily has two separate parts of herself.”
Maxwell returned to pacing.
Jean-Pierre stood and pointed at the piles of dicks with his screwdriver. “Someone raped her?”
I scowled at him.
Jean-Pierre quirked his brows.
“Do you want another scar on your other cheek?”
“It’s a question, Kazimir.”
“Yes. Someone. . .violated her.”
Jean-Pierre frowned. “Is he dead?”
I nodded. “Has been dead for a long time.”
Jean-Pierre directed his view to Maxwell. “I think I am finally understanding.”
I looked at the smiley faces. “Since you have so much information, then why does he draw these on bodies?”
“I believe it is a coping mechanism that Maxwell is not aware of.”
“But does he get why he does it?”
Jean-Pierre shook his head. “He simply must do it.”
“Stop talking about me.” Maxwell went to the first chest and began drawing another circle on it. “I do it because it is necessary. If Em goes down for this shit, then I go with her.”
The door opened.
David and Boris returned with the Harlem Crew. Close to sixty people entered—men and women. They lined up in rows around the room. Their faces wildly went from side to side, scanning the space. Some screwed their faces in disgust. Others held their hands over their mouths. One man threw up. Another guy covered his groin and tried not to look at the pile of dicks on the floor.
What will they think of my mouse now? Should they know?
Maxwell finished the smiley face and rose. “Hey, everybody. I’m back.”
David got to my side with three of my men.