Page 17 of XO Karma

I’ve spent three days memorizing Aster “I’ll have a caramel macchiato” Blake’s routine. Every night at ten p.m., he goes on a two-mile run around the neighborhood. Once back home, he’s inside until 6:43 the following morning, when he walks to Mocha Muse, my coffee shop. I suppose I’ve never run into him before because I’m usually still deep in dreamland at this time of day. After twenty-two minutes of drinking his fancy little espresso, he heads to the Solarium News building. His duration inside varies depending on the day, but it was a minimum of three hours each time.

Today, I’m counting down the seconds until he leaves his house so I can case the place for any evidence. From my surveillance, I’ve presumed he lives alone. No alarm company has this address on record, and there are no visible cameras. Either way, I’ll wear my pink Ghostface mask just in case.

6:43 on the dot, the front porch light switches on.

Showtime.

Aster steps out in a button-up and slacks. Backwards ball cap. Glasses adorning his face and that messenger bag slung lazily over his shoulder. He pauses on the driveway, phone screen reflecting in his spectacles, then breaks into a smile, chuckling to himself. Oh, come on! It’s unfair to humankind how this man always looks painstakingly beautiful.

Why can’t it be like Pinocchio? You lie, your nose grows. You do bad things, you get uglier. But nope. Instead, he gets to be a murderer—allegedly—and walk through life looking like a Greek god that was dipped in honey and sprinkled with fuck-me dust.

There’s not yet evidence he’s the Kodak Killer, but intrusive thoughts slip in my mind all the same.

My breathing sputters as I wait impatiently for him to disappear down the street. Once confident he’s gone, I snatch the mask, grab my recon backpack, and duck out of the vehicle like I’ve done the past few days.

My legs ache to do their usual routine of following him, but I slip on the disguise and cross the street instead. After rushing up his driveway, I open a white gate, and it clicks closed as I seal myself in the backyard. Wind chimes clink on a large tree beside a shed on the far side of the spacious property, pulling my attention there.

Probably where he keeps his murder tools…

Seeing is made difficult by my mask, but the hues of morning guide me toward the structure. I won’t turn my flashlight on unless absolutely necessary. No need to risk a neighbor calling it in to the police—or worse, Aster, and me becoming his next victim.

Although Liam’s wrath may be a worse punishment.

The shed feels like a good place to start, so I jog across the yard, the ground crunching beneath my boots. After reaching it, I take a deep breath of cool morning air, preparing myself for what awaits me on the other side.

Chains attached to the floor?

Bloodied tools adorning the walls?

A freezer full of body parts?

The hinges squeal as I tug the door open, and I slip in, closing it quietly behind me. With the security of the small, closed room, I remove my mask for a better view and click on my flashlight.

The space illuminates, and my breathing steadies as I find nothing but… garden tools. Shovels, sod, a wheelbarrow, and a few festive garden gnomes. I tilt my head, struggling not to be amused at the sight of a gnome that’s face down, a beer in its hand and its butt cheeks on full display.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that.

Although it would be reckless of a serial killer to leave all the evidence unlocked in a murder shed. Did I really think it would be so easy?

I click off the flashlight, readorning the mask while slipping out of the small hut, and hurry to the back door of the house, retrieving my lock picking kit on the way.

Here’s to hoping my intel is right and his security sucks.

After a few minutes of toggling, the door opens with a click, and I do a little dance on my way inside, then tug it shut behind me. As shown in the real estate photos, the house has an open floor plan, and I amble through the dimly lit space, unsure where to begin. Tiptoeing around the living room, I open drawers, then look under the sofa, although I’m unsure what I expect to find here. It’s not as though he’s going to just leave his victim scrapbook lying on the coffee table. Unless… I pop up, pointing the light to it. My heart sinks. Nope, no book. Just coasters and a few car magazines.

In the kitchen I open a tall cupboard, a yelp escaping me when brooms and mops tumble out, clattering loudly across the floor.

“Shit,” I mutter, trying to calm my pounding heart as I gather all the housekeeping tools and shove them back in. If I wasn’t concerned about my blood pressure before, I sure as hell am now. When XO Karma started, I had a smartwatch, but every five minutes it was telling me to take a seat or call a damn ambulance, and during a particularly stressful request, I smashed it against a wall. Not to mention having a GPS trail that could be linked to me is asking to get caught and convicted.

Wooden steps creak beneath my feet as I ascend to the second floor. Passing through a door, I find what could possibly be described as an art studio, and a laugh escapes me. On top of a wooden table splattered with dried paint, there’s a half-finished project of a garden gnome holding a book and sitting on a bench. There are shelves around the room containing a multitude of painted and unpainted ceramic statues, but most of them are of the same variety. The completed ones have a small number painted in roman numerals on the bottom center. What a bizarre little hobby he has. Another wall is full of books of every genre, and given each one looks well-loved, I’d say he gets his use out of them.

Accepting nothing in here will lead me to the Kodak Killer, I leave the room as I found it and continue on my search.

I hurry through the rest of the top floor, only finding a perfectly organized home devoid of any type of evidence that could cast Aster Blake as a cold-blooded killer. He seems so very… ordinary. A bit type A and a neurotic clean freak with quirky little hobbies, but ordinary, nonetheless.

The final door at the end of the hallway is slightly ajar, and it squeals as I push it open. It’s assumedly his bedroom, feeling more lived-in. The bed is perfectly made, and on the dresser, I find a few photos. A younger Aster smiling wide with a girl and a guy that appear to be around the same age as him. Another of him with an older woman who he very much resembles. I assume it’s his mom. And the final photo is him and the cutest golden retriever I have ever seen.

Great, and he’s a dog person.