Page 19 of XO Karma

But why? Just so we’d think there was a pattern? So he wouldn’t be considered for murders in the in between? But why?

I pull out my phone and snap photos to look through later, including Aster’s murder board. His routine puts him out of the house for at least a few more hours, but after seeing that picture, plus nearly being caught, I’m not interested in sticking around and risking it.

There’s a Lily-Huxley-sized space in that deep freezer, and I have no interest in filling it.

6

ASTER

“I did not take your yogurt cup,” I tell Diego, holding the phone between my ear and shoulder while dipping a spoon into the item in question. We met five years ago when I moved to town, and although he writes for the Entertainment section, which is focused on brunch spots and pretentious art, we still bonded. His annoying optimism balances me out from days researching corpses and nights disposing of them.

The slamming of the break room fridge door floods through the line. “I thought you don’t lie?”

“Fine.” I take another bite of the delicious strawberry delight, mumbling the next few words. “I took your yogurt.”

“I knew it!” he screeches, and I rush to pull my ear away from the phone. “You owe me.” I unlock my front door, head inside, and it shuts with a click behind me.

“Wanna meet at the diner later? Gotta finish an article, then I can head over.”

“Yeah, and you’re buying.”

I snort, putting my bag on a hook by the door, then scrape the last few remnants from the plastic container as I head to the kitchen. “I’m telling Dahlia the steak is off-limits.”

“That’s fine. I’m craving a burger anyways.”

“Thank God you’re a cheap date,” I tease, tossing the empty yogurt cup in the trash. My eyes snag on a dustpan beside it. How did that get there? I retrieve it and open the cabinet to return it to its rightful place, hand freezing midair. The mop and broom are swapped. What the hell is happening? “I’ll see you at the diner, D.”

“See you.”

The line goes dead, and I shove the phone in my pocket, eyes darting around the room for anything else out of place. Every muscle in my body goes rigid. Someone’s been in my house. Were they here when I came for my laptop earlier? Digging in my pocket, I pull out a switchblade, then comb each room one by one. Living room—clear. Art studio—clear. In the bedroom, my eyes snag on a photo frame on the dresser that’s thirty-five degrees to the right. They were in my bedroom. Anger thunders through me.

Did they find my office?

My heart leaps into my throat, and I bolt downstairs, then jiggle the handle to the basement. It doesn’t budge, which slightly calms my anxiety. After unlocking it, I descend quickly, rushing past boxes of old articles and the deep freezer. Thank fuck it was empty today. In the research room, everything is as I left it. My eyes fall to the door on the back wall leading to my darkroom. With my knife gripped tight, I take cautious steps toward it. I rush inside, the tension evacuating my body upon confirming it’s empty.

If someone was here, they’re long gone, and that equally relieves and annoys me. My eyes snag on a hole in the photo line, and my brows draw together. Pose fourteen is missing. Clearing the rest of the room, I confirm it. They left behind the photos of dead bodies and crime scenes—all Solarium-sanctioned, might I add—but pose fourteen of me shirtless in my Reaper mask was taken.

A grin spreads across my face.

Am I being… stalked?

Perhaps it’s innocent, a reader of the paper wanting to learn more about their favorite reporter. I roll my eyes at myself. I’m a good writer, but I’m not pulling-in-psycho-stalker-chicks level good.

It could be the demons from your past coming back out to play. I shove that thought to the depths of my memory, next to the clown that came to my sixth birthday.

Could this be connected to the new truck that’s been on my street? The neighborhood is pretty routine, with rarely a new face or vehicle, one reason why I chose it. So it was a bit out of the ordinary to me when I noticed the old Ford a few days ago.

So much so that I memorized the license plate.

Do I have a textbook case of perpetual paranoia? Probably. But it does keep me alive.

Believing this is some innocent fan infatuation would be preferable, but there’s a gnawing ache in my gut telling me my extracurricular activities may have finally caught up with me.

I’m ridding the world of shitty people—is that so bad?

On my phone, I hurry to the contact for one of my friends who works for Cleosville PD. Okay, so they’re less of a friend and more of a business associate. Sue me.

He answers on the third ring. “Blake.”