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“What else would it be?”

“Feel it. Unless you’re too chicken.”

I reach up to touch the mask, but hesitate, drawing my hand back. “Just tell me.”

“See if you can guess.” Always a game with Carl.

My fingertips make contact with the smooth surface, and at the soft, almost rubbery texture, I wrench my hand back. “What did you do?”

“Relax. It’s not human.”

“What is it, then?”

“Remember the cat I skinned?”

Horror prickles my nerves at the memory of hearing the cat screaming. “How … did you … with the fur?”

“Soaked it. Used grandfather’s flesh knife.”

I gulp back the urge to throw up at the thought that he’s wearing a cat’s skin on his face. One he tortured and mutilated in fun. “You’re sick.”

“You know what’s sick? Dirty little whores who think it’s funny to play games. Let’s see how they like my game.”

“What are you talking about, Carl?”

“We’ll see how funny it is when they’re scared shitless. When they scream. Just like that cat.”

I stare through the windshield, still lost to memories. Wasn’t until I got to high school that I learned some of the cruel shit the other kids did to him. Legendary stories passed down by the upperclassmen about how they tamed the freak, by giving him swirlies in the girls’ bathroom, how they snuck a used tampon into his sandwich, or let him touch a few of the cheerleaders tits, only to turn around and have the football players beat his ass for fondling them.

I did my best to hide the fact that we were blood, but when word got out, I faced my own version of hell, both in and out of school. Wasn’t a girl in the state of Illinois who’d date the freak’s nephew. I’d have probably been just as isolated and cold, if not for my mother and the hope she instilled in me to break free, someday.

The masks he wore eventually evolved into a variety of skins—innocent animals he captured and tortured in fun. Their carcasses littered the woods of the estate, the empty eye sockets filled with ground bone, so fine, it almost looked like sand. I never understood why he bothered with such a ritual, but my guess is, even he couldn’t stand to see the emptiness staring back at him. Other critters eventually ate their remains before my mother, or grandfather, found them, but it wouldn’t have really matter if they had. He found a way to earn my grandfather’s approval when he learned taxidermy, and would offer gifts he horrifically mutilated and preserved.

He became obsessed with the eyes, which I found pinned to walls in the back shed where he worked, along with a female mannequin he told my mother and grandfather he used to create art. We all believed him, until I caught him carrying the damn thing into his bedroom one night. After some time, he moved on to his preferred prey. Young women—street workers, mostly. When my mother and grandfather were out of the house, I heard him having sex with the women in the next room.

Except, the women were silent.

Drugged and passed out.

He couldn’t get off unless they were unconscious. Said he couldn’t stand when they tried to talk to him, or ask a bunch of personal questions. He’d have his way with them throughout the night, then dump them on the side of the road somewhere, without paying them a dime, before morning. For years, he did this, sometimes bringing me along to pick one up, until he effectively perfected it. His unsettling charm never failed to lure them into the car, but only when he got them home did that charm flip to something evil and sinister. And in his effort to taunt me, he’d make a spectacle out of it, with loud moans and thumping of furniture, his way of throwing it in my face, on nights when I tried to talk him out of it.

Wasn’t long before he grew tired of the routine. And when the police started snooping around, he realized dumping them alive was too risky, even if, most times, they couldn’t remember his face.

I catch sight of Nola through the diner window, buzzing from table to table. Never still. I wish I could say my only purpose for sitting in that car was to catch a sadistic psychopath, but I’d be lying. Something about the woman intrigues me. Her tenacity and dedication to her son reminds me of my own mother, and truth is, she’s not exactly hard on the eyes.

I try not to think too much about her curves, but goddamn, the way she looked in those jeans at the grocery store had me imagining them bunched at her ankles like cuffs. She’s an enticement I can’t afford. A distraction that’ll cost me the game, if I’m not careful.

A couple of hours watching cars and people coming and going, and I’m ready to crawl out of my skin having to sit so long. I’m more likely to stumble upon something significant after her shift, so I fire up the vehicle and head back to the apartment to grab some lunch. Along the way, I catch sight of Oliver, caught up in a circle of three other kids who look at least two grades older, a few blocks from the house. I slow the car to a crawl, and seconds later, it becomes clear the circle is a trap, and Oliver is the mouse, when one of the kids gives a hard thrust to his chest, knocking him back a step.

Oliver adjusts his glasses, and holds his stance.

Admirable, but even the smallest of the other three looks like he could pummel Oliver into a pancake and eat him.

Everything tells me to keep going. He’s not my kid. Not my problem. But the bigger kid swings out, knocking Oliver flat on his ass, and something twists inside of me. Maybe it’s whatever miniscule amount of empathy I can muster, having been a mouse myself, when I was a kid. Or maybe something about the older kid just rubs me the wrong fucking way.

Regardless, I pull the car to a stop alongside the curb a few houses down, and stare through the rearview as the boys knock him around.

“Don’t do it.” I close my eyes to extinguish the scene, but the anger remains in the red haze that greets me behind shuttered lids. “C’mon, kid.”