Page 16
Great. Just what I need—a pissing contest with a flippant vaudevillian.
“Listen. If you think I’m going to step aside and let some fucking amateur take over—”
He takes a sudden step toward me, but I hold my ground.
“Amateur?” He growls at me.
“Yes. Amateur.”
“You don’t even know who I am.”
“The Puppeteer. Your three little kills were absolutely adorable. Tell me, when did the agalmatophilia begin…or have you always had a sexual attraction to marionettes?” I bat my eyes to drive home the snark.
The sides of his jaw tighten.
There are only three serial killers in this city. Me, The Puppeteer, and the short man I’m after. Perfect name, really. His marionettes are gorgeous of course. Evoking movement into the stilled meat. They lack emotion though. Always so sterile. Too perfect. Not dull. Just missing that certain zing.
“It’s The Puppet Master, and I have seven kills over three cities, thank you. I’m just particular.” He takes another step toward me, removing any distance between us. “If you know who I am, then why were you asking?” The warmth of his breath rolls across my face.
“The ‘colleague’ part really gave it away. I was asking for your real name. People have those, you know. You know mine; it only seems fitting I should know yours.”
I already know his name of course. Ethan Passmore. I recognize those incredibly handsome features, but I’m not about to tell him that. If he gives me an alias, I might have more time to figure this situation out. So many questions I need answers to. Like why the fuck is he following me? And why did he think he could touch my display?
His striking eyes bore into me, pulling me from my thoughts. The dark fissures of his iris crack and spider along the surface of the pure blue slate underneath. Each breath he takes accentuates the tightness of his shirt. The muscles of his chest create deep cutting shadows along the fabric. Lean and lethal. My fingers twitch at the thought of clawing him.
“Well? Are you going to say something or just continue to stare at me?”
He shrugs.
“How do you know I’m not the man you’re looking for?” He crosses his arms across his chest.
“Because I’ve seen him.”
“If you’ve seen him, why haven’t you found him?”
My stomach churns in anger at the question. It’s not like I haven’t tried. I replay that night over and over in my head. The darkness. The screams. The shadow silhouetted against taillights. Running through the forest, trying to catch the van. Then trudging for hours back to my car. The next day, the headlines announced his victory and my defeat. Another girl missing.
“I know how tall he is.” Hopefully, my correction doesn’t draw more of these incessant questions.
“So you haven’t seen him?”
I don’t bother responding.
“I’ll take that as a no.” He nods before his head whips to the side letting out a sigh. “I assume if I promise to take care of him, you still won’t leave?”
I shake my head. Yes, of course I’ll just step out of your way. Moron. Fighting the urge to roll my eyes I hold his gaze.
Seemingly understanding my position, he turns taking a step toward the forest.
“Leave my displays alone,” I say pointedly. Maybe with a bit of luck, he’ll just drop it. It’s possible. Right? Serial killer camaraderie. I’m sure it’s a thing.
“No.”
His words send blood rushing to my ears.
“That’s it? No?”
He turns to face me. Expressionless. Apathetic.
