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His body nestles into my chest as his eyes drift closed. At least one of us can be happy right now. Gently working my fingers under his light balled up body, I lift and set him on the pillow next to me. He coils into a ball atop the pillow, the image somewhat reminiscent of a king above his subjects.

All hail, Gerald! King of the chinchillas!

Chuckling, I pull my laptop closer and begin reviewing the files I’ve collected on potential victims. Though, I prefer to call them flowers. Describing my displays as victims is so morbid. Flowers is a much more accurate term for my work.

This city is practically a cesspool for the worst of humanity. It just makes picking flowers surprisingly easy. If only I could pick the one I truly want.

Unfortunately, he is a ghost flower, blooming in the shadows. Until I find him, I suppose a common daisy will do.

Derrick King, a sad, balding insignificant man with a grocery list of domestic violence allegations levied against him. His name shot straight to the top of the list after being mentioned three times at a sexual assault support group. As a top financial advisor, the majority of his time is spent watching the stock market. No doubt his client list reads like a mayoral invitation list.

Tonight’s work was supposed to be a celebration. I suppose his death will have to be used as a ‘pick-me-up’ instead. So disappointing.

Walking to the closet, I trail my hands along the hangers, snagging the outfit for tonight. A black cocktail dress with a plunging neckline. Stepping toward the mannequins sitting in a row at the back, I pluck the red wig off its post. On my way out, I pick up my prepped go-bag, complete with everything my murderous heart requires.

Slipping into the dress and stockings, I slink into the vanity chair. My well-practiced fingers make quick work of fitting the wig. As a final touch, I carefully swipe lipstick across my lips—a bursting wine color chosen for this very special occasion. One soft smack of my lips finishes the transformation.

I glance at myself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back at me. Stunning. Perfectly not me.

Placing my bag in the trunk, I head to Mr. King’s favorite Friday night haunt.

Hotel Elan.

Parking my car in a lot down the street, I activate the program on my phone which Litza designed to interfere with the cameras nearby.

The sound of my heels clicking against the uneven sidewalk serves as my private battle march. When I walk through the hotel doors, the receptionist smiles and waves. She must be experienced with the clientele as she returns to work rather than asking unnecessary questions. Steering away from the lobby, I enter the bar.

The bartender steps in front of me the moment I slide into one of the swiveling seats along the bar. His beach-boy persona does nothing for me, but I feign a smile and ask for a gin and tonic. Several women at the other end of the bar practically drool as they watch him prepare my drink. I can understand how they might find him attractive, but my mind wanders to the man at the auction this morning and how devastatingly handsome he was. Those burning blue sapphires have branded themselves into my brain. Ugh! If I ever find him, I’ll⁠—

The bartender places the gin and tonic in front of me, cutting off my thoughts. Lifting the glass to my lips, I pretend to take a sip and scan the room for King. Blue wall lights blur the reflection, but my vision adjusts.

After several faux sips, I spot him, sitting in the corner of the room, two men hanging on to his every word. Our eyes meet in the reflection of the mirror. I hold his gaze for a moment before looking down at my drink. A silent challenge for him to answer.

My research into his preference for redheads is paying off in spades. My wig falls in loose curls across my face, which I use to my advantage. A sultry mystery for him to solve. Metal scrapes against the glossy floor as he pushes his chair back. Even through the reflection fractured by half-empty liquor bottles, I can feel his intense focus settle over me. The sensation makes my skin crawl.

The overwhelming stench of his cologne chokes me before he arrives at the bar. He brushes his leg against mine as he steps beside me. He raises his hand to capture the attention of the bartender.

The bartender nods in acknowledgment with a wiggle of his brows, and King turns his vampiric gaze to me, lingering on my chest for too long.

“I haven’t seen you here before.” His slick, oily voice practically coos the words.

Hiding my disgust, I crank my lips into a smirk.

“That makes sense since I’m just passing through.” I look up through my lashes and bat them twice. A basic bitch move. But it works.

“Well, in that case, let me show you around. How long are you staying?”

The man is a walking dictionary of every lame pickup line ever spoken in the English language.

“I’ll be here for a few nights. Just exploring what your city has to offer.”

“Would you like to see one of my favorite places?” Stepping closer, he runs a finger down the top of my shoulder to my elbow. My stomach lurches at his touch as goose bumps of revulsion follow in its wake. Screaming internally, I tap his hand in an attempt to stop it from crawling along my skin any further.

The bartender interrupts my response.

King orders another of the same, then turns back to me.

“I’m not sure I should be leaving with someone I just met. For all I know, you could be a serial killer…”