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“That’s my murder wall. It’s just something I’m trying.”
There are photos and thumbtacks and post-its and red strings connecting things. I guess now is as good a time as any to tell her about the new contract.
Chapter3
Mina
About thirty minutes ago.
When I open my eyes,Brian is already gone. He’s been already gone a lot lately. Something has been off since the ill-conceived plot to blow up the Stryker building during the Fourth of July parade. I’ve asked him where he goes a few times, and why we’re not going together, but he brushes me off.
I don’t want to bethat girl, you know, the one who needs to know exactly what her boyfriend is doing at all times, but… if he’s letting me in on his world and his side jobs, shouldn’t I know about anything that pertains to that? I laugh out loud in the empty dungeon room, thinking about Brian as myboyfriend. He is so not my boyfriend.
Though he did get me those almost-black roses for our murder date. They lived a whole 3 weeks. I kept them upstairs in the gym, so they could get some light.
Things have been pretty quiet at the house lately. Most of the girls have been steering clear of Brian’s wrath, there have been no good contracts the past couple of months, and no misbehaviors among the pleasure house’s clientele.
So Brian has become increasingly antsy. I can feel it in him, this need to kill something. And I’d be lying if I said the beast curled up inside of me isn’t making the same grumbling noises. I don’t know if Brian’s darkness feels like an itch under his skin, but it feels like one in mine.
The first time it happened, I tried moisturizing. Nope. It wasn’t until Easter when I killed Matsumoto’s son and a guard, that I realized this dark thing inside me was no longer content to just beokaywith Brian killing. It wanted some of the action, too.
I feel like a cartoon character as I dramatically stretch and yawn. The side table says it’s eleven o’clock. Great.
I hate it when Brian doesn’t set the alarm. He’s got this internal alarm that wakes him up like clockwork, and I have no idea how he does it without sunlight cues. Normally he wakes me, but when he’s gone like this, I’m left to wake myself, which means I end up missing out on the house’s breakfast buffet.
I sigh and swing my legs over the side of the bed, and that’s when I look up.
What in the fuck?
Also, how did I sleep through this? Was Brian just in here in the middle of the night with a black light, setting all this up? I probably should see a sleep specialist to find out if this is normal.
I don’t know how, but somehow, there is… I don’t know what they’re called. It’s like… when you watch a show about a serial killer, and the police have this wall up and there are newspaper clippings, and photos, and thumbtacks holding stray sticky notes to the wall, and then red strings that connect things, and giant question marks trying to see if this thing links to that thing?
So yeah, that’s what I’m looking at right now. There is a photo of an older gentleman in a suit in the middle of the board. He has thin wire-rimmed glasses and a very distinguished look about him. Above his photo is the name: Drake Windsor. There are a few index cards, thumb tacked to… wait, this is a stone wall, how does he have things thumbtacked?
I press my fingertips against it. Okay, so he’s put in a whole cork board underneath this, and again, my question is how? Why? What is happening right now? So he’s got these index cards with some facts about Drake Windsor who I assume is a new contract.
He’s a widower, apparently. His children are grown and live out of state. Brian has noted here that “they won’t be a problem”. Well, that’s reassuring.
There’s a second photo on the board of a clearly Italian man that says Dante Valentino. And below that, another index card makes it clear that he’s the guy who put out the hit on the guy that looks like a rich librarian.
There’s a picture of a Jack-O-Lantern tacked in the bottom right corner, with a pink sticky note asking, “Halloween Masquerade Ball, get invite?” and another blue note that reads, “Six weeks enough time?” There’s a red string that connects this note back to Dante’s photo and another blue note that reads, “Wants job done soon. Will he wait this long?”
Before I can read more, I hear the door behind me open, and I know it’s Brian, not just because nobody else is suicidal enough to enter our room uninvited—not that we’re entertaining guests down here—but because I can feel his cold, empty energy, which somehow feels like a blanket of silence that wraps around me and makes me feel calm inside like the first snow of winter.
“What is this?” I ask, not turning around.
“That’s my murder wall. It’s just something I’m trying.”
I just stand here with this thought for a moment and let it gel. There’s this part of me that thinks it’s completely cute that Brian made a murder wall and actuallycalls ithis murder wall. I like it. It means I’m going to know what he knows when he knows it about jobs, and I won’t have to follow him around like an annoying sidekick trying to get him to talk about things.
“How did it get here?”
“Elves,” he deadpans. “What do you mean how did it get here? I set it up last night when I couldn’t sleep.”
I try to imagine Brian making a two a.m. run to the office supply store and then… doing all of this. But I just can’t picture it—especially the Jack-o-Lantern. Did he clip it out of a magazine? Does he have a stash of Better Homes and Gardens hidden under our bed? Terrifying, if true.
“It’s missing something,” I say, still assessing the wall. “We should add some Washi tape.”
