Page 75 of My Killer Blind Date

‘Just the cabin.’ His tone is guarded. He knows I’m acting weird. But how am I supposed to act, sitting inches from a serial killer in this very vulnerable position?

‘What about a storage unit? Do you have one of those? And what’s in the shed near the cabin?’

‘Some tools. Shears, a kayak, you know. Shed stuff. Why are you asking me these questions?’

Maybe it’s stupid. But I can’t hold this all in. ‘Have you heard of Brooke Walsh?’

His brow crinkles. ‘She’s an influencer, right?’

‘She disappeared.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.’

He’s so calm. Too calm. Oh my God, he’s a psychopath.

And then, crashing through everything, a horrific realization hits me. Yes, Brooke fits the pattern. But there’s another part to it. When someone new disappears, the body of the previous person shows up.

Shit, fuck, shit.

Feverishly, I swipe open a browser and head to Reddit.

Sure enough, there’s a notification from my thread.

YourMamasWife Hey @looking_for_Zoe I figure you probably already saw this, but sharing just in case. Same beach as the others. SO sorry for the loss of everyone involved, and praying for her family. TW graphic content.

No, no, no.

I click on the link.

It takes me straight to the Cook County Unidentified Persons site, which I fucking failed to check because I decided to move on. How could I?

The entry is from four days ago. I scan with my heart in my throat.

ME2026-05720 … Beach off Sheridan Road … found on the sand on pile of cremated human remains … Human Left Foot of a White Female / unk age / Tattoo above ankle in black ink ‘Live Free Or Die’—

My soul exits my body.

It’s her.

I don’t have to look to know.

Still, I click on the photo, because there’s always a photo.

And I’m looking at my friend’s foot, sitting on the beach on a pile of pale, grayish dust – her ashes.

‘Holy shit fuck,’ I whisper, furiously swiping back tears so I can see it.

‘Margot – are you OK?’ Liam insists.

I ignore him and expand the picture to take a closer look. The toenails have the remnants of purple polish at the tips. I remember that exact shade. The bottle is still in her room. And the tattoo is hers, in the scrolly black cursive I know so well.

All I can hear is a vast silence in my head, like I’ve suddenly been transported to a different world.

A world where my friend is actually dead. Dismembered. Cremated. And tossed on a beach.

It’s no longer just a suspicion of mine, or a far-fetched theory. It’s reality.

The foot is pale, but it doesn’t look decomposed, likely because she was frozen like the others – until the killer incinerated the rest of her.