Page 30 of When I Accidentally Snagged a Serial Killer

The basement smells like wet concrete, rust, and old dust. One single work light. Somewhere behind me, water drips into the floor drain a few feet from Warren’s chair.

Warren jerks against the restraints, chair legs scraping concrete. “Who the hell are you? What do you want?”

I lift one finger. “Shhh. Don’t interrupt my show-and-tell. It’s rude.”

He gapes at me, which never gets old.

I reach behind me, beneath the long fall of my coat, and draw out the folded shaft. One flick of my wrist, and the blade swings open with a heavy metallic clack, the long curve of steel catching the work light. “This is Mr. Slicey.”

Warren’s skin turns ashen.

I slide the sickle from my belt with my other hand. “And Mr. Dicey.”

“What the fuck?”

“They’ll be assisting with tonight’s execution.” I glance between them as if considering the evening’s menu. “How long that execution takes depends largely on how cooperative you decide to be.”

“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?”

I grin. “Harbinger to some. Hero to others. I’ll let you work out which category applies to you.”

“You’re fucking insane.”

“Not insane.” My boots echo softly as I move closer. “Dedicated.”

Admittedly, harbinger is dramatic. But if one commits to a hood, a long coat, and a scythe, linguistic restraint seems cowardly.

Plink. Plink. Plink. Warren’s eyes flick from me to the blades and back. Good. Now I have his attention.

“Anyway.” I gesture lightly with Mr. Slicey and begin to circle him. “Milwaukee. June seventh. Let’s discuss your travel itinerary.”

“I wasn’t in Milwaukee.”

I stop behind his chair. “You rented a room under Daniel Pierce. Paid cash. Stayed three nights.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” His breathing hitches, giving him away.

I step back into his line of sight. “I already know the answer, Warren. I’m trying to determine whether you’re going to spend your last conversation lying to me.”

A humorless laugh rattles out of him. “You dragged me into some fucking basement and tied me to a chair.”

“I went to considerable trouble finding a basement with the proper atmosphere. Let’s not ruin the ambiance with dishonesty, shall we?”

His face twists. The warehouse groans faintly above us, wind pushing against old metal siding.

“Now.” I lower Mr. Slicey. “October thirty-first, 2009.” Warren blinks. “Chicago.”

A wariness moves through his face. “What?”

“Were you there?”

“No.”

I already know that too. Warren was in Indiana that Halloween. Arrest record, two witnesses, a gas-station camera timestamped after midnight. Wrong man.

They’re always the wrong man. Seventeen years, and I keep asking.

With a sigh, I sheath the sickle and draw a stun gun from my coat instead. A brief shock cuts the lie short. His body jerks against the chair before he slumps back, dragging in a ragged breath. The faint electrical smell fades beneath damp stone and rust.