Page 62 of When I Accidentally Snagged a Serial Killer

“Smart man.”

A soft meow comes from the doorway. Marzipan strolls in and walks directly past me.

“Aww, she followed us,” Jubilee says, absurdly delighted.

I fold my arms. “She followed you.”

Jubilee sinks onto the sofa and pats her thighs. Marzipan trots straight into her lap with the enthusiasm of a hostage spotting rescue personnel; she sprawls there, white paws kneading Jubilee’s skirt like she’s personally testing the accommodations.

Jubilee looks around again. Not at the expensive things. Just her own space in general.

I hook my thumbs into my pockets. “So? Does this mean you’ll stay?”

I hate the fraction of uncertainty in my own voice. Evidently, she hears it too. Her fingers slow in Marzipan’s fur, and she softens. “Gage.”

“Yeah?”

“I may never want to leave.”

“Great.”

She points a warning finger at me while Marzipan purrs on. “You may regret that, Cannon.”

“I’ll risk it.”

I don’t hover. It’s been a long day, and she needs room to settle.

And I need to think.

Outside, the night smells like damp earth and cut grass. Unfortunately, I know exactly where I do my best thinking.

The shed sits beyond the manicured part of the property, where the lawn gives way to weeds and trees. Weather-beaten boards. Crooked roof. Rusted hinge. Unimpressive on purpose. I close the door and stand for a moment in the darkness, breathing old timber, dry earth, and machine oil.

The concealed release lies under the workbench. Boards shift beneath the rubber mat, revealing a narrow staircase down into the room I never show and never discuss with anyone. Not even my therapist. Especially not my therapist.

The shed is just camouflage.

The murder bunker is where the personality disorder lives.

Only one other person knows this room exists.

Inside, I open the way downstairs. The lights hum on. No cats. No pastry books. No ridiculous whiskered mugs. Just weapons, dark coats, and a wall-sized map crowded with photographs, clippings, aliases, and dates.

Some faces bear red Xs.

Others are still waiting.

Sickles. Scythes. Over the years, I’ve collected blades. Some functional, some antique, some because murder occasionally needs a theme. Dark hooded coats hang from hooks along one wall.

On the opposite wall is a map of the United States, crossed with thread and covered in handwritten notes, photographs, newspaper clippings, dates, aliases. No cloud storage. No searchable database. No digital trail.

Some photographs bear a red X. Finished. Others remain untouched.

I pin the newest photograph to the wall. Salt-and-pepper hair. Respectably handsome face. Four sightings if I count the maybes: Saint Violet, twice more near the club, Lincoln Park Zoo.

No approach. No obvious threat. Just watching. Studying.

I hate men who study women.