Chapter 2

Vincent froze mid-reach. Bent at the waist, utterly still.

The pounding at the door shook the frame, accompanied by a man's shout:

"I'm back! Open up!"

I knew that voice. Marcus Hoffman—Celeste's fiancé.

Vincent held position for several seconds, cleared his throat, then slowly straightened.

He grabbed a clean shirt from the chair, pulled it on, gripped the bloody bone saw behind his back, and walked toward the entrance.

I held my breath. Once that door opened and Marcus saw the body, Vincent would kill him too. Had to.

I knew it. But I couldn't even breathe. I just prayed Marcus could distract him for a few seconds—long enough for me to run.

I pressed deeper into the hanging clothes, every muscle locked, eyes fixed on the entryway.

The lock clicked. Vincent pulled the door open.

"So? Was she worth it? Didn't think you had it in you, man." Marcus sounded amused. Casual.

My blood turned to ice.

Marcus wasn't here to catch them.

That easy, crude tone—they'd set this up. He'd pimped out his own fiancée.

Vincent bit down on a cigar. Said nothing.

The smirk died on Marcus's face.

His eyes locked on Vincent's half-buttoned shirt—blood spatter across his chest. Then the smell hit him. Heavy. Metallic.

The color drained from Marcus's face completely.

"What the fuck did you do?"

Vincent tilted his head. The corner of his mouth lifted into something that might have been a smile.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"You... you killed her?"

Marcus lost it. Lunged forward, grabbed Vincent's collar, voice breaking:

"You were supposed to fuck her, not butcher her! Do you have any idea what she's worth? Her brand alone brings in six figures a month!"

"I thought you didn't care what happened to her."

Vincent flicked ash from the cigar. His eyes were empty. Like he was discussing the weather.

Marcus's legs gave out. He collapsed, gasping for air.

Vincent's expression stayed frozen—cold as a corpse—but that smile widened.

"Help me clean this up. Cops show up, you're going down with me."

"Fuck you!" Marcus's face flushed crimson, borderline screaming. "You killed her! Don't you fucking pin this on me!"

Vincent moved fast. Grabbed Marcus by the collar, hauled him up. Pressed the bloody bone saw against his throat.

"Let me rephrase. Either help me clean up, or I kill you right now."

The teeth pressed into his throat. Marcus went rigid. His lips trembled but nothing came out.

Finally, he nodded frantically.

Vincent released him, pointed toward the bedroom with the saw. "Get some old sheets and towels. Stop the bleeding."

Marcus scrambled to his feet.

When he turned, he finally saw it all—

Severed limbs floating in spreading pools of blood. White bone jutting from ragged flesh.

He clapped both hands over his mouth, dropped to his knees, and vomited everything in his stomach onto the carpet.

"Useless."

Vincent sneered, picked up two severed legs, and carried them into the kitchen.

Marcus wiped his mouth with shaking hands, stumbled into the bedroom, and yanked open the closet where I was hiding.

He bent down, rummaging through the bottom drawer.

I pressed back into the clothes, not daring to breathe.

Marcus grabbed some old sheets, straightened up. Then his eyes caught the full-length mirror on the inside of the closet door.

In the reflection, our eyes met.

Marcus sucked in a sharp breath. His mouth started to open—

My scalp exploded. I shot one trembling finger to my lips, shaking my head violently.

The shout died in his throat. He jerked his head toward the bedroom doorway—

From the kitchen down the hall came the dull thud of cleaver meeting bone.

He turned back to the mirror. Stared at me. Didn't speak. Just moved his lips silently.

I read the words.

Go. Now. Cops.

I nodded hard, trembling.

Marcus immediately went into the bathroom, cranked the sink faucet to full blast, and slapped the exhaust fan on. Water roared. The fan hummed loudly.

He was covering for me.

I crawled out of the closet, bare feet hitting the floor. Slick. Sticky. I'd stepped in blood that hadn't dried yet.

Ten steps from the bedroom to the front door. I pressed against the wall, inching toward the entrance, eyes locked on the kitchen doorway, terrified Vincent would appear.

Finally reached the door. My shaking hand closed around the cold metal handle, started to push down—

THWACK.

A brutal chopping sound exploded from the kitchen.

Everything stopped. My scalp went numb. I froze completely, couldn't move an inch, breath trapped in my throat.

The kitchen faucet turned on.

While the water was still running, I gritted my teeth, pressed the handle down, squeezed through the gap, then carefully guided the latch back into place with both hands.

Click.

The quietest sound.

The instant that door closed, every bit of strength drained from my body.

My legs buckled. I slid down the cold hallway wall, gasping uncontrollably.

The draft in the corridor hit me. I realized I was shaking all over, my shirt soaked through with cold sweat.

I braced my hands on the floor, trying to push myself up, when I caught it in my peripheral vision—

The metal door handle behind me seemed to press down. Just half an inch.

Was I seeing things?

I couldn't be sure.

Pure panic took over. I scrambled up on all fours, slammed through the heavy fire door, and bolted up the stairs.

Working as Celeste's full-time assistant when I couldn't afford rent in this building, I'd jumped at the half-price unit on the 13th floor—the murder apartment.

Guess the building attracts its own kind of crazy.

I took the stairs two at a time from six to thirteen. At my door, my hands—still sticky with blood—shook so badly I entered the wrong code three times before the lock finally opened.

I threw myself inside, slammed the door behind me, twisted the deadbolt, and pressed my entire body against it.

I dug my nails into my inner forearm until they broke skin.

The pain cleared my head.

Not a nightmare. Real.

Vincent was the nice guy. Patient. Polite. The kind who tipped double at restaurants.

But I kept coming back to his hands. The way he'd moved through all of it with the calm efficiency of someone following a familiar process. No wasted motion. No hesitation.

That kind of stillness wasn't learned in a single night.