Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 132321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
Rooster doesn’t have a comeback and that almost unnerves me more than anything else that’s happened on this trip.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Margot
If God exists, He watches over the mischievous with affection. At least that’s what I tell myself on these missions. Somehow, I haven’t been caught yet. Maybe it’s because I choose my targets carefully and for just reasons.
No one probably works all that hard to find the killer of child molesters, wife-beaters, and baby killers.
It’s still risky. I could get caught. I could get killed. These are, after all, dangerous men that I hunt. I’m not like Jigsaw and his biker brothers, with their muscles and strength. I have to pick and choose my targets carefully and work out a solid plan.
I check the mirror of my rental car and adjust my short, black wig. Pin-straight, chin-length bob with heavy bangs that end right below my eyebrows. I even put in brown contacts. Tight black leggings and sleek, black high-top sneakers hopefully give me the illusion of a little more height. A padded butt enhancer and thin shoulder pads under my black long-sleeved cropped jacket alter my shape just a little. It’s all about perception and illusion. If anyone remembers seeing a woman at Patrick’s door, none of the characteristics someone might mention to the police have anything to do with me—shy, blonde Margot Cedarwood from Pine Hollow.
Little Lady Death. Jigsaw has no idea how on the nose that nickname is.
Thinking of him brings on a wave of longing. I miss him. He’s sent me a bunch of texts since he left for Tennessee, but I still have no idea when he’ll be back in New York.
I wish I could tell him about my favorite side hobby.
I’ve been watching the Horizon Inn motel for days. Every day since Jigsaw left on his trip to be precise.
Every night around seven p.m. a delivery driver shows up with food. Always a different driver. Sometimes it’s bags of groceries, other times a pizza, or even just a plain brown bag covered in grease stains.
Once I knew his room number, I placed a small camera on the balcony across from his door, so I can monitor him throughout the day. He never leaves the motel room. Never lets a maid in either. Laurel was wrong about the hookers; so far, I’ve only seen food arrive at Patrick’s door. This might be my easiest kill yet.
A car swoops into the parking lot. Music, loud and thumping. The car slows to a crawl as the driver reads the room number signs.
Perfect.
I turn off the dome light in my car and step out.
Here’s the riskiest part of my plan. Running along the side of the building, I pop out near the bottom of the stairs leading to the second floor and scurry up a few steps. Large, unkempt shrubbery obscures the bottom half of the staircase, making it dark and shadowy. A perfect temporary hiding spot.
A few seconds later, the delivery driver approaches the stairs.
Please let this be the right one.
I grab the banister and act like I’m running down to meet him. “Oh, hey. Is that for Room 242?”
He squints at me, then smiles. “Yup.”
I hold out my hand for the bag. “Thanks.”
A frown creases his forehead. “Patrick…?”
“Larsen, yup,” I confirm, giving him the correct last name.
“Excellent. Thanks.”
“No, thank you.” I hand him a folded-up twenty-dollar bill, hoping surprise at the amount of the tip will override any other details about our encounter, like the black latex gloves I’m wearing.
“Whoa, thanks ma’am.” He grabs the bill and unfolds it, his attention not lingering on my hand. “You sure?”
“Yeah, I think he always forgets to tip in the app, you know?”
“Glad I didn’t spit in his chili now.” He laughs and darts away.
Gross. I sigh. If that guy’s my undoing, then I deserve to be caught.
The hard part isn’t over for me yet. I’m exposed outside. It’s dark but anyone could walk up on me at any time. The motel isn’t exactly deserted. I drop my butt to the stairs and plop the bag between my feet. To anyone observing, I could just be checking to make sure my whole order’s here. Totally normal, right?
The syringe I pull out of my sweatshirt pocket isn’t at all normal, though.
Chili, the kid said, right? I pull the two twine handles apart and peer into the bag. Chips, what looks—and smells—like several wrapped hot dogs, a tall white cup with a clear dome-shaped cover with swirls of whipped cream underneath, and finally a wide, white cup with a plastic lid—complete with ventilation holes—in the corner. Perfect, I don’t even have to puncture anything. I uncap the syringe and plunge the tip into one of the holes in the chili container and slowly empty about half of it.
Enough odorless, tasteless fentanyl to kill a football team slips into the hot, smelly cup. Just in case, I pluck a napkin from the bag, wipe the tip of the needle and empty the rest of it into the milkshake. The perfectly swirled whipped cream at the top deflates a little but that shouldn’t look too strange. It’s sitting in a bag with a bunch of hot food, after all. Even if he decides not to drink the milkshake, hopefully he doesn’t skip the chili.