Page 15 of Be Mine
Giving the saw a quick test run, I bring the blade close to the wrist, pushing down with force to separate Emmett’s hand from his arm. It chews through the skin with ease, but I’m met with some resistance when I reach the ligaments. I can feel the blade slipping, so I rock the tool in a seesaw motion, trying to guide it through the carpal ligament and in between the joint. Eventually, it gives way, and I toss the severed hand into the garbage.
I’m grateful that I have elderly neighbors who are in bed by nine and have likely discarded their hearing aids on the bedside tables for the night. But I also have another fail safe system in place: My garage has been soundproofed with acoustic paneling, and should anyone ever question that, I have my drum set carefully laid out when my garage isn’t in use for more…nefarious activities.
I’ve spent a lot of time curating a persona that leaves little suspicion. A home on a quiet street, mostly occupied by retirees. Retirees who I spend much of my time helping by shovelingtheir driveway or mowing their lawn. I’ve been at my job for a few years, never missing a shift, and volunteer at the food bank. Though my outward identity is overtly quiet and introverted, I made a point of taking necessary action to appear to be any other upstanding citizen and contributing member of the community.
With both hands removed, I move on to the elbows, separating the forearm by the joints. I like to work in segments, detaching each body part piece by piece. My training as a butcher has honed my skills and made me detail oriented. It also helped me familiarize myself with general anatomy. Where to cut. Where to saw. Which areas of the body require more manipulation. Where all the major arteries are located. And which ones tend to bleed the most. It's actually quite fascinating, disassembling a corpse. Nearly as fun as watching the life flicker from their eyes as you choke them to death, the fear waning until resolution and finally acceptance of one’s fate remains. I especially enjoy seeing the hope being snuffed out, when the realization hits no one is coming to save them.
I watched it with Myles and Emmett. Unfortunately, Luke’s demise was cut short, but with any luck, he’s lost use of his legs for the rest of his miserable existence.
Naturally, the shoulder requires more work. The muscle and sinew are more pronounced, and there’s a trick to guiding the blade on a certain trajectory to avoid the scapula. But soon, Emmett is no more than a torso and head on my table, his gaze bleak as his eyes have begun to sink into his skull. I’ll take great satisfaction separating that from the rest of him. I contemplate keeping his eyes as a souvenir, but I know I can’t leave anything that traces him back to me. Or Frankie. As far as it appeared, Frankie came home with me, while poor, dejected Emmett went home alone. I know the police will question her since she was seen with him tonight, and I’ll have to prepare her for that.
Once the bulk of the work is done, I secure Emmett’s parts in two separate bags. I need to dispose of them, and I already have a location mapped out. There’s an abandoned rock quarry about ten miles west of town. Very few people are aware of it because it was deserted sometime in the late nineties, and the road is blocked off to traffic. At over one hundred meters deep, a few rocks strategically tied off and Emmett will join Myles at the bottom of St. Albert’s Quarry. I would have enjoyed encasing him in cement blocks, as I did with Myles, but I have a guest to tend to.
And I don’t want to keep her waiting.
***
Frankie is still fast asleep in my bed. The blankets pulled up to her chin, her dark locks splayed across my pillowcase.Thump. Thump.Thump.It makes my heart throb, reminding me of the organ that resides in the confines of my chest.
Edging closer to the bed, I marvel at her milky complexion. How her black lashes dance across her cheeks. Cheeks that have the faintest rosy tinge to them. Her plump lips are slightly parted. Her chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. Lost somewhere in a dream. The effects of the Propofol are still in her system, and it will likely be a few more hours before she wakes.
The need I have for this woman goes beyond obsession. I crave her. Want to consume her and make her a part of me so we’re never separated again. The desire surges through my veins, a constant reminder of the pull I have toward her. And the power she has over me.
I was always aware of her presence. Anytime she walked by me. Entered a room. I didn’t have to look. I knew. I felt it deep in the dark crevices of my being.
And I always knew she was meant for me. I just had to wait for the opportune time to show her what we could be together. What better day than Valentine's Day?
She moans in her sleep, shifting so she’s on her side, facing me. My hands instinctively reach out, hovering over her arm, until I’malmosttouching, nearly grazing. I can feel the heat from her body without coming in contact with that flawless skin I yearn to feel beneath my palms. I move down, mimicking a slow caress. Over her forearm to her hands, pausing a moment to visualize her fingers threading through mine, how small she would feel in my hold.
My heart has abandoned throbbing and accelerated to near palpitations as I move on to the dips and valleys in her waist, obscured by the blankets, then up over the arch of her hip, and down again, sweeping over her legs.
Exhaling an unstable breath, I will myself to calm the turbulence within me.
Reluctantly, I pull my hand away and step back and out of the room. Soon she will be awake, and I want to be ready.
Chapter Thirteen
Frankie
I’m sinking into the most wonderful dream imaginable. The scent of clean linen surrounds me as I burrow myself deeper into what feels like a mountain of fluffy pillows and blankets. This is paradise. I’ve died and gone to heaven. I moan appreciatively and stretch my limbs like a cat, nuzzling my face into the softness of the sheets.
The morning sun peaks through my lids, the haze of my deep slumber slowly lifting. And as it does, an onslaught of last night’s events begins to unfold.
The bar.
The bands.
The Viking looking guy.
Noah.
Noah?Fuck.
My eyes crack open, and I shoot up in my bed. No, not my bed. Not my room. I was drugged and kidnapped andoh my GodI think he killed that guy.
Looking down at myself, I am no longer wearing the outfit from last night. In its place is a crisp, white t-shirt that smells incredibly masculine. Running my hands over my body, between my legs, I don’t feel violated. Blowing out a shaky breath, I willmyself not to cry.You can cry later.Now you have to figure out how to get out of this precarious situation.Alive.
This man, who I have worked with for years, stalked me. Sent horrifying gifts to me. Then fucking pumped me full of drugs, snatched me up, then did God only knows what to me.
