Have you ever had a moment when you were in complete control? When the world felt as if it were just a marble in your balled up fist? That's how I feel when I f.u.c.k and when I kill. This is my hour. This is my calling. I am the G.o.d of f.u.c.k, and I do the Devil's dirty work, and tonight, my wrath will be felt.

Each of Chast.i.ty's slender limbs are cuffed to the bed frame. She looks beautiful spread out in an X, blindfolded, gagged, and facedown on a mattress yellowed with age. A dim glow is cast around the room by the few large candles on the cheap desk. I take one in my hand. I can hear her force thick, wet breaths around the ball gag as I inch closer to her, steadying the burning candle. She knows nothing about what's to come. She never does.

With a quick flick of my wrist, a smattering of melted wax plops against her back and a.s.s. She gasps, her hands gripping the cuffs so tight it looks as though her ligaments may rupture her skin at any moment. Another flick of the wrist and she lets out a m.u.f.fled scream. Her body curls in pain.

"Shut up, Chast.i.ty!" I say with a growl, placing the candle back on the desk.

I rub my palm over the curve of her a.s.s before smacking it hard. A red handprint slowly rises to the surface of her pale skin, and I smile. I want to hurt her. I want her to scream until those worthless f.u.c.king tears of hers spill down her cheeks.

The thought of those tears nearly drives me to the brink of madness, and I quickly pull down my jeans, grabbing my c.o.c.k and fisting it as I loosen the restraints around her legs. Stepping behind her, I grab her hips, my fingers digging into her flesh as I yank her a.s.s into the air. Sometimes I wonder if I could grip her hard enough to tear her flesh open, but I won't do that tonight. I'll save that for next time-maybe.

I press my left hand over the small of her back, forcing it down into the mattress as I rub a single finger over her p.u.s.s.y, exposed and waiting for me to do with it as I f.u.c.king please.

"Remember. Don't f.u.c.king move." I place my c.o.c.k against her then grab her hair and yank her head as I lay over her, placing my lips by her ear. "And don't make a G.o.dd.a.m.n sound. Play dead, my little s.l.u.t."

I slam into her, burying myself to the hilt. She is completely under my control, and though her cries sound as though she's in agony, she's loving every f.u.c.king minute of this. She craves receiving pain just as I crave giving it to her. Right now, I own her, bought and paid for. I am reinventing her, using her, and the thought that, if I wanted to, I could kill her with my bare hands... well, that makes me f.u.c.k her even harder.

I wrap my hand around her neck, and with each powerful thrust of my c.o.c.k, I squeeze just a little tighter. She gags and chokes, and I let up, wanting to crush her throat but knowing now is not the time. The temptation is there though-but then again, when isn't it? I fight the urge to end her because I like making her come, making her moan, and all at the touch of a murderer.

It's my dirty little secret, my wicked little lie.

An hour later, I drop Chast.i.ty off in front of a 7-Eleven, and with a screech of tires against the pavement, my night truly begins. If it goes according to plan, this evening will come to a close on Tenth Street.

"Creep"-Radiohead.

I'm a sad, pathetic little f.u.c.k-it's all I can think as I stare at my reflection in the mirror.

Now, I know that's probably not something you're likely to hear from most thirty-somethings who are fit and possess a legitimate career. Something more than "entrepreneur," that is. But for me, it's an intrusive thought that takes over from the moment I wake. Blame me if you want, but I was programmed this way.

The morning news spouts the usual depressing bulls.h.i.t in the background as I sip my coffee and Jameson, half ignoring what I'll get to experience firsthand shortly. I've been a homicide detective with Asheville's police department for four years now. I served three tough years in the army before that. I've seen the worst this world has to offer, and I live it every single day through victims and heartbroken family members, through the carnage and bloodshed.

I rub a hand through my uncombed hair. The ever-present tired look in my eye staring back at me from the mirror is a nice reminder that being a detective takes the life right out of you. That's not the only thing sucking the life out of me, of course. My childhood comes into play quite often. My time in the army also consumes my thoughts, playing out like f.u.c.ked up home movies in my dreams.

Sometimes I look back and wish I could change things. I wish I could erase the war, erase the pain of growing up broken. But more often than not, I'm resigned to a sense of understanding. I've made my peace with the Lord, however broken that peace may be. I'm his factory defect. I try my best to fight the absurd carnival of torment inside my mind, but alas, it's a twenty-four-seven party.

The unusual bustle of the department at seven in the morning lets me know I'm in for a treat today. I'm one of only a handful of detectives around when I arrive most mornings, and I'm always the first one in from the day shift. As I reach my office and toss my briefcase onto the desk, my partner, Detective Tommy Matthews, appears in the doorway. He raps two knuckles against the doorframe and lifts a manila folder, shaking his head.

"Let me f.u.c.kin' guess," I huff as I sit in the stiff leather chair. "Another cold one?"

"You got it. Two units found her around 3 a.m., dumped in an abandoned house down on Tenth Street." Tommy tosses the folder on the desk in front of me and takes a seat himself. "It was a fresh one. Cold maybe three hours."

"Tenth Street? Go figure. Is it our guy?" I flip the folder open, grab a pair of reading gla.s.ses from the desk, and slide them onto the bridge of my nose. I only hold the folder for now, peering over the top of my gla.s.ses at my partner and waiting for a response.

"Sure looks like it. Tortured and his signature Xs. When Joe called me this morning asking if I could come in early, he said he could tell right away this was our guy. Either that or a real good copycat." He motions to the folder, drawing my eyes to it. "If you'll look at the pics he took and the report, you'll see what I mean."

I scan the information and see a picture of a woman, shirtless with jean shorts hiked down to her ankles. Her hands are bound with her own bra. A mess of duct tape is wrapped around her eyes and nose.

"She was bound the same way," he says. "No rape, but looks like some real f.u.c.ked up s.h.i.t was done to her before she died. And like I said, she was marked like the others. We got the examiner looking at her now."

Her face is beaten beyond recognition. Each breast is engraved with a deep, b.l.o.o.d.y X, the nipples removed. I flip the picture and review Joe's report.

Tommy continues as I read. "Twenty-seven, no immediate family, a dozen or so prost.i.tution arrests. The last one was just two months ago. This is our f.u.c.king guy, Jax. Or a real good f.u.c.king imitator."

"Is Joe going to let us in on this one or be a p.r.i.c.k as usual?" I ask, knowing full well our dear Detective Sanders is a bit of a h.o.a.rder when it comes to big cases. He detests sharing credit.

"You know with any other case he would've b.i.t.c.hed up a storm and probably kept us as far away as possible, but he knows this guy's yours. He knows what the case means to you. Besides that, Chief Wentz knows what the case means to you. I don't think Joe's going to f.u.c.k with that," Tommy says, much to my relief. He motions to the book on my desk, the latest best seller from my all-time favorite author, EA Mercer. "How do you even read that s.h.i.t? Considering what we do for a living, you don't get enough murder and mayhem on the job?"

"What can I say, man? The guy changed my life. He's the reason I became a cop. Besides, he's a North Carolina treasure," I say as my mind drifts to my college days, which seem so long ago.

I got out of the army without a clue of what I wanted to do. I went to some s.h.i.t college to be a financial planner or some nine-to-five bulls.h.i.t like that. Picked up one of his books one day, and I fell in love. I wanted to be one of the detectives from his novels, catching the c.o.c.ksuckers that now take up my every thought. Their crimes are a morbid tapestry in my brain.

I smile, raising my palms to show off my pint-size office. "And the rest is history. Now I'm the made man you see before you."

Tommy grins and shakes his head. "You sure you ain't regretting changing your degree? A recent college grad on the arm and a Benz in the drive don't sound half bad." He scans the tiled ceiling and blinding fluorescent lights as if in thought. He shakes his head again. "Yeah, real f.u.c.kin' good."

"s.h.i.t, at least you got a wife and kid. You're smart-you got married in college. Trying to find a wife after getting in this field? Not f.u.c.kin' happening."

"Riiiight, like you even try, Peralta. When's the last time you had a d.a.m.n girlfriend?" he asks, his face scrunched in wonder. "Last time you went on a date even?"

"Longer than I can remember, my friend. Now, don't we have more important s.h.i.t to do than talk about my love life?" I say, waving the folder at him.

"I suppose so, but let me know any time you wanna take the wife and kid for a weekend or year or whatever!" He flashes a cheesy grin below his Tom Selleck mustache.

"I'm gonna have to pa.s.s."

"Well, it's a standing offer, partner." He laughs, putting his hands on his impressive beginner's beer gut.

Ten years my senior, the donuts and therapy beer have caught up to him. Then again, he probably hasn't seen a gym in a few years. He always says it's elbow tendonitis acting up. Mr. Excuse is what I call him. Like me, he joined the department at an older age than most. I thought getting into this gig at twenty-six was tough; I can't imagine doing it at thirty-two. But he's a funny, hard-working old b.a.s.t.a.r.d and a d.a.m.n good partner.

"I'm gonna go ahead and give you a forever hard pa.s.s then." I laugh, running my fingers through my damp hair. My office runs furnace-hot, so I'm in a constant state of sweat. "So we have eight identical murders now with this guy and another three that look awfully similar." I open the file again, jostling through the top few pages. "All arrested for prost.i.tution-"

"And about one or two more disappearing every few months... and that's just in Asheville," Tommy interjects. "We know he's operated elsewhere."

"Exactly. He's precise. He's smart. Leaves no evidence. Some found dead for mere hours, others for weeks, but no s.e.xual a.s.sault with any of the victims. So why keep them?"

"They're his trophies. Maybe he gets off on the power. Who knows, man? You know how these motherf.u.c.kers are. There's no rhyme or reason to it."

"But that's where I think you're wrong, my friend," I say, closing the file and stuffing it into my briefcase. "I think there is a pattern to it. It's a game he's playing. And I get the feeling he knows exactly what he's doing." I stand, remove my coat from the rack, and slip it on. "Let's go down to Tenth Street and talk to some of the regulars. See if they've seen anything strange with any of their Johns. We can swing by the crime scene too."

Tommy stands too, rubbing his hands together. "Hooker patrol, let's do it! I'll get the car warmed up."

He turns and heads out the door. I don't move right away. Instead I let the four years I've spent chasing this killer wash over me in a flood of f.u.c.ked up reminiscence. Four years of torture, mutilation, and death. Four years of missed chances and blown opportunities. I'm still no closer to catching him than the day I started, but it's what drives me.

That-and this motherf.u.c.ker killed my baby sister. For that, he will be caught. It's just a matter of when.

"Pretty Monster"-Reckless Serenade.

Thirty minutes ago, the taxi pulled off the main highway onto this narrow side road. I always feel so awkward in the back of a cab. Do you attempt to strike up a conversation with the driver or not? It feels rude not to but overly friendly if you do. I decide to keep quiet, resting my forehead against the window as I watch the turning autumn trees whizz past.

Am I excited? Of course. Excited. Nervous-no, I'm terrified. Mr. Mercer chose me out of all the applicants-not f.u.c.king Margaret Stanley. But what does that mean anyway?

To say he left me unnerved at the coffee shop is an understatement. There is something about him, something deep-seated within him-in his eyes-that scares me a little. Maybe it's arrogance or intelligence or my own obsession with him, but something about him leaves me utterly mortified to be in his presence, yet here I am on my way to his cabin to write an entire novel alongside him. It makes my stomach kink. I'm worried he'll realize on day one what a s.h.i.tty writer I am and send me packing. I debated asking if we could do this co-author deal via email or f.u.c.king Google docs, but after thinking that over, I figured it would only aggravate him if I asked. For some reason, I think he may have very little patience.

The cab takes a sharp right turn, and begins weaving up a twisting mountain ridge. The farther up we go, the thicker the trees grow, and a slight drizzle begins to fall. The driver flicks a k.n.o.b on the steering wheel, and the windshield wipers screech over the gla.s.s. The noise makes my skin p.r.i.c.kle. My phone buzzes, and when I see it's my mother, I press Ignore. The last thing I want her to know is that I'm here. She'll see it as her jackpot.

"h.e.l.l, this is out in the middle of nowhere, huh?" the pudgy man crammed into the driver's seat mumbles.

"Yeah..."

He chuckles. "Why'd the h.e.l.l would somebody want to live this far from town? They killing people or somethin'?"

Chill b.u.mps sweep over my skin, and I laugh to ease the tension. "Maybe." Maybe...

After driving several miles up the mountain in silence, we turn onto a one-lane road. I can barely see the outline of the road from the pile of leaves covering it. Woods. Thick woods surround us for a good five minutes before the taxi rolls to a stop, brakes squeaking. I glance out of the window at a small cabin, my breath fogging over the gla.s.s. My brow wrinkles. I'd expected something more... extravagant. Edwin Mercer is a eight-time number-one NYT best-selling author. He's made millions of dollars, and this-I narrow my gaze at the log cabin with smoke billowing from the stone chimney-this is what he lives in? Almost immediately, I chastise myself. Simplicity. That's respectable.

I pay the driver, grab my luggage from the back, and slam the trunk. The tires crunch over gravel as he pulls away, and once the hum of the engine disappears down the road, I realize how silent it is out here.

I glance at the thick woods lining his property. I can just make out a tiny shed nestled by the tree line. My heart rate kicks up a notch, and I'm not even sure why I have this apprehension-it's only my entire future that hinges upon this project.

The wind picks up, shaking a few leaves from the tree limbs, and I shiver. The late-autumn air has a nasty chill to it. I hate cold like this. It reminds me of being a kid in that sc.u.mmy apartment without any heat, unable to sleep because I couldn't stop shaking. It reminds me of how much I hate my mother... just thinking about her sends my pulse into overdrive. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and push my shoulders back. A moment later, I slowly walk toward the cabin, struggling to drag my luggage over the uneven ground.

The porch creaks when I step onto it. Even though it's rather cold outside, sweat builds under my hair and slicks my palms as I stare at the worn door, reciting what I'll say to him. I manage to calm myself and timidly knock.

The doork.n.o.b turns, the hinges to the door groaning when Mr. Mercer yanks it open. "Welcome, Ms. Cross. Did the driver have any trouble finding the place?"

"No," I say, stepping into the ma.s.sive living room. It's much more s.p.a.cious than the outside makes it appear.

"Well, that's a first. Those f.u.c.ks can never get it right." He takes the luggage from my hand and sets it to the side, putting a hand up to welcome me in.

This-this is not simplicity. Everything is immaculate and orderly. The tongue-and-groove ceiling meets in a peak. The room is completely open. All of the leather furniture looks unused. The hardwood floors gleam under the midafternoon sun pouring in from the large bay window at the back of the room. Expensive-looking art hangs neatly on the walls. Above the large stone fireplace, with its roaring fire, are several proudly mounted animal heads, their lifeless eyes glaring at me. My gaze drifts around the room again, stopping on that huge window.

Edwin c.o.c.ks his head, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I see you've spotted the impeccable view. That view is the exact reason I bought the place."

I nod because I don't know what else to do. He makes me nervous. I'm afraid no matter what I say, I'll sound like a b.u.mbling idiot.

"Let's check it out first then. It's where we'll be spending the majority of our time anyway." He nods toward the opposite side of the room. "After you."

I hesitate before starting toward the large desk positioned in front of the window, Edwin close behind me. Nearly to the desk, my foot catches on the large area rug, and I stumble, my arms flailing gracelessly as I attempt to stop myself. But I don't need to stop myself, because Edwin catches me just before I fall into the desk, his strong hands tightly gripping my hips to steady me.

The heat of embarra.s.sment washes over me as my eyes rise to meet his. "Thank you," I whisper.

His gaze strays to my lips for the briefest moment, then he releases me. He walks to the desk, stopping in front of it, and peers out of the window.

He looks fl.u.s.tered. "So..." He clears his throat. "This is my pride and joy. Every best seller I've ever written has been done right here." He motions toward the window. "Looking out at that."

The view is breathtaking. There's a large lot of flat land, but just beyond that lie miles and miles of thick woods. In the distance, mountains rise against the horizon. The autumn woods are a sea of burnt oranges and deep reds against a bright blue sky. Nothing but nature as far as I can see. No distractions, just natural beauty. I can see why this inspires him.

I glance at Edwin to compliment the view, but he's still staring out of the window, almost in a daze. Following his gaze, I find it aimed at the shed at the edge of the property, just before the thick tree line begins. The construction looks fairly new. Most of it is built from wood. The roof is tin, and the metal door has a visibly large latch on the outside. It reminds me of those bomb shelters paranoid people built in the '50s, and I wouldn't doubt that a man like him built it for such an occasion. Writers are a strange breed. After all, we hear voices in our heads all the time, and sometimes, we even talk to them as though they're real...

Edwin's gaze moves from the window to me, his eyes locking on mine as he runs a thick finger against the mahogany desk. "I had my a.s.sistant, Janine, set up your workstation for you. I'm sure you'll find it more than adequate."

On the desk are two computers. Side by side. This man-this New York Times best-selling author-wants me to sit elbow to elbow with him while I write? My stomach knots, and sweat p.r.i.c.ks over my forehead. How in the h.e.l.l am I supposed to write with him glaring over my shoulder?

"Thanks," I say with a fake smile to hide my apprehension. "It looks perfect."

"Good. Speaking of Janine," he says, walking out of the office and back through the living room. He looks over his shoulder. "She stays in the city. If you need anything, I left her number on your pillow. Dietary restrictions, rides to the city, what have you... that's the kind of s.h.i.t she can take care of."

For some reason, when he swears like that, I find it abrasive. Maybe it's because he's rather eloquent, or maybe it's my preconceived notion of him-the one where he was without flaw, almost G.o.dlike, because idols are rarely human. He's not at all like I imagined, and if I'm honest, I rather like that.

He continues to a hallway to the left of the front door and turns to me. "I write impulsively and at very random times. That's why it's best that you stay here." He motions down the hall. "Yours will be the room on the left."

I follow him down the narrow corridor, curiously looking into each open doorway. Just across from my room is what I a.s.sume is his. The four-poster king-size bed is neatly made. The curtains over the windows on either side of the bed are drawn, leaving the room in a sullen darkness. That's where he sleeps... and f.u.c.ks.

I take a quick look at him, my eyes drifting down his body. He writes some messed up s.h.i.t. The s.e.x is always degrading and rough. Animalistic and raw. I can't help but imagine he must be filthy. He probably ties women up to that bed-why else would you have a bed like that? I bet he binds them, spanks them, calls them all kinds of filthy names before he finally f.u.c.ks them. I shouldn't wonder it, but I can't help myself-what would it be like to have EA Mercer inside you?

Clearing his throat, he stops in front of his bedroom door. I realize I've just been standing there, peering into his room. I feel like such a wh.o.r.e for having imagined him in such a way. I'm not a pervert. I'm not...

He narrows his eyes at me. I can see him studying me, possibly dissecting me bit by bit. It makes me uncomfortable because I want him to see me as a strong, intelligent woman, and I fear if he looks too hard, he'll see that I'm not.

Without a word, he starts inside his room but stops abruptly. Looking back, he holds up a finger. "Oh, and I'm not sure if you've checked yet, but don't even concern yourself with getting cell service out here. There is none." He points the same finger down the hall where we came from. "The house phone is in the kitchen."

"Oh, sure. Okay," I say.

A short-lived smile flinches over his lips before he turns, walks into his room, and shuts the door. Something in that grin leaves me unsettled. So much so that my hands are shaking when I open the door to my room. I'm miles away from the nearest city, in the middle of f.u.c.king nowhere, with a man I feel like I know. I feel like I know him because he's EA Mercer. He's famous. I've read his words-read article after article about him-but the thing is, I know absolutely nothing about him.

And I am staying in his cabin.

In the woods.

All alone.

I anxiously peer into the hallway as I slowly close my door, the unoiled hinges creaking. I stare at the handle, fighting with myself. Telling myself to stop being such a paranoid freak. To stop buying into all of the s.h.i.t I read so much-convincing myself everything is fine. As soon as I turn from the door, my gaze strays out of the large window on the back wall, and all I can see is that shed. My heart rate kicks up as I spin back around, palms flat against the bedroom door.

I take a deep breath as I stare at the handle. I can't help it-I impulsively twist the lock and pull back on the door to check that it's secure before I turn toward the bed.

After all, someone who can conjure up the twisted s.h.i.t he writes... how much can you really trust someone with an imagination like that?

I've been here three days, and we have a total of five thousand words. That's it. It's not easy to write with him next to me. Everything I write is wrong. He huffs and puffs over my "amateur" word choices, and to be honest, I've never met anyone quite so rude. He reminds me every chance he gets that I'm still in grad school and without a published book under my belt. Not to mention he likes to throw things when he gets really annoyed. The lamp. The keyboard. Coffee mugs. There's a nice stain on the wall beside me where he hurled his cup yesterday morning.

My fingers shake as I type out my sentence.

My heart races in my chest as I press my back against the cold, wooden door...

Edwin groans, tossing his head back and dragging his hands down his face. He abruptly stands, his chair crashing to the floor as he backs away from the desk, the sudden movement making me nearly jump out of my seat. He glares at my screen with a snarl of absolute disgust, and without warning, he grabs the pencil holder and hurls it across the room. It hits the wall, and I jump again as the pencils and pens explode in every direction.

"Is this it? Is this the best that b.i.t.c.h could find? Is this what the next generation of best-selling authors will contribute? This mindless drivel?" He looks at me, disdain on his face. "Is it?"

"I... I..." Tears build in my eyes. He makes me feel so stupid and incapable, I'm beginning to actually despise him. "I don't know what else you want. I don't know what-"