My whisper seems to hang in the air before the wind carries it away. The coyote in the distance tilts her head as though listening, but I know she can’t hear us. She shakes her head and bares her teeth at a phantom foe.

“What’s her name?” Jack asks.

I want to say CBF-14, but I know he’ll call bullshit. “Sunny Bunny.”

I can almost feel Jack gathering his limited self-restraint, and I think for a moment that he might throw the gun across the field. “Sunny…Bunny…?”

“Yep. Just Bunny for short, of course. Or Buns. But I knew you’d hate her full name even more.”

“I don’t know, Buns is pretty bad.”

A weak smile flickers across my lips at the distaste I see in Jack’s expression when I dart a glance his way. It’s deeply satisfying to catch the way he crinkles his nose as though he’s swallowed something bitter. He passes the rifle back and I find Bunny through the scope, settling into the comforting weight of the weapon, the trigger cold in the autumn air.

He never rested his finger on it.

I glance in Jack’s direction to find him watching me with more interest than I expected. “The first time I saw her was on a bright summer day. She caught a young hare,” I say as I turn my attention back to the canid in the distance. I shrug. “It wasn’t just the weather, or the prey. The longer I watched, the more I realized she had a spark about her. A kind of goofy disposition. Hence, Sunny Bunny.”

“I thought wildlife biologists were supposed to remain dispassionate about their research subjects.”

I roll my eyes and sigh. “Of course you would. It’s okay for the illustrious Dr. Jack Sorensen to be passionate about a bunch of cold bones but God forbid anyone else feel something remotely fervid about their work,” I grumble.

I’m quiet for a long moment as Bunny turns a wobbling circle, and I realize that there’s nothing I recognize of her anymore, nothing remaining of the soul that’s left only fur and flesh and marrow behind. A sting burns deep in my chest, in my eyes. I blink, keeping my gaze honed on the coyote. “No. I’ve studied Bunny for three years. I am not apathetic to her at all, Jack.”

We fall into silence as Bunny looks down at the grasses waving in the wind like tiny banners. She trots a few steps before stumbling to a stop and shaking her head, her jaw hanging open and her tongue working in her open mouth as she tries to swallow. Jack’s head tilts as he watches. Bunny’s behavior is notably strange, even from this distance and without the benefit of the scope. “Rabies?” he asks.

My finger caresses the curve of the trigger as my heart seems to drop in my chest, its weight too heavy against my bones. “Yes. I was informed about an aggressive coyote that was killed on Mitchell street a few weeks ago. It was tested and came back positive for rabies. I put vaccine bait in the fields, but I guess I was too late. Maybe I didn’t put enough down. I should have done another round, but I let myself become caught up with other…priorities,” I admit, resisting the sudden urge to glance at Jack.

The quiet threads around us, pulling tight, knotting in my throat. Silence never bothers me when I’m alone in the field observing the behavior of wildlife. But when I’m with other people, the quiet often gnaws at me, scraping at my mind, an itch across my thoughts. It’s like an entity, like a living hole that begs to be filled before my imagination can drag me somewhere I don’t want to go.

“No cutting remarks, Jack?” I ask, feeding the void when it starts to consume me. But truthfully, I’m also surprised he hasn’t taken the opportunity to slice me down for my self-admitted mistake. “I’ve watched Bunny for almost as long as I’ve been here at West Paine. Of all the lives here, hers is my favorite, and I just told you that her suffering is my fault. Nothing to add?”

Silence. Bunny stumbles in the distance.

I swallow as my finger flinches on the trigger.

“Come on,” I whisper around the knot that constricts my vocal cords. “You know nothing would make you happier than to twist another knife.”

Jack’s silence crystallizes beneath my skin, burning my flesh like the touch of ice. My eye stays on Bunny as her tongue lolls in her open jaws.

“Fucking hell, Jack, just cut me down already—”

“Kyrie—”

My shot stops him short, the power of the blast echoing against the creek embankments. Bunny falls into the grass and doesn’t stir.

“Good enough,” I whisper.

I sling my backpack over one shoulder and my rifle over the other as I rise, not looking back as I stride away to recover another soul.

One I never wanted to take.

OceanofPDF.com

EIGHT

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PAINT IT RED

OceanofPDF.com

JACK

Three days.

And in that time, I’ve found pieces of Mason in my daily lunches. Toenails in my yogurt. Testes buried in my tofu salad. Entrails in my travel mug of egg drop soup.

When I approached Kyrie to inquire about her antics, her response was: “You said to dispose of the body… Digestion is a fantastic form of disposal, Jack.”

I’ve since decided it’s time to cremate the bodily evidence she’s gifted to me with my half of Mason. All evidence to be incinerated and ashes to fertilize my Himalayan poppies.

All except the femur.

I’ll keep that in a safe place. When it comes to Kyrie and her volatile temperament, it’s wise to have at least one piece of evidence in reserve.

As the fall breeze scatters orange and red leaves across Main Street, I seat myself on a sidewalk bench and flip through my sketchbook. The drawings of Colby are all I’ve seen of my prey in as many days, also.

Colby has gone missing.

I wouldn’t be surprised if he starts turning up in my salads next.

Flipping to a fresh sheet, I lightly trace my pencil over the Bristol page, the sound of graphite scratching the surface deeply satisfying. My preference is typically a rougher, heavier tooth charcoal paper. I like the texture, the finely broken lines in each stroke. But for this particular sketch, a softer surface is required in order to capture all the delicate nuances of the features.

I glance up at my subject, pencil paused over the page, before I begin shading the high cheekbones.

By the time I have the color of the irises matched to a near perfect shade of pale, crystalline blue, I see the subject of my drawing emerge from the table through the picture window of the bar. She effortlessly mingles with a group of rowdy college kids as they exit, making sure she’s hidden among them as they head down the sidewalk.

I smile to myself at just how clever she is. Hiding in plain sight. Not easy for a beautiful woman who captures attention easily. I wonder if her overly expressive personality is a part of her method; making sure everyone knows how outspoken, outgoing, and delightful she is, so that when she’s on the prowl, no one will remember the quiet, docile woman who blended into a crowd.

“That wasn’t the first time we met.”

I find it difficult to believe I’d simply forget someone as memorable as Kyrie. And using the rivalry to buy time and figure it out has only resulted in Agent Hayes lingering far too long.

The truth is, the more I dig into Dr. Kyrie Roth, the less I uncover. For such a remarkable woman, her life before West Paine seems rather unremarkable, if not very well orchestrated. I can’t seem to find anything messy or unique about Kyrie Leigh Roth. Except for, that is, her type.

I know the kind of victim that captures her eye.

After I’ve packed away my supplies in my satchel, I pop the ballcap on my head and cross the street.