The single white sheet is rumpled around his stomach. A blue foil has been discarded on the bedside table, along with two glasses of alcohol.

A trace of her perfume still lingers—bitter notes of angelica flower and sweet vanilla. The collision of scents loiter in the stagnant air, combusting within my chest.

Fists balled, I watch the rise and fall of Brad’s pale chest, curbing the impulse to smother him with his sweaty pillow.

As far as Brad goes, he’s useless in my department. No great loss would come from him simply slipping away in his sleep. But lucky for him, there is nothing interesting about his bone structure. My time spent on him is merely out of necessity, so I’ll be quick about it.

I glance at the condom wrapper again and a tight knot forms at the base of my spine. If not for the name I need that only he can provide, I might just break my rule and take a giant shit right in my territory, then smear Brad’s face in it.

The imagery leaves an unpleasant aftertaste in my mouth, and I decide to leave. My original plan was to get Brad wasted at the gala, drugging him if need be, to retrieve the information. Then have him removed from West Paine permanently, making the disposal of my problem less of a burden due to proximity.

I still have time.

As I move through the house, I note the back door, realizing Dr. Roth must have left out that way. Curiosity directs my steps past the laundry room, where I see discarded clothes piled on the floor. I lift the garment with my gloved hand, recognizing the gown Kyrie wore at the event tonight.

Her scent envelops me, and my hand clenches around the shimmery material.

I’ve never been one to pretend to fathom human nature—but everything about Dr. Roth is infuriatingly confusing to me. I’ve even imagined strapping her to a table and dissecting her on more than a few occasions.

I place the gown back in the same spot before I leave the house.

My drive to the university takes a little over twenty minutes. I use my keycard to gain entry to the research labs, where I’ll be logged with a timestamp. I first seat myself behind my workstation and open a community file with my last saved draft, giving myself a reason to be here at this hour. I made sure Dr. Cannon heard me twice tonight when I stated how my research project on locating burial sites needed completion by this week, reiterating how impatient I was to leave the gala.

As I push away from the desk and head toward Brad’s office, I sweep aside all thoughts of Dr. Roth vanishing into the night without a gown, and focus on plundering through Brad’s notes.

He’s so damn helpful, keeping the body logs so well organized. He can’t remember to return my proton magnetometer, but he can micromanage his underling grad student to crosscheck the donation records for accuracy.

Which uncovered the hyoid of a recent donation missing from the body.

Such an obvious oversight had to be a mistake.

I’m cautious. I have a system in place. The record was flagged and then cleared. It should’ve ended there. But I saw it in Brad’s eyes when he first mentioned it to me, the twist of confusion followed by the spark of fear.

Because Dr. Jack Sorensen doesn’t make a mistake.

I’ve memorized this look. It’s the expression I normally crave. It’s what sets my ice-cold blood aflame and ramps my dormant heart rate when I stare into my victims’ eyes as they take their last breath.

So in the fraction of a second where it coasted across Brad’s features as a micro expression, I recognized his dread.

He knew.

And he was scared of me.

Which means it’s only a matter of time before he finds the rest of the pieces to puzzle together why I’ve been so dedicated to my body decomposition research for the past six years at the university.

By design, I don’t stay in one place for more than a few years. However, when West Paine incorporated nearly fifty acres for the university’s body farm program, making it the third largest in the country, it became difficult to find a better, more ideal location.

Finding nothing of relevance to the record in Brad’s journals, I look at the locked drawer to my right. Before I’m tempted to break the lock, I back away from the desk, then shut my computer down.

There’s still time.

I won’t be brought down by someone as unremarkable as Brad.

A crescent moon hangs in the black night to guide my way toward the body farm. Walking the fifteen acres of wooded terrain helps clear my thoughts. I pass the different zones of the farm, where bodies have been left to decompose in a number of environments and settings.

Over the past six years here, I’ve never made a mistake.

I’ve never been questioned.

Routine and discipline have been my key factors to operating below radar. I recall the day my routine was interrupted for the first time, and the bubbly, tinkling laugh which followed.

It would be asinine to blame Dr. Roth for this…upset. It’s not as if she has purposely set out to destroy me. However, the fact remains that, until she arrived at my university, I had never allowed for a mistake.

The distinctive sound of metal shuffling earth drifts to my ears, and I halt walking.

I strain to listen as a soft groan echos against the thinly spaced pines. I move in the direction of the noise, soon catching sight of a trail marking the muddy earth. Deep footprints line the side of the long stretch of track leading to the stream embankment.

My steps falter and I draw to a stop before the clearing when I see the reason for the disturbance.

Dr. Kyrie Roth drops a shovel into the riverbank, releasing a groan as she drives a booted foot onto the step, then heaves a scoop of silt. She pauses a moment to drag in a breath, and I stop breathing on reflex.

When she resumes digging, I expel a slow breath and pan the area, my gaze falling on a large expedition pack.

I should leave. Right now. But my instinct to reverse my steps is thwarted by the extreme, clawing curiosity infecting me at watching her dig up the earth. Her dark hair pulled up into some messy style, diamond earrings glinting in the moonlight, makeup still in place—yet she’s covered in mud.

Is this why she left her gown at Brad’s? So she could sneak off and—

What the actual hell is she doing?

Her heavy breaths plume the air around her in puffs of silver fog, and my chest tightens at the alluring sight. God, I almost smile, the sensation so fucking foreign a morsel of unease burrows in deep. It wouldn’t be difficult to seize this opportunity. Impulsive, yes—but oh, so damn tempting.

I could have that shovel in my hand in a matter of seconds. In the next five minutes, Dr. Roth could be buried in the very hole she’s digging.

Rather, with panged regret, I decide to satisfy my curiosity instead.

I sink my hand into my pocket and clutch the object there before I bring it out and flip the silver top open. I strike the flint wheel of the lighter, and a thin ribbon of flame dances against the dark night.

Kyrie stops shoveling at the sound.

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THREE

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WHAT THREE WORDS

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KYRIE

“Seems I’m late for another party this evening.”

I still the motion of my shovel and smile into the dark.

“Though I’m sure chronic lateness is one of your many character flaws, Dr. Sorensen, you’re actually right on schedule.” I glance at him over my shoulder, his lethal frame illuminated by moonlight and a thread of flame as he stands on the rise of the creek’s sharp bank behind me. A snap kills the fire as he closes the lid of the lighter and pockets it. “In fact,” I say as I return to shoveling the thick silt, the water flooding my efforts, “you’ve been here the whole time.”