The Curiosities (Carolrhoda Ya) (9 page)

Like I said in my introduction for “Ash-Tree Spell to Break Your Heart,” the authorial voice sometimes becomes invisible, and that is a very particular sort of skill. This story, however, is the opposite of that. This story is so very peculiarly Brenna that by the time I get to “It’s nice, living alone,” I can hear Brenna’s voice narrating it. I always envied her precision, her way of neatly establishing both the deadly and the whimsical. —Maggie

I adore stories that explore what brings two bad people together, as opposed to heroes falling in love. The evil soul mates and how they find each other. Brenna is especially good at this. I pretend she wrote this story
specifically for me
. —Tessa

T
he house seems wrong as soon I step into the front hall. I take off my boots and hang up my coat, smelling rain. And that’s fine, because it’s raining. Except the furnace is on, and the warm, dusty smell should cancel out everything else, and I closed the window before I left. I know this. I know I closed it. The breeze blowing down the hall from the kitchen is cold and brackish, straight off the river.

In the kitchen, the window above the sink is flung wide, screen in tatters, rain trickling down the wall and pooling on the counter. With electric clarity, my gaze leaps to the magnetic utensil strip on the wall. The nine-inch chef’s knife is missing, and suddenly my heart is going a million beats a minute.

“Turn around,” says a voice behind me. The tone is low, predatory, and makes panic race down the back of my neck.

When I turn, a guy in a damp canvas coat is standing in the doorway.

He’s my age, maybe a little younger. Tall, but with stooped shoulders. His hair is shaggy, wet from the rain. The missing knife is in his hand. The way he holds it is casual, easy. There’s nothing skittish about him, and that’s what makes my heart lurch in my chest—the easy way he holds a knife. I look at him and don’t say anything.

When he smiles, it’s almost sweet. “Don’t you want to know who I am and what I’m doing here?”

I shake my head, willing myself to look composed, but for a second my mouth won’t shut.

“That’s okay,” he says, hefting the knife. “It doesn’t really matter.”

“My boyfriend will be home any minute.”

“No, he won’t.” And this time when he smiles, it’s hard and chilly and gets nowhere near his eyes. “His car’s been gone for two weeks. I don’t think he’s coming back.”

“He was on—on a business trip, but he’s home now, he’ll be coming home tonight, any second. If he finds you here...” But the threat trails off, empty in the bright glow of the kitchen.

He just nods, giving me a hard, scornful look. “Right. Where’s all his stuff then?”

And I’m steamrollered by the knowledge that this is no accident, that he’s been watching me. That Dalton has been a done deal for quite a while and this guy knows it. His gaze is flat, without texture or depth, and I already know that something’s wrong inside him—a flipped switch that makes him walk into a girl’s kitchen and take a knife off her wall.

He moves closer, unhurried, staring into my face, and I know for sure that he’s the textbook definition of dangerous. Not troubled or misguided.
He is a stone-cold psychopath.

“Why?” I whisper, but I already know that the explanation, the reason will mean nothing and all I really care about is if it will hurt. How much it will hurt. How long this is going to hurt.

“I want to know what it’s like,” he says, easing his thumb over the blade, testing it. “To kill someone.”

“They’ll catch you,” I say, backing away from him. Two shuffling steps before the countertop presses into my spine and I go rigid and still. “Don’t you care about being caught?”

For a second he doesn’t seem to hear. Then he grins, shaking his head. “How will they catch me? It’s a break-in, a burglary gone wrong. Happens all the time. Everyone will be so sad for you.” He smiles like the idea pleases him.