Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 141464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Gretel slaps her front paws on the cabinet and stretches, her tail flicking from side to side with interest.
“Don’t you dare,” I warn. “Just because Jigsaw let you near the counter once doesn’t mean I will.”
She drops her feet to the tile, letting out an indignant chirp.
I grab my glass measuring cup and fill it with warm water from the sink, then pour it into the bread pan. I scatter a tablespoon of sugar into the water, then sprinkle a packet of yeast in a loose spiral. I return the pan to the machine and search for the oil, flour, and salt I need. The recipe comes back to me easily, but I still pause now and then to double-check the small breadmaking book propped open on the counter.
What kind of trouble did Jigsaw get into? Who is going in the oven?
I click the lid of the bread maker shut and punch the buttons. The machine kicks into gear with a low hum. I peer inside the small clear window in the bread maker’s top. The paddles twist through the ingredients in a rhythmic motion.
Perfect.
I pat the top of the machine.
Gretel’s curled up on my lounge chair, tail flicking once. She barely lifts her head as I slip on my sneakers and head downstairs. As I reach the bottom floor, a wave of anxiety sweeps over me. What if the person he’s bringing is dangerous?
No. He wouldn’t do that. Whoever it is probably isn’t even still breathing.
What if it’s Daniel?
No, last I checked he was still sitting in the county jail.
Besides, Jigsaw promised me he would let justice take its course.
Still, the gnawing in my chest won’t stop. It claws behind my ribs as I cross into the quiet dark of the funeral home. I pad down the hall, the chill of the tile seeping through my socks as I step into the prep room.
I’m not even sure what I’m looking for.
My fingers hover over the metal drawers built into the prep table. I slide one open and sort through the neatly organized packages. I pluck out a sterile scalpel, still sealed in its wrapper, and tear it open with a quiet snap. The blade glints, catching the faint glow from the nightlights plugged into each outlet.
I slip it into the pocket of my sweatshirt.
Just in case.
I return to the back door and slip on my sneakers.
Outside, the night air cools my heated skin. The last rays of sunlight streak the sky with deep oranges and pinks. Jigsaw said they’d be here soon. It feels too stalkerish to keep checking the app.
I tilt my head, straining to catch any sound of engines.
Nothing but the usual small-town silence—crickets, a far-off car, the occasional bark of a neglected dog.
I cross the parking lot to the brick building that houses the cremation chamber, punch in the code, and open the door. I hurry to the stainless steel control panel, flip the protective cover, and press the sequence to preheat the retort. The burner kicks on with a low whoosh, followed by a deeper rumble as the system roars to life. Heat pulses against my cheeks, and the air in the crematory thickens with the faint scent of scorched metal.
Hopefully things will be nice and toasty by the time the guys get here and this will be quick.
By the time I’m done, sweat slicks the side of my face and trails down my spine. I unzip my sweatshirt and tie it around my waist, leaving me in a black tank top, the fabric clinging to my skin.
I turn all but one of the lights off inside the building and make sure the outside lights are also off.
A low engine hum cuts through the stillness. I freeze, listening.
I crack the door and step outside.
Headlights sweep across the lot.
A black van creeps around the corner of the house.
I swipe damp hair off my forehead and force a small, steady smile as it slows to a crawl over the pavement. The driver backs the van close to the building, almost right into one of the tall bushy rows of lilacs that grow between the funeral home and my father’s property.
Unsure of what to do, I step into the crematorium and wait, leaving the door ajar. I don’t want to go into the house until I’m sure they have everything they need. Maybe they trust me enough now and won’t mind if I stick around?
Low, tense voices go back and forth outside.
A door creaks. Someone groans. A scuffle and a thud. A string of muttered curses. Muffled pleading.
My heart thunders but I stay still. Waiting.
“Ow! Fuck,” someone growls.
Is that Jigsaw?
I nudge the door open. Four hulking men, mostly in black clothing, stand in a loose circle, staring down at a heap on the ground. The back van doors are wide open, but no light shines out.