TWO: The Package

There’s really a fucking hand in the box.

Not plastic. Not silicone. Not Halloween-party-gone-too-far kind of hand.

No. This one’s got dirt under the nails. Blood crusted around the torn wrist.

Veins like blue ropes curling under pale, sickly skin. The flesh is already starting to bloat.

And it stinks.

Jesus. It stinks.

Rot and copper and something sour I can’t even describe. One finger's bent at a weird angle. The nail's chipped. My stomach folds in on itself. I’ve seen shit in the ER, but not this. Not fucking this.

This isn't just medical-weird. This is bury-the-body kind of weird.

I slam a hand over my mouth before the bile reaches my throat.

I back away, fast, my heel catching on the uneven tile, hand scrambling for balance on the wall. The box stays in the center of my shitty apartment floor like it belongs here. Like it’s mocking me.

What the fuck do I do?

Call the police?

No—no fucking way. If this is what I think it is—and I’m not delusional, that’s a damn human hand—then this is the kind of mess that gets cleaned up with bleach and body bags. Not reports and warrants. Not for people like me. Not when I’ve already been branded a fucking liar and a threat back in the pack.

This isn’t a thing I can explain away.

And the delivery label—407.

His unit.

It wasn’t meant for me. It was never mine.

Just like his other packages that always end up at my door. Just like this entire fucked-up pattern.

I can’t breathe. I’m breathing too much. Too fast. My chest is tight.

I hear the buzz again.

My heart kicks. I stand up so fast I smack my knee on the counter. “Shit!”

Door. Someone’s at the door. Again.

I wipe my palms down the front of my threadbare scrub pants, even though they’re already soaked with sweat.

My heart slams like it’s trying to escape. I inch toward the peephole as if it’s wired to a landmine. I nearly slip on the box as I rush to it, panic clawing through my skin. If it’s the same delivery guy, maybe I can ask what the hell kind of horror-movie packaging service he’s running.

I look.

And wish I fucking hadn’t.

He’s standing there.

The guy from 407.

He’s taller than I remember from that one time I passed him in the hallway. Six-five, maybe more. Dressed in all black, leather jacket unzipped, dark shirt beneath that hugs his chest in a way that should be illegal. His jaw could cut glass. Black hair, tousled like he just rolled out of someone’s bed. Crimson eyes. No shit. Not brown. Not hazel. Crimson. 

Like blood pooling beneath a slit throat.

And he’s smiling.

And he’s smiling.

A slow, sharp, charming-as-hell grin with teeth too white for someone who probably just cut off a guy’s hand.

I curse the way my stomach flips.

Fuck me, he's hot.

No—no. Absolutely not the time.

Wrong time, wrong fuckin’ universe to get turned on by a goddamn serial killer.

I try to calm my face. Don’t let him see the freak-out.

With the door still shut, I call out, voice all wobbly. “Y-Yeah?”

He leans just slightly forward, like he knows how tall and scary he looks and enjoys it.

“Hey. Sorry to bother you. I think one of my packages might’ve gotten delivered to your door by mistake.” His voice is deep. Smooth. Dangerous. It vibrates in my bones as a bassline.

I try to speak, but my throat is dry.

Shit. Shit.

I can’t let him see the fucking hand. He can’t know I saw it. If this is his package and it’s got a body part in it, then this man is not just a sexy neighbor. He’s a killer. Maybe the killer.

I force a shaky smile and yell through the door, “Uh—one second!”

I spin around, nearly trip again, and grab the damn hand. It's cold. Rubber-glove cold. I nearly gag but hold it down, shove it back in the box like it’s nothing. Tape. I need tape.

I scramble to the junk drawer, find an old roll of duct tape that’s more dust than adhesive. Doesn’t matter. I wrap the box back up like a panicked idiot wrapping a murder gift.

My heart’s pounding. He’s still out there. I can feel him.

I smooth my hands down my shirt, pull the door open a crack.

Big mistake.

He steps forward immediately, eyes locking on mine. I freeze.

Close up, he’s worse. Better. Fuck—I don’t know.

My pulse kicks harder.

Does he know?

Did someone see me open it? Is this a test?

I swallow the panic trying to claw up my throat.

“Uh—”

My voice cracks like a preteen boy.

Tattoo on his neck. Something black and tribal that snakes under his collar. His grin is still there. Wide. Sharp. Like he knows every thought in my head, and he likes the dirty ones.

“I’m Dante,” he says smoothly. “You got something of mine?”

I blink.

Fuck. Think, Eris.

“Oh, yeah—uh, this box was here. I thought it was mine at first.” I force a laugh. It sounds fake. My whole face feels fake.

I hand it over, “Here you go,” I say, voice tight. “This got dropped at 406. Happens a lot.”

He takes it from me gently. Too gently. His fingers graze mine, and something crawls up my spine. Something electric.

Our eyes meet. He cocks his head slightly.

“You alright?”

No.

“Yes.”

“You look a little . . . tense.”

I let out another awkward laugh. “Caffeine crash. And taxes. You know.”

His smile stretches.

“Right,” he murmurs, voice dipping lower.  And unfortunately for my stupid ovaries—he looks even hotter now. His gaze drops to the crooked tape job again and then back to me.

One brow arches. “You sure you didn’t open it?”

My stomach drops.

I shake my head fast. Too fast. “No. Absolutely not. Didn’t even touch it until now. I swear.”

That smile again.

Wider this time. Like he knows I’m full of shit but isn’t mad about it. As if he enjoys the game.

“Mmm.” He hums, then tilts his head. “Well. Thanks, neighbor. You’re always so . . . helpful.”

He turns, his back to me.

Box under one arm.

And then he pauses. Looks over his shoulder.

“Oh. Almost forgot.”

His eyes flick over me slowly.

“Thanks for the hand, Eris.” My stomach lurches. “H-hand? The hand?” I stutter, clenching the doorknob. My eye slightly twitches. I’m going nuts. “The helping hand.” He mutters and his grin sharpens. He knows.

He fucking knows.

My blood goes cold as I finally turn around and closes the door. But my stomach drops to the floor when I final[ly realize his last words.

I never told him my name.

* * *

It’s almost midnight when I finally grab my shitty umbrella—one of the metal legs is completely bent so it gives off limp-dick energy—and head out back in my pajamas, because I can’t afford therapy, and apparently gardening in the middle of the night is my coping mechanism now.

Especially after what just happened today, seeing that thing delivered to my doorsteps.

The rain comes down in cold and icy sheets. My t-shirt’s clinging to me a desperate ex. And the second my feet hit the muddy patch of overgrown weeds I dare to call a garden, I feel it—my poor, struggling little veggie patch has been ransacked. Again.

“Fucking rabbits,” I mutter, crouching to inspect the mess. Half the carrots are gone. The rest look like they died of shame. Something’s been digging into the zucchini like it owed them money. “I swear to God, I’m gonna eat one of you raw next time.” I murmur.

It's cut off when my ears picks something up. I look around when I hear rustling.

Not the cute kind.

Not the oh, it's a deer kind.

It’s . . . louder. More frantic. Something’s bolting out of the forest. Multiple somethings.

A blur of fur and muscle and wild eyes rips through the edge of the trees, crashing into my patch and tearing what little’s left of it to shreds. I backpedal, heart jackhammering. The umbrella slips out of my hand and flips inside out. Just perfect.

What the fuck is going on?

It’s like every animal in the woods is running from something. Not toward food. Not in heat. From.

My breath fogs up in the air. Something primal kicks in.

I grab my bat from under the porch steps. Splinters jab into my palm, but I don’t care. I’ve had enough. I’ve lost too many vegetables to whatever demon lives out here, and I will throw hands with Satan himself if whatever it is steps on another tomato. I had enough on my plate today.

Lightning slices the sky. The entire forest lights up for a second like a flashbulb on a crime scene photo. I see movement, deep in the trees. A silhouette.

Tall.

Broad.

Alone.

And then—

A scream. Holy shit. What in the world was that? What exactly is happening in this town?

Not an animal.

Not prey.

A fucking human scream.

I freeze.

I’m not brave. I’m not even stupid. I’m the kind of girl who pretends not to hear weird noises and calls it self-preservation.

But I can’t stop myself. My legs move. Fast. Crunching through the wet brush, ignoring the sting of branches against my skin. I duck under the twisted, gnarled arms of trees, deeper into the dark as though I’m being pulled by something invisible and terrible and real.

The scream cuts off and my stomach drops. Whoever it was . . . must be dead.

Just—gone. Like someone pressed mute on a horror movie.

I should turn around. Go home. Make tea. File a police report I can’t afford to follow up on.

But my feet keep moving.

The rain thins a little. Not enough to see clearly, but enough for shapes to start forming in the mist.

And that’s when I see them.

Two bodies.

One standing. One crumpled on the ground like a used napkin.

There’s blood. So much blood I feel it in the back of my throat, the metallic stink of it hitting me like a slap. Steam’s rising off the man on the ground. His chest’s carved open, ribcage exposed, organs glistening. His mouth’s still twitching as if maybe he’s not all the way dead yet.

I'm witnessing a freaking murder. My heart leaps in my chest as I squint my eyes to see the man in the hoodie. Who is th—

No . . . no-no. It can’t be.

The man standing over him is not just any man.

It’s him. 

I fucking knew it.

Neighbor 407 from earlier.

I need to run.