When I had spoken to Cameron Russo on the phone, I’d pictured a slender man of medium height, wearing a blue blazer, and sporting a cap of gray hair, a la Anderson Cooper. But Cameron was no silver fox with a gentleman’s taste. He was huge. A giant hulking beast of a man in plaid shorts and an orange T-shirt. He opened his office door to me when I knocked on Tuesday, which also struck me as odd. I had been envisioning a professor who yelled “come in” as I opened a creaky door to a catacomb of dusty books and thick woodwork.

Instead, his office was akin to my general practitioner’s waiting room. Nineties generic. Pressboard furniture in blonde wood with a black office chair. There were actually no books. Zero. Just a laptop. He gestured for me to take a seat in front of his desk, so I did, feeling like I was the one being interviewed instead of the other way around. My palms were damp. The vibe felt wrong.

“So I just caught the news,” he said. “Another body was found.”

I nodded, my voice caught in my throat. Seeing Cameron Russo in person, it occurred to me his frame was very similar to the man Nick and I saw on the river, tossing who knows what into the water. But that was insane. He was just a slightly pretentious professor, not a killer. Yet he was also a professor with an interest in the Torso Murders. He had done the research. He was a self-proclaimed expert.

“Normally, I would say don’t jump to conclusions. Exercise caution. A body in the river can’t be that unusual.”

I thought about poor Hannah and how her evil boyfriend had done that to her. Tossed her in the water like she was garbage. Cameron was right—it probably happened more than anyone outside of the police even knew. “I imagine you’re right.”

“But this wasn’t a full body. This was a torso.” His eyes seem to light up at that piece of information. “It’s no coincidence. It can’t be. It takes a lot of work to dismember a body completely. And where is the head, the arms, the legs? It’s just like the random mania of the original Butcher.”

“Why now? Why suddenly a copycat after seventy-five years?”

“Maybe it just took the right sociopath to come along. One who isn’t inspired enough to have their own method, but prefers imitating an idol.”

It was cold in his office. I shivered, wishing I had worn a sweater. I was wearing the sleeveless vintage teal dress from June’s collection. Cameron’s assessment sounded insulting to the killer—like he wasn’t creative enough to form his own methods. Surely that meant he wasn’t the murderer. Plus he wouldn’t blithely agree to be interviewed, would he?

Then again, serial killers liked attention. They were narcissists. They craved kudos and the spotlight.

I was talking myself around in circles. “Maybe it has nothing to do with the Butcher,” I said. “Maybe they don’t even know about that particular case. They could just be trying to dispose of their victims.”

“If they were trying to dispose of victims, they wouldn’t toss them in the Cuyahoga or in the weeds on the riverbank. They would bury them in the Metroparks, concrete over them in their basement, drive them three miles out on the lake after all the gases exhaled from the corpses and dropping them with weights.”

Charming. All of that was a big fat yuck. “So there is no question in your mind the killer wants the victims discovered.”

“None. Unless they are essentially the world’s dumbest criminal. Which means they would have been caught months ago when these victims were actually killed.”

“You think so?”

“Definitely. It’s like we discussed on Sunday. It’s not easy to commit murder in this day and age. Assume for a minute I’m the killer.”

I would rather not. I uncrossed and recrossed my legs. “Then I would be in mortal danger, correct?” I laughed nervously.

“No. Not at all. Because you contacted me and I responded. There is a record of our communication, emails exchanged, a phone call. There is video surveillance here on campus, plus your car is either parked at a meter on the street or in the lot. If you’re on the street and you go missing, you will get ticketed and after several days the meter maid will report your car to the city and it will be towed. If you parked in the lot, your license plate will be on camera at the ticket booth. So your last place seen alive would be here, and it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out you were coming to see me. So I would have to be an idiot to kill you here.”

The longer he spoke, the more concerned I became. Why did I feel like he was mocking me, toying with me? If he was the killer, this would be highly entertaining for him. He was outlining all the reasons he wouldn’t kill me in his office. But would he kill me somewhere else? “I agree,” I said, and my voice sounded quieter than I would have preferred. I didn’t want him to see my fear. A killer would get off on that, no doubt.

It was a calculated risk, but I had to ask. I spoke with as much confidence as I could muster. “So where would you kill me?”

“I wouldn’t kill you at all. I would dare you to find a way to pin it on me. If the cops can’t, why would you be able to?”

Then he smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. They were dark, obsidian pools, utterly lacking in compassion. He was pleased with himself. He had made me uncomfortable and he knew it.

“I suppose I wouldn’t.” I settled back in my chair, determined to stay loose, casual. I decided to poke the bear. “So why were the victims of the Butcher so random? They were male, female, white, black. That’s unusual for a serial killer, who usually has a type based on sexual preference or the root of his psychoses, right? So it that just laziness? Do you think this killer will turn out to be lazy as well?”

“I think it’s opportunity. And I think that the killer is more intrigued by the construction of the human body, as opposed to sex or race. Everyone’s joints are connected the same way.”

“True.” I gave him a smile. “I didn’t realize you were interested in psychology. You could rival an FBI profiler. And here I thought you were just a writer.”

He rubbed his chin, watching me carefully. “Just a writer? I suppose the average person would assume a writer just reports the facts. But you should know better.”

“I don’t know as much as I would like,” I said truthfully.

Cameron had no evidence in his office of the artifacts he had promised to show me. I found that disturbing. I felt like he had just wanted to see me, take my measure. He found me amusing, nothing more. Maybe he had been concerned I would be scholarly competition. Now he was dismissing me as not on the same level as him.

“Perhaps fiction would be more up your alley,” he said.

I was positive I had said in my original email I was writing fiction. Clearly he had paid very little attention to me, but had just seen it as an opportunity to show off his knowledge. I was done here. He was creepy and I was feeling trapped inside his soulless box of an office. There was something not right about him and I thought it was more than just an inflated sense of self-worth.

“It definitely is,” I assure him and stood up. I wasn’t going to beg to see his alleged artifacts. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. Thank you so much, Mr. Russo.”

He stood up as well. “Sure, no problem. Feel free to ask me anything, anytime.”

“Hmm,” I said noncommittally.

When I turned to leave I couldn’t prevent a gasp from escaping. Holy hunting grounds…the entire back wall of his office was filled with stuffed and mounted dead animals. It was a taxidermist’s dream. My nightmare. My throat tightened as I stared at multiple pairs of eyes. Deer, fox, bears… What the actual hell?

He laughed. “Startled you, didn’t it?”

I nodded. I glanced back. He had moved quickly around his desk and was approaching me. Quicker than I would have anticipated from a man of his stature. “Are these all yours?” I asked, not wanting to spell it out more clearly.

“Yep,” he said cheerfully. “I grew up on a farm way out in Ashtabula County. I love to hunt. There is nothing like the thrill of the kill. I started exploring taxidermy honestly because of my Mad Butcher research. I wanted to know what was so intriguing about separating limbs from torsos. Now I understand that it’s frankly addictive.”

You know how your mother would give you advice or warn you about things and you never listened and you regretted it? Like when you tried to dye your hair blonde by pouring bleach on it and your hair fell out, or when she told you that guy in high school was the world’s biggest lying jerk and you told her she was wrong and then found yourself sobbing in the restroom at prom when you caught him with Abby Shinto? Or when you swore you heard footsteps following you after you were stupid enough to walk across campus by yourself at one a.m. after a party, despite your mother telling you to never do that, and you just knew that when they found your corpse your mother would spend the rest of her life grieving and wondering why in the hell you didn’t listen?

That was how I felt standing in Cameron Russo’s office of dead animals. I should have listened to Marner, who always told me not to get involved. And most importantly of all, to my gut, which had warned me the second I crossed the threshold of this room that something was off. Like way off.

I prided myself on my paranoia. I was the one who always smelled danger a mile away. Sometimes it was real. A lot of times it wasn’t. But I was always in tune, and damn it, of all the times to not listen to my discomfort. This guy was a whack job.

“Interesting,” I managed to blurt out before gripping the doorknob with a sweaty palm and twisting it hard.

In that moment, I was sure that this was it. That his large meaty hand would slam flat onto the surface of the door and prevent it from opening. That he would drag me back, and underneath his desk would be a trapdoor that led to a workshop filled with God’s furry creatures and a stray human or two.

But to my shock, nothing prevented me from yanking the door open with far more strength than was required, sending it sailing back and colliding with the door stop. I stepped forward quickly before it bounced closed again, my ankle turning a little in my pumps. I needed to learn not to wear heels when interviewing potential murderers. I’m pretty sure I didn’t actually breathe until I was in the hallway and the doorway was gliding closed behind me.

Then I took a giant gulp of air and got the heck out of there as fast as my heels and trembling legs could carry me.

Fresh air never felt so amazing. But I didn’t feel safe until I was in my car with the doors locked. I wished Ryan would show up, but after I called out his name a few times and he didn’t appear, I sighed and started driving. I needed a drink. A yoga session. Another person to confirm that Cameron Russo was certifiable and quite possibly a mass murderer. I couldn’t tell Marner though. He wouldn’t focus on anything other than the fact that I had potentially put myself in danger. Alyssa would also think I was nuts.

That left me with Nick. He was the only one who seemed to understand that finding a body was a big ass deal. I called him and left him a rather breathless and urgent but vague-sounding voicemail. He was probably still at work.

I wished I hadn’t given Cameron Russo my real name. Note to self: create a false online identity to email potential serial killers. If I was going to be stuck solving ghost deaths, I needed to be a little savvier.

Swinging into a convenience store, I bought a bottle of wine and didn’t even feel guilty that it was only four in the afternoon. Shit just got real.

I needed a cat. This was the second time in the past week I had bemoaned the lack of another living creature to talk to in my house. A cat would be a good sounding board. Just someone to bounce ideas off of without feeling self-conscious that I was talking out loud to myself. Since I had no Fluffy to chat with, I found myself pacing my kitchen floor barefoot, a glass of wine in my hand, muttering at random intervals.

Then halfway into my glass of Pinot Grigio I snapped my fingers. “I should call Mark,” I told no one. “Ask him more about Cameron, how he knows him.”

By now, I was pretty darn sure that Mark was no killer. He was too disorganized and absentminded. I had a feeling that even if he had sociopathic tendencies, he would plan a murder but never get around to actually committing it. He would get bogged down in the details. He was content to shuffle papers and books around and talk about his research, but he had no intention of ever actually doing anything with it.

It was right about then that I realized that it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out where I lived. I had bought this house myself and that was a matter of public record. Cameron Russo could be mapping out a campaign of terror right now. He could cat and mouse me for weeks, knowing that I wouldn’t reach out to him again after he had behaved so strangely.

“Oh, geez,” I said out loud to my imaginary cat. “I’m such an idiot.”

My phone rang. I would have answered it even if it were my bank branch offering me additional services because I wanted to hear a human voice. It was an unknown number but I dove for it anyway. “Hello?”

It was Nick. “Bailey, what’s wrong? I saw you left me a voicemail and it freaked me out. Then I heard your message and got even more freaked out.”

“Are you at work or can you talk?”

“I was just about to leave. My phone is almost dead so I’m calling you on the office line. What’s going on? Did you find another body?”

Thank heaven it wasn’t that. “No, I just did something stupid. I heard there was this professor who is an expert on the Torso Murders and I went to his office and he was so weird. So totally creepy. He had all these ideas about who the killer was and then I turned and he has dead animals in his office and…” I stopped to take a breath. “I am debating if I should go to the police and have them talk to him.”

“Wow. Um. That is crazy.” He sounded winded, like he had started walking. “Do you want me to go with you? I can pick you up.”

“Oh, no, that’s not necessary. That’s not why I called.” I looked at my wine glass. When had I drained it? Then I thought about Detective Smith and her general intolerance for me. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a designated driver and someone to have my back in the police station. I was not anyone’s favorite person around the station. “Actually, if you don’t mind, that would be great.”

“Just text me your address. I’m downtown. I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Okay, thanks, Nick. I appreciate it.” I continued my neurotic pacing, moving it to the living room, but did answer my mother’s text questioning if we were still meeting for dinner as planned.

Even in the midst of panic, I still found that irritating. Why did she always assume I wouldn’t be where I said I would be? I wasn’t exactly known for being a flake. Quite the opposite. Even if Nick and I went to the police station I would still have plenty of time to make it to dinner. I texted back.

Yes, see you at 7

Bring a date if you want.

This was another game we played. She suggested that on the regular. It was a passive-aggressive way to ask what was going on in my love life without actually posing it as a direct question.

Just me.

But then I changed my mind. Maybe I would ask Marner. Then I changed my mind again. Dinner with the parents was weird when we hadn’t even really determined exactly what the heck we were doing. But I had already texted Marner, What are you doing tonight?

Nothing, why? You got a better offer?

No, I have to go to dinner with my parents.

Have fun then.

He was probably wondering why the hell I had texted him. I wanted to just call him. Tell him everything. Confess my worries about Cameron Russo. But there was a knock on my front door right then. Nick had made good time.

Thanks. I’ll talk to you later.

Ok.

He added a thumb’s up emoji, which amused me. Marner was so not a thumb’s up kind of guy. I answered the door, already feeling less hysterical. Jake had that general effect on me. I slipped my phone into the pocket of my vintage plum dress.

“Hi, come on in,” I said as I opened the door and saw Nick standing there, looking concerned. “Oh my gosh, thank you so much for coming over. I feel like I just totally panicked.”

“No, you did the right thing,” he said, stepping inside and reaching out to briefly touch my arm. “Tell me what the heck happened. Who is this guy?”

I led him inside. “Do you want a drink or anything? I am not ashamed to admit I opened a bottle of wine.” I had already poured myself another glass and it was sitting on the coffee table.

“Sure, that would be great. I’ll have whatever you’re having.” Nick sat down on my couch, but he stayed right on the edge of the seat.

Sort of like my nerves.

I went in the kitchen and pulled down another wine glass and filled it liberally. When I brought it to the living room, Nick handed me my glass. “Trade ya.”

I gave a small laugh. “Thanks.” I sat down next to him. I took a sip of my wine. It had gotten a little warm.

“So tell me what happened.”

“Cameron Russo is a professor and a writer who has done a ton of research on the Torso Murders. He’s writing a book on the subject.”

“Okay. So you went to see him?”

I nodded. “He wasn’t what I was expecting. He said he had artifacts for me to look at, but then his office was completely bare.” I shivered. “Except for one wall of floor-to-ceiling taxidermy. He said he’s a hunter and that he loves the thrill of the kill.”

“Wait, you think he’s involved? That he might be the killer?”

“I don’t know! Geez, this sounds crazy when I say it out loud. But it’s like he was taunting me. Plus, he’s a big guy, like the person we saw on the river. He would have no problem overpowering someone.” I took another swallow of my wine. My mouth felt hot, my cheeks flushed.

“That’s not what I thought you were going to say,” he said.

“What did you think?” I swallowed hard. The anxiety was causing me to feel hot and dizzy all of a sudden. If Nick didn’t believe me, then maybe I was going insane. The wine wasn’t helping my thirst. I took another huge sip.

Nick’s earnest eyes were boring in to me. “I thought that when you said you wanted the police to talk to him, it was because he had a suspect in mind for who the killer is.”

“No, I thought he was the killer.” I rubbed my temples and shook my head a little. My thoughts felt scattered. “He’s not?” My fingers were trembling a little on the wine glass. I spilled some of the warm liquid onto my knee.

Nick shook his head slowly back and forth. “Of course not.”

“How do you know?”

But suddenly I knew.

“Because I’m the killer.”

And that was the last thing I remembered.