Page 50 of Toxic B!tch
I shake off the thought. One problem at a time.
Marie’s place sits at the edge of a dense stretch of woods, the kind of place where anything could be lurking just beyond thetree line. I pull up the long gravel drive, cutting my headlights before I reach the house. Benny, her little rat dog, barks from inside, his gruff warning vibrating through the night.
Marie stands on the porch, arms crossed, worry pinching her face. I step out of the truck, boots crunching against the gravel, and she immediately waves me over.
“Thanks for coming,” she says, glancing toward the woods. “I heard it again about five minutes ago. It’s—unnerving.”
I nod, scanning the tree line. The moon is high but shrouded behind thick clouds, casting long, jagged shadows through the trees. It’s dark as hell back there. Too dark to make anything out.
“Stay inside, lock the door,” I tell her.
She nods, backing up toward the house. I reach into my truck, grabbing the rifle from behind the seat. Whatever’s out there, whether it’s a coyote, a wounded deer, or something else, I’ll find it.
I step into the woods, the thick scent of damp earth and pine filling my lungs. The sounds of the night are familiar—the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the occasional hoot of an owl—but there’s something else. A faint, wet noise. A gurgling, almost.
Marie wasn’t wrong. Something is out here.
I move carefully, my boots silent against the forest floor, my grip tightening on the rifle. My breathing is slow and even as I scan between the trees. The sound grows clearer the deeper I go, and then...
A shape.
Hanging from a low branch.
My pulse spikes, and I tighten my grip on the gun, stepping closer. The metallic scent of blood thickens in the air, coating the back of my throat.
Then I see her about twenty yards away.
A woman—barely recognizable—dangles from the tree, arms stretched above her head, the rope biting into her skin. Her faceis swollen, bruised, streaked with blood and tears. Her body is a mess of lacerations, but it’s her chest that makes bile rise in my throat.
Her breast is sliced open, raw and exposed, something grotesque and missing from inside it.
Jesus Christ.
Her lips move. A choked, gurgling sound escapes her. She’s still alive. Barely.
I swallow hard, forcing down the revulsion threatening to choke me.
Recognition slams into me like a freight train.
Elle.
It’s Elle.
For a second, my mind refuses to process it. Refuses to accept that the mangled, gasping woman strung up like a slaughtered deer is someone I know. Someone I’ve talked to. Someone I’ve?—
Indigo.
A cold sweat breaks out along my spine. The tightness in my gut turns to steel.
I take a step toward Elle, ready to cut her down, to do something—anything—but then movement catches my eye.
Indigo steps into my line of sight.
I freeze.
She’s calm. Too calm. The way she moves—slow, deliberate, pleased—sends ice through my veins. The knife glints in her hand, wet with blood.
I duck behind a tree, my breath shallow, my pulse hammering against my ribs.
