Marrow

JACK

A crisp, gauzy layer of fresh snow collects on top of my body. My breathing has shallowed, my lungs no longer feel the sharp bite of winter. My arms and legs have gone numb, my skin frozen and nerves dulled, unable to send pain signals to my brain.

I lay here in the freezing night as a continual hush falls over the woods with thick snowflakes.

Fatigue settles deep in my bones with the frozen ground, dragging me beneath consciousness. It’s tempting to let go, to just keep falling under. I’ve never felt more at peace then I am now, wrapped in a blanket of ice, sheltered from the world of misery.

The sound of snow crunching beneath heavy footfalls splits the empty silence, and I stop breathing altogether.

The steps encroach closer until I feel the snow shift against my cheek.

“Where are you, you little shit.”

The raspy voice slurs each word. I smell nothing but the cold, yet the memory of his putrid breath fans my face.

I hear the distinct clink of his Zippo. Then the strike.

On reflex, I strive to curl my numb fingers around the solid object buried under the snow.

“When I find you—”

It’s the last muffled words that touch my ears before time warps.

Distorted images flicker in freeze-frames as I claw to the surface. A slash of bright-red streaks a canopy of white. Vacant eyes absorb the black night as the flash of steel glints…before the images begin to fade into the recesses of my mind.

As consciousness grips me, I know the second my eyes part open I’ve been drugged.

I feel the sedative swimming in my bloodstream as fuzzy confusion stuffs my head. My temples pulse as my vision adjusts to make out the moonlit tree branches above. I bring my hand to my neck, feeling the tender patch of skin where Kyrie sank the needle.

The bruising ache in my chest snags my attention.

She fucking tased me.

But if she wanted me dead, I’d be buried in the riverbank.

I roll over and push myself up, my eyes further clearing to take in my gray-washed surroundings.

“Dammit.” I still have my phone, and I bring it out to check the time. I’ve been knocked out for maybe two hours. Diazepam, or possibly midazolam. A fast-acting sedative that also leaves the system pretty quickly.

“That wasn’t the first time we met.”

The bitter tone of her voice is a taunt against my throbbing headache.

I glance around for the body, the dismembered one Kyrie removed from a bag and tossed around the creek. The stream travels in a slow current, the embankment deserted.

This woman doesn’t want me dead—but she does want something.

Directly in front of me, the shovel is stabbed into the silty earth.

Right now, it’s clear she wants me to dig.

THE SCENT of Kona coffee drifts through the department as I stand over the stainless steel table in the lab. For the first time, I’m tempted to pour a cup, in dire need of stimulation that not even my newest prospect can provide.

Before me are the cleaned remains of a recent donation. Three large monitors are arranged along the back wall, my desk directly beneath. One monitor projects the decomp data I’ve collected for the research grant, a field trip I’ve spent the past year devotedly, methodically working toward.

All of which has drastically stalled as last night plays on a menacing loop inside my head.

While I spent the remaining hours of the early morning digging up and collecting the severed body parts of a grad student, I thought back to every interaction I’ve had with Dr. Roth over the past three years. Which, I have no doubt, was her very intention.

By the time I had Mason Dumont relocated in a fresh burial site, I realized Kyrie never actually intended for me to be caught with a mutilated body, regardless of the evidence she planted at the scene.

She only left half of the body in the creek.

The other half she took with her.

Her threat was clear; if I go after her, if I try to silence her permanently, she has a contingency in place to expose me. A little melodramatic—if not fitting—after witnessing her in action.

Treading on the side of caution has always been my first rule.

Kyrie gets to live. For now.

If for no other reason than she’s piqued my curiosity with a number of things she brought to light. I’ve never been confronted with a challenge I couldn’t conquer, and eliminate.

And Dr. Kyrie Roth has presented an enticing challenge.

As the morning sun slips through the slatted blinds of the lab, I refocus my attention on the partial skeletal remains, comprising of a skull, vertebrae, and sternum. There are eighty axial bones in the core unit. But there is one bone in particular I’m fascinated by, that which I’ve devoted the better part of my research career to.

With a gloved hand, I select the hyoid. Positioned beneath the mandible, the horseshoe-shaped bone is unique as it’s the only bone presented on the skeleton that is not connected to any others. Suspended, it’s held in place by the attached ligaments and muscles.

To say I have an affinity with this free-floating, solo bone is obvious; there is no structure or support needed by the framework in order to exist.

When identifying remains, anthropologists and forensic experts by default look to the skull and pubic bones to determine age, race, and gender. However, in the event such bones are not present or compromised, the hyoid can reveal all of the above and more. One just needs to be skilled in the finer nuances of the bone.

My research on hyoid fusion and bone density for forensic purposes will revolutionize the remains identification process.

The dark irony of my extracurricular passions and professional interests hasn’t escaped me.

Dr. Cannon passes the lab doorway, then steps back to peek his head inside. “Morning, Jack.” He glances at the clock, the dark-brown skin around his eyes creased in confusion. “You’re here early. I figured everyone would sleep in after the gala last night.”

My smile is a thin line. “I came in early for the donation.” I never left.

Luckily I keep several changes of clothes in my office, and though I don’t recommend it, the campus showers are convenient when you need to wash the stench of sweat and death off you.

“Good deal,” he says, nodding and glancing around again as if struggling to make conversation. “Thank you again for your courteousness to Mrs. Spencer. I know charming donors isn’t your favorite thing, but she’s been one of our biggest—”

“Not a problem,” I say, returning my focus to the cleaned bones on the table. I pick up the Boley gauge as a hint to end the conversation. Hugh Cannon doesn’t have to fill the silence.

“All right, then. Have a great day, Jack.”

I flick my gaze upward as he heads down the hallway and lower the tool. I’ve already measured the teeth, and I’ve already read the data displayed on the monitor. I don’t want to be distracted when Dr. Roth arrives, which is why I place the hyoid aside for later inspection.

The fact Kyrie’s tantrum is costing me valuable research time proves what I’ve thought since day one: she’s not deserving of her position.

She’s obviously observant, and intelligent enough to have picked up on my activities. After following her last night, I would’ve been inclined to believe she simply seduced Brad to learn of his theories about me.

But the sight of her holding a severed arm stomps that simple logic into the silty ground.

She’s a killer.

A coldblooded predator.

She spotted me before I recognized her—and this is what has my grip tightening around the gauge handle. I forcefully set the tool aside, then flatten my palms to the table. The cool press of steel bleeds through the latex to douse the small lick of flame.

I relied on my preconceived notions, and that was my fatal flaw.

Always confirm your conclusions.

What could’ve happened to a girl like Kyrie to turn her into a killer? Women serial killers are a rare breed, rarer even than duos.

She has shown no clear sign of being a psychopath, so she wasn’t likely born this way. Some inciting incident in her life had to trigger this transmutation.

Unearthing this key piece about her is going to be the one puzzle piece I need to use against her to get her out of my life.

Typically, for killers discovered hunting on the same turf, one of them decides to leave for fear of discovery. Two top predators cannot occupy one hunting ground.Content is © 2024 NôvelDrama.Org.

As a wildlife biologist, Kyrie understands this better than anyone.

Our own biological makeup rejects a pack mentality. If one or the other refuses to surrender territory, the only option left is elimination.

Survival by any means necessary.

I’m not sure when she discovered me, but she has since chosen to stay.

This is her one fatal flaw.

She thinks she’s smarter than me, and can manipulate me the way she manipulates everyone else around her. She has no idea what she’s up against.

She handed me a clue when she said we’d met before.

Whatever Kyrie wants from me, it starts there, figuring out that moment in time.

For the next half hour, I watch a handful of students trickle into the department. At the sight of Kyrie, a bubble of excitement fizzes up, and I mentally tamp down the annoying sensation. On reflex, I touch my pocket, seeking the object always there, only to find it missing once again.

Jaw clenched, I needlessly begin remeasuring the discolored incisors as my peripheral tracks her movements. She’s wearing a black pencil skirt and champagne blouse. Her russet hair is swept up into a stylish updo, makeup in place, looking well-rested and like she didn’t just spend the night burying a body.

She’s carrying her award—the one I was supposed to present her with last night. She smiles brightly and accepts congratulatory praise from a number of colleagues before she places the trophy on a shelf along her office wall.

When she finally notices the bouquet of flowers on her desk, her eyes immediately dart to Brad’s office across the hallway.

No. They’re not from flaccid lover boy.

She admires the rare Himalayan blue poppies while searching for a card, then her beaming smile falls when she catches sight of the ribbon tied around the stems.

Her gaze locks with mine.

It’s impossible to describe the burst of adrenaline that zips through my veins. By design, I’m careful to keep my personal life separate from work, at least when in the confines of the lab space. It makes for a string of monotonous days until I’m able to achieve that rush again, but I can’t deny this is fucking close.

Her gaze narrows on me, and I refrain from letting my lips curl into a satisfied smile.

I watch as she delicately unravels the ribbon, spools it into a tight ball, and slips the material into her skirt pocket.

I remove the disposable gloves and toss them into the hazardous waste basket on my way toward her office. I stop at the doorway and lean against the frame.

“Sleep well, Jack?” Kyrie asks, triggering a reactive ache on the bruised flesh of my chest from the Taser.

“Like I was tased and drugged with midazolam,” I say, meeting her baiting remark.

She bats her thick eyelashes at me.

“I think this is the first time I’ve ever been inside your office.” I take in the accolades on the bookshelf, the framed pictures. I don’t know if they’re of family or friends, but they look staged. Like she could have edited the photos that came with the frames to Photoshop herself into them.

She expertly slides a smile into place, her full pink lips drawing my notice. “Technically, Jack, you’re not inside my office.”

I accept the challenge and boldly step inside, sensing the charge ripple the air of the small room as we each try to dominate the space.

“Your mother?” I ask, nodding in the direction of a grainy photo central on the shelf.

The slightest flicker of unease passes over her face, a little purse of her lips, before she schools her features into a pleasant veneer. “You’re not here for small talk,” she says. “You hate small talk. Or, really, any talk.”

I let my mouth tip into a slanted smirk. She likes to brag about how well she knows me, has studied me. I could come right out and ask her what our very first encounter was—but I have no doubt that would only serve to further enflame her. She’s been patiently working alongside me for three years; she’s not giving me the answer so easily now.

“Do you like your gift?” I ask, lowering my gaze to the pale-blue flowers.

“Delighted. They’re beautiful.”

“They’re a rare species,” I say, moving an inch closer to her desk. “I grow them myself, along with a few other special breeds.”

“Stimulating,” she deadpans. Then she tilts her head as she studies the petals of the flowers more closely. The variations in the color range from vibrant to soft pale-blue. Not an easy feat, I might add, as I’ve had to breed the poppies for three years to get the desired color.

When her gaze flicks up to meet mine, I see the hues there in her irises, that array of the darkest blue near the center fanning out to the palest shades of gray-blue near the dark ring.

Kyrie pushes the bouquet aside. “Did you like my gift?” She cocks her hip and pats her pocket, insinuating the strip of material I tore from the torso after I dug it up.

Technically, I dug up half a body.

I slip my hand down my cashmere necktie, gaining composure over the flare of anger her ridicule incites. I palm the edge of the desk, lowering my face to become eye level with her.

“Your present felt incomplete, Dr. Roth. Where is the rest of it?” I demand.

This brightens her smile to the full, overbearing wattage. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

The image of my hands around her throat rises up so fiercely, I have to push away from the desk surface to remove her from my reach. I close the glass door, shutting out the distractions and sealing us inside.

“This isn’t a game, Kyrie,” I say, my tone dropping to a lethal decibel as I face her. “You’re behaving like a child, throwing a tantrum because I don’t recall our first encounter together?”

Her mouth pinches into a forced pout. “Aww. I bet you don’t treat your other one-night stands so dismissively.”

I nod slowly. I know I didn’t fuck this woman and then ignore her. That’s not how I operate.

As I walk closer, I sink my hands into my pockets so I’m not tempted to strangle her.

“You’re not a jilted lover, Kyrie, but you are sloppy,” I say, earning a derisive scowl from her. From our past interactions, I know she doesn’t like my reprimands. “You let your emotions govern your actions. You acted on impulse, like a damn amateur, when you murdered that grad student. Right here at the university where you work.”

Once the words are unleashed, I can’t take them back. They detonate the air between us like an imploding star, and there’s no stopping either of us from being sucked into the void.

“There are consequences,” I say, keeping my voice low.

With the gala taking place last night, like Cannon suggested, a few people might lay out today. One student not showing up won’t trigger much notice. But after two days, the questions will start. The calls. Friends wondering where they are. Family calling the university.

“You’re a funny guy, Jack.” She walks around her desk and parks her hip on the edge, crossing her arms. “No one really gets how comical you are. But I do. Because, either you just have really dry humor, or you’re a fucking hypocrite.” She turns her gaze on the lab and my work station across the hall before directing a scathing look at me. “Missing. Credited. Koala.”

The geocoded location of one of my victims. This one buried deep in the decomp site. It’s what she was prattling on about last night, the locations of the bodies I’ve disposed of around the body farm.

I remain quiet, letting the tension thicken between us.

Like I knew she would, she’s the first to talk; she can’t stand for even a moment’s silence. “How come you think I did it?” she asks.

My brow furrows. “Do I need to paint the picture of you waving a severed hand at me?”

She shrugs dismissively. “I just mean, that’s not what the evidence says. Matter of fact, between the both of us, I believe I’m the only one with an alibi for last night.” She tilts her head to look around me and wiggles her fingers in a flirtatious wave to Brad.

My jaw clenches.

“So…” she drawls. “There are consequences. For you, Jack.” Her lips tip into a smug little smile.

She’s enjoying this.

Whatever this woman’s endgame is, it’s definitely to make me suffer.

I could stop this now. It would be simple enough to follow her home tonight. Wait until she’s asleep in her bed. Drop my hand over her mouth and subdue her. I wouldn’t need a sedative. Or a Taser. I could have Dr. Roth tied up in my personal cold room in less than twenty-four hours, where I could torture the answers from her, then get rid of the annoying problem.

Life would resume as normal.

I could even pin it on Brad. Get rid of two of my problems at the same time.

But the longer I stare at Dr. Kyrie Roth, caught in the knowing gleam banked behind her pale-blue eyes, the more curious I become.

While it’s true curiosity killed the stupid cat, it’s also the cornerstone of research facilities and breakthrough discoveries.

I err on the side of caution, always. If she’s aggressive enough to kill one meddling grad student, she might be aggressively dedicated enough to keep her secrets. Or just crazy—crazy has a tendency to make things difficult.

The truth is, I need more information. I need time to dig into her background and excavate answers. I never execute a plan before I have all the details aligned and everything in place. So far, we’ve been playing by her rules. I’m at her mercy.

It’s time to flip the game board.

And if all else fails, there’s always plan B.

Her polished bones would look good displayed on my trophy mantel.

“What do you want?” I ask her outright.

She licks her lips enticingly. “I honestly don’t think you’ve earned that answer from me yet, Jack. Why don’t you try groveling?”

A grin sneaks onto my face. I take one step forward to bring us closer. “How about a counter offer.”

She arches a sculpted eyebrow. “I’m listening.”

“I can tell you what I want,” I say, letting my gaze drag over her body in deliberate pursuit. If I’m not mistaken, her reaction proves I affect her; the dip along the slender column of her throat; the tiny shiver that racks her body. “I want you the hell out of my department. Out of my university. My town. Territory.”

She recovers quickly, all flirtatious façade dissolving beneath her severe expression. “Not going to happen. I’ve worked hard to be—”

“You were a favor hire,” I cut her off. “I saw the referral from your professor to Dr. Cannon. I admit, you worked the social ladder-climbing circuit really, really hard, but you didn’t earn it on your own accord, with the required experience at this level.”

With less work experience than all the other applicants combined, I still don’t understand how Hugh hired such a green wildlife biologist. All I know is nothing has been the same since Dr. Kyrie Roth stepped foot inside my university.

If looks could flay, my skin would be a pile of ribbon around my feet. Satisfaction swells in my veins.

“I had no idea how utterly misogynistic you are, Dr. Sorensen.”

“Call it what you want, but merit goes farther than referrals with me.” I shrug, letting her believe this is why I never gave her the praise she so obviously and desperately wanted from me. “Maybe if you had first put in the years of needed experience, we’d have had a completely different professional relationship, Dr. Roth. Instead, you invaded my territory with lacking skills, and issued a challenge.”

Her eyes narrow. “We’re no longer talking about career paths, are we?”

“I take affronts to both very seriously.”

The truth is—as petty as it sounds—I was here first. If she wants to get primitive about it, I marked my territory long before her cute ass pranced into West Paine.

I’ve only ever encountered one other predator stalking my territory. Ten years ago, that particular rivalry ended with him dead, his body incinerated—bones and all—and me vacating my hunting ground.

Yet I’m the apex predator that came out on top.

History has a precedence here.

Kyrie bites the corner of her lip, then: “You have no idea how full of shit you are,” she says, her tone taking on a severe edge.

“I’m not too impressed with opinions, either,” I say, and before she can retort, “There can only be one, Kyrie.”

My use of her first name surprises her, and she huffs a sardonic laugh. “Two men enter. One man leaves.” Her eyebrow wings up again in challenge. “Not very politically correct. Perhaps we should update the rules of Thunderdome to a more gender neutral wording.”

I slide my tongue over the smooth surface of my teeth, then toss a glance at Brad through the glass wall as a dark thought presses against my resolve. I had another plan for eliminating the Brad dilemma, but maybe he could still serve a purpose.

Someone needs to suffer. Might as well be him.

Plus, I really dislike that fucker.

“Dr. Bradley Thompson is a problem for us,” I say.

“Is he?” Kyrie shakes her head as she walks around her desk. She picks up a manila folder and flips through the pages, feigning interest. “I don’t really find Brad a problem, Jack. Maybe you should try sucking his cock. He likes that. He might even back out of the competition with you for the research trip to Madrid.”

“You really are that naïve as to what you’ve done.”

This gains her full attention. She sets the folder down.

“When Brad finds out the student who discovered the discrepancy has gone missing—”

“He’s going to point a finger at you,” she fires back.

“And then I’m going to play this for the police.” I reach into my blazer inseam and produce my phone. I hold it between us and hit the Play button on the screen.

“So, that’s really what this is all about. When I didn’t fall at your feet like everyone else, you decided to frame me.”

Then her voice fills the office: “I guess I break all your expectations then, don’t I, Dr. Sorensen?”

I hit Stop on the recording. “There’s quite a bit more of your very informative monologue. You do like to talk, Kyrie.” I gift her a smug smile. “If I go down… Well, you know the rest.”

“God. So obvious,” she says.

“Yet effective.” I pocket my phone, and her smile stretches, like she has another secret just waiting to spill past her lips.

“All right, Jack,” she finally concedes. “Body Farm Thunderdome has commenced.” She spreads her arms wide. “What’s the objective?”

My gaze slides to the office across the hallway, where Dr. Brad Thompson is doing a poor job of covertly watching us with a look of distress on his pale face.

“Brad has to go,” I say.

“That’s too easy.”

As much as I want to eviscerate him and leave his entrails and organs to be pecked over by birds, killing Brad right now isn’t wise. “Brad needs to leave,” I clarify. “Of his own volition. He either has to be so afraid, or so annoyed—” I glare at her, implying this is her expertise “—with his position here, that he voluntarily transfers out, forgetting all about the discrepancy.”

Kyrie doesn’t agree right away, which I almost respect. She considers it for a moment before saying, “And whoever gets Brad to leave wins, I assume. The loser taking his long walk of shame right off campus grounds.”

“Or her walk… But yes, that’s the idea. At which time, I’ll erase my phone recording, and you’ll tell me where the other half of the remains are located.”

Her lips twist into a sly smile as she extends her hand. “Fine. You have a deal, Jack. Let the best person win.”

A hesitant beat stretches between us where I stare at her hand, absorbing the fine framework of her metacarpals and slender phalanges. My eyes track upward along her radius, and when I take her hand in mine, my breath reflexively stills as I rest my fingers along her delicate wrist bones.

I shake her hand once in agreement, and as she goes to pull away, I draw her forward. “You have something of mine,” I whisper next to her ear.

Her breath shallows, revealing the slightest tremble of her body, before she says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

After another heavy beat, I release her hand and back away. I keep my gaze trained on her until I’m at the door, then I give her my back.

I hear the distinctive flick of my lighter. Stalled in the doorway, I glance back to see Kyrie strike the flint wheel. A tiny flame springs to life, the reflection dances in her eyes.

Kyrie flips the cap closed to douse the flame. Then she plucks a blue flower from the bouquet and snaps the long stem, placing the flower behind her ear with a wink. “Game on, Jack.”