I pull his mouth open. A faint smell of toothpaste over an even fainter smell of red wine. A merlot, I think. He has straight teeth—probably had braces as a kid—and a couple of fillings. I’m no expert, but they look expensive. His eyes have a slightly dull sheen. I carefully scoop out a pair of contact lenses.

He has a wedding ring—a plain gold band. I wiggle it off his finger. It’s engraved with a date and two words: LOVE, GABBI.

A twist of guilt in my chest. I always tell myself that I only eat bad people. Most of Warner’s enemies are criminals, like her. This man could be anybody. An innocent, if such a thing exists. But I know that bite mark is the first of many. I won’t be able to help myself.

If only he had some gang tattoos or something. I want a reason not to feel sorry for him.

‘Who are you?’ I ask him.

He stares up at me through grey eyes.

Tap, tap. Someone’s knocking on my front door.

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 3

When you run, I speed up; when you slow down, so do I. If I stop, so do you. What am I?

I freeze for a moment. Maybe they’ll think no one’s home. The curtains don’t let any light in or out.

Another knock. Whoever is on my porch, they’re not giving up.

‘I’m coming.’ As quietly as I can, I lift the dead man up, lower him into the chest freezer and close it. I dump my bloodstained jacket and shirt in the laundry tub, and twist the faucet slowly so the sudden hissing of water doesn’t give me away. Pink water runs down the drain. I use a wet washcloth to wipe my face and neck, and dry myself with a dish towel. Then I approach the door, trying to look sleepy instead of panicked.

I don’t make it.

There’s the distinctive whirr of a lock-release gun. The door bursts open so suddenly that the handle leaves a dent in the wall. Two big men with crew cuts storm in. Sariklis—the one with the drooping eyelid—and Francis, the gym-junkie who was supposed to meet me on the side of the road.

I open my mouth to scream. Getting arrested is better than drowning in the back of a van.

But Sariklis is too quick. He slaps a hand over my mouth and compresses my throat with the crook of his elbow.

‘Jacksonville, Phoenix,’ he says.