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“Do you know anything about him? His ethnicity? How tall he is? Hair color? Anything?”

Both kids shake their heads. “Nah, he wears gloves and shit. He sounds like us; like a street kid. Could be white.”

“I think he’s Mexican,” the other kid says.

“Why?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Just a vibe. I don’t think he’s white or black.”

“Yeah, maybe.” The first kid nods. “He’s sort of tall. Maybe, like, five-ten. He might be built, but like we said, he wears hoodies and shit so it’s hard to see his body.”

“He walks wicked fast,” the second kid says. “And just, like, disappears.”

“Thanks, guys.” I hand over the money. “There’s enough for everyone.”

The first kid takes the money, his face lighting up, but he tries to play it cool.

I walk back to my van with the victim’s name still in my head. Maybe I can figure out a connection. A serial killer who’s hunting predators? Interesting.

Inside the van, I fire up my laptop, shooting off a text in the group chat lovingly called Murder Buddies by Specter’s husband, letting them know I’m around if anyone needs backup. A smile tugs at my lips. Murder Buddies is pretty funny.

I open my database, type in Donovan Willis, and get an immediate hit. He’s a prominent realtor in the city. That’s why his name is familiar. His face is plastered all over billboards and buses.

I dig a little more, finding a wife, three kids, and a solid career. He’s a church-going man, or he was, and he sits on the boards of several youth charities.

There’s not a single negative thing about him online. No lawsuits or accusations. His kids are young, his wife is pretty. Hmm.

If what those kids told me is true, the serial killer seems to think Donovan was some kind of predator. Wouldn’t be the first time a high-profile man was leading a double life.

Searching a little more, I check the names of some of the more recent murder victims thanks to my access to the county morgue’s records. There have been three murders in the past couple of months that seem to fit the pattern, and all of them are open investigations when I cross reference the Mistone PD files.

All three men were found with single gunshots to the head, except the one the kids told me about. Beat to death, died due to asphyxiation on his own blood. It takes a lot of rage to beat a man to death. That one was personal.

I focus on that man. Antonio Riccardo, aged forty-two at the time of his death. Nothing special about him, managed a chain grocery store, had no kids, divorced twice. Just a middle-aged nothing. I dig into his past, checking arrest records and his financial background, finding nothing unusual except for a minor public disorder charge when he was still in his twenties and a few parking tickets.

My phone buzzes, and I pull it from my pocket and read the message.

Specter: Quiet night. I’m at Segreto if you want to join me.

Segreto. Of course I want to go there. That’s where my current obsession is most nights. I shouldn’t though. He’s too young for me, probably. I actually don’t know anything about the guy since he has no online footprint and so far he’s been tight-lipped in person.

That’s not unusual for this city though. A lot of people end up here with tragic or difficult pasts, hiding from their old lives in a city it’s easy to get lost in.

Me: Is Blush there?

Specter: Yes. He’s on in about thirty minutes.

Against my better judgment, I already know I’m going.

Me: I’ll be there in fifteen.

Closing my laptop, I drag a hand through my hair. Maybe if I just fuck him and get it over with, I can get him out of my head. That approach has always worked in the past.

I know he’s attracted to me, but something keeps holding me back. Maybe it’s because the last thing I need is to get caught up in a young man who’s still finding his way, and I’m no role model. I devoted myself to someone once before. It’s a mistake I won’t make again.

I pull out of the parking lot and onto the street just as a few police cruisers pass me. They usually come around to harass the homeless and the sex workers, but tonight they’ll be busy with a new dead body.

Less than fifteen minutes later, I turn into the lot at Segreto, my cock already twitching with interest. It’s like a Pavlovian response. Me and my dick know that beyond those doors is my weakness, and yet here I am, intentionally subjecting myself to it again.