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A cathedral of leaves covered the night sky of Forêt de Montmorency. The land was completely isolated; I heard nothing but the shrill screeching of cicadas. As the van moved deeper into the woods, the smell of damp earth and moss intensified. I turned my head to scan the area, where darkness enveloped me and only the headlights illuminated the land. I maneuvered the van toward a large tree and parked. Before leaving the vehicle, I removed my thick glasses and pulled on the mask.
I stepped out in silence and turned off the lights. I continued toward the site, where I had already pre-dug the area, hauling the jet sled with the double polyethylene tarp inside. It was not a long walk. The trail ran along dry ridges. At the dug site, I covered my hiking shoes with surgical overshoes. It had taken two hours, and my arms felt heavy from moving the body. The ticking of my wristwatch turned the moment into a race against time; I had to move quickly. Using a reference photo, I had taken earlier, I rearranged the dry earth to mimic its previous state.
After a few moments of fixing, I left the forest, still avoiding the main road, and drove all the way to Chauvry. Daniel Robert was not hard to track; he was like the shallow people I had met. He kept his social media public, too convenient, considering he thought he was sharing some grand philosophical act as a respected womanizer among his followers. Gambling, drugs, and women. A real pillar of the community. Once, I saw one of his pictures with a young woman, long blonde hair, grey eyes, model type, lacking any discernible depth in the camera’s flash. She wore a two-piece, his hands latched onto her posterior. Le retour de chasse. If I were his hunting buddy, I would say, nice catch. But I would not stoop to his low-level intellect.
When I reached the quiet village of Chauvry, houses lined the highway, with cars parked neatly alongside one another. Robert looked less like a man of Chauvry and more like something dragged from a gutter. I laughed at the thought. How fatuous of me.
I drove the van to the back of the neighborhood and hid it in the nearby forest. Stealthily, I moved in, scanning the area. Robert’s bungalow was poorly maintained. Compared to his old photos online, it now looked abandoned, even more depressed. Weeds had grown over the lawn. The driveway held a pile of trash that had not been thrown out for a long time, along with sealed boxes. His car was parked crookedly, beer bottles scattered across the concrete.
Circling the area, I noticed the car window was half open. Then suddenly, a light flicked on inside. I quickly crouched, hiding behind the car, and waited. When the light turned off, I rose to my knees, reached the window, and carefully slid in the pearl earring, scattering strands of Rose’s hair inside.
At the van on the way to Clichy, I had already changed clothes, worn bulky sweater, an oversized parka, and thick square glasses. The drive was smooth, it was the dead of the night at 04:20 I arrived at a parking lot and boarded the bus to Rue De Rivoli.
After fifteen minutes, I reached Smith & Son; the shop was dark and isolated. I quickly slid the mask back over my face and unlocked the front door with a copied key while the alarm panel blinked red in the darkness. I entered the code 1-5-9-5 and waited until the light turned green. With a gloved hand, I pushed the glass door and quietly moved to a blind spot, avoiding the security camera.
Reaching the manager’s office, I caught the lingering smell of coffee and sweat. There were two locked metal file cabinets and a jacket hanging on the coat rack. The trash bin was full. A pack of cigarettes lay on the desk, along with a notebook, some receipts, and a crumpled paper. I slid my fingers across the desk, thinking where he could hide his stash. I started with the boxes beneath it and came across a pile of receipts and a small leather bag labeled “voided receipts 2021.”
When I unzipped the bag, a small sachet, some paraphernalia, and foil caught my attention. It was foolish to leave these things here. Then I remembered the red-haired woman I had seen earlier; she had been talking on the phone and mentioned Robert’s coke. She might have been rummaging through her boss’ things and had not thought to hide them properly.
Brushing the thought aside, I pulled sachets of ketamine and a few roofies from my bag and hid them among the other drugs inside the leather bag.
Before leaving, I checked the interface on the right side of the desk and entered the same password. It was incorrect. After a moment of thought, I remembered the notepad. I flipped through its pages, found a scribble of numbers, and tried them on the interface, hoping it would open. Once I confirmed I was not captured by the security camera, I left the premises.
Upon returning to the manor, I obliterated all evidence in the boiler room and wiped clean the van and the kitchen where Rose might have touched, took a shower, and rested.
Five months had passed since then. It was the usual morning; I had my coffee and drove to work. I waited until the chaotic frequency of the city shifted. The news cycle had finally latched onto the discovery. A jogger with his dog had discovered the remains and had alerted the authorities.
The next day, the infection had spread to the hospital. Two nurses huddled by the station, whispering about the woman found in buried in the mountain.
“They say it was brutal,” one whispered, clutching her chart. “What kind of animal could do that?”
I walked past them, offering a polite, somber nod.
After a month I returned to Smith & Son as a shy customer, I kept myself concealed in a sweatshirt with an animated logo, my wavy hair falling low over my brows as I moved along the aisles near the postcard rack. I made a point of appearing absorbed in the books, though my attention was elsewhere.
The red-haired woman, whom Robert had called Irene, looked visibly irritated by his neurotic, nasal voice.
“Irene! Have you prepared the monthly reports?” he sneered, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
“Monsieur Robert, wasn’t that Rose’s responsibility?” she scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Speaking of Rose, I haven’t seen her for months now. Weird, don’t ya think? And did she quit?”
“I don’t know about that scoundrel. She always makes excuses!” he snapped.
“Thought she was your favorite, huh?” she teased, her face flushing as she laughed. “Why aren’t you looking for her, though?”
“Shut up! Get back to the counter!” Robert hissed before retreating to his office.
Irene waited until his back was turned before making a face. She resumed filing her nails, then lifted her phone and began taking selfies, as if the interruption had never happened.
“He should fire her. She’s always dumping her responsibilities on me,” Irene whispered.
As I pushed open the glass door, Irene gave me a brief side glance before returning to her phone. Where I immediately lowered my gaze, adjusting my spectacles.
Back at the estate, I rested on the couch, absorbed in whiskey, while the newscaster’s voice droned robotic in my head. I had intended to keep Rose longer, to feel her more, but she was too fragile. I missed her scent, though, and that look on her face when she came. If l’amour had only let me move on from this moment so I could go back to birdwatching. Only this time, if she allowed me. The next canvas would not have a rabble in her life. There were wild birds roaming about, but they had not yet reached my radar. And the question still stood: had Rose vexed me?
It was no longer a whisper; it had a voice, lower, aggressive, and persuasive. A symphony of flesh, longing intertwined with the mutilation of fragile skin. It was all I could taste, smothering images of the canvas flooding in until I could not breathe, a contradiction in how the body responded. I lay on the couch, watching the canvases circle in the garden. Bound, gagged, gashed, and chained.
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