“I do.”

  “So then do it,” she said, giggling. “Don’t be silly. But you and Grandma Tate could just stay here all day if you want.”

  “Yeah, and what would we do?”

  “I dunno. Play games…drink tea.”

  They giggled together at this and Rachel ended up not being able to leave her daughter’s side. After a while, Paige fell asleep, her little snores like the purring of a cat. Rachel kissed her daughter’s forehead and even then still could not bring herself to leave her side.

  So she lay there for a moment, not at all surprised that Paige’s words were carrying more weight than those from Grandma Tate.

  “But can’t you still help him when I’m in school? You like your job, don’t you?”

  Rachel lay there for a long time in the gloom of Paige’s room. She thought of Jack and of the two victims they’d come across—of how their already shortened lives had become drastically shorter. They’d been robbed of moments like these, with children and other loved ones, moments where they could process and find peace.

  And, job or not, what sort of human being would she be if she turned a blind eye to that?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It was a nice change of pace not to sit in the parking lot of a medical facility to wait for his next victim. Even being in the immediate vicinity of hospitals or medical specialists made him feel ill. For some reason, he’d always viewed such places as even worse than cemeteries. The reek of death and sickness just seemed to emanate from them.

  Now, though, he was sitting in a place that was the exact opposite of a hospital. He was parked behind a club, not a large one but not just some small, hole-in-the-wall dive, either. It was the type of place that would have a bar stretched out across the back wall, and a large stage for live music on the other end. With his windows rolled down a bit, he could hear a grinding bass line and a slightly off-time drumbeat. The band, according to the club’s website, was called Ruckus and they played a variety of ’90s alternative music.

  His next target was inside. He knew this because the idiot had posted it on Facebook. He was looking at the post on his phone right now, the smiling moron standing right in front of the club with RUCKUS on the marquee behind him. His post simply read #bucketlist.

  “Bucket list,” he muttered ironically.

  He understood the appeal of bucket lists but also thought such a popular term should serve as a wakeup call to humanity. If people would just live their lives to the fullest from the start, there would be no need to push exciting events or desires back further and further until you realize your days are indeed numbered. Anyone keeping a bucket list and touting it as this noble thing to keep up with was, in his opinion, wasting their life.

  Like his next victim. Twenty-nine years old and diagnosed with a mild liver disease. It was mild, but there was also no cure for it. From what he gathered, the man would have another two years to live…maybe two and a half, depending on how he responded to the experimental medicines that were supposed to help slow the progression of the disease.

  This man, Troy Hetfield, was at the very bottom of the Life Fulfilled list. He’d just gotten on the waiting list five days ago qhich would usually not make him an instant target. But when a new waiting-list member was so ignorantly posting every detail of his very short life on social media, making it easy to track him down, what was the sense in waiting?

  He had no idea how long the concert would last, so he’d been parked behind the place, three cars over from Hetfield’s for the past hour and a half. Ruckus was apparently a decently popular band; he estimated that there had to be at least a thousand people or so inside, which was probably flirting with the maximum occupancy numbers for a place of this size.

  The current song came to an end and he heard a muffled roar of applause as the opening riff to the next song kicked in. He actually knew it, sort of. Some song by Nirvana. The crowd went nuts. He hoped it was a sign that the band was nearing the end of their show.

  He sat and waited. He checked Hetfield’s Facebook feed again and saw that he’d posted pictures of himself with a girl he’d apparently run into at the show. He was near the front of the stage, tucked in tightly among other sweaty concertgoers.

  He then looked to his list, which had been growing over the past several weeks. He had it all typed into the notes app on his phone, an exact copy of the physical copy sitting on his desk at home. He had been checking names off as he eliminated them. It was then, as he looked over the shortening list, that the Nirvana song ended. The crowd cheered and within about three minutes, he noticed people starting to come walking around the side of the club. Many of them were heading to the parking lot across the street, and into the adjoining parking garage. But Hetfield would not be headed that way. No, according to the Facebook post, he’d been granted backstage access. Even though he was not yet officially under the umbrella of Life Fulfilled, he was still getting favors here and there due to his recent bad news.

  So even with the concert over, he figured he had a while longer to wait. The again, with a liver disease, he doubted Hetfield would do any drinking—so what else was there to do backstage at a rock concert?

  He sat in his car as midnight came and went, watching traffic trickling out of the parking garage and lot across the street to his right. He wondered how many people behind the wheels of those vehicles had close loved ones who were terminally ill or on the cusp of receiving that sort of news. He knew it was morbid, but he thought about the speed and suddenness with which life could go from happy and thriving to on the brink of death. Often it was as simple as a single doctor’s visit—and he found that both fascinating and horrifying.

  As he considered all of this, he watched as one of the back doors to the club opened up. A man came out—a man who was not Troy Hetfield. The man looked around the parking lot, stepped beside a dumpster, and unbuttoned his pants He urinated quickly and then stepped back inside.

  Not too long after that, maybe three or four minutes by his estimation, the door opened again. This time, Troy Hetfield did step out. He was accompanied by the young lady that he’d taken the latest Facebook picture with. They walked together to his car and stood outside of it for a moment. As he watched, Troy and this woman spoke and then kissed for a bit, only to speak once more and then focus more on the kissing part of things.

  It was getting so hot and heavy that for a moment, he wondered if they were going to end up having sex right there against the car. But in the end, the woman broke away with a huge smile. He used this moment as a distraction, quietly opening his door and stepping out into the night. He crouched and remained low, hiding between his car and the one parked next to him. Hetfield’s was just two cars beyond this, allowing him to hear the end of the conversation the couple was having.

  “…and next weekend,” the woman was saying.

  “Yeah, I think that should still work. But, you know, you can come with me now. To my place.”

  “I want to, but…you know that’s not a good idea.”

  “Sounds like a great idea to me.”

  The woman giggled again, but was not giving in. “Patience, Troy.”

  “I know, I know.”

  The woman’s shadow passed by his car as she made her way back over to the parking garage. When she was far enough out of sight, he feared that he’d missed his window of opportunity. He was going to have be a little risky, he supposed.

  He stood up and saw that Hetfield was watching the woman go. He’d not yet even made a move to get back into his car. Hetfield appeared to be deeply in love or very horny—or maybe a touch of both.

  Hetfield slowly turned his head, having seen the flicker of motion as he’d gotten to his feet.

  “Troy, what’s up?” he said.

  Hetfield smiled for a moment, tilting his head. “Hey. Do I…do I know you?”

  “Nah, not well.” He walked around the front of the first of the two cars that were separating them, keeping his left hand low and just slightly behind him. He offered his right hand, though, as if wanting a shake. “I don’t know if you remember or not. We met at that other show not too long ago. But I don’t remember the name.”

  He had advanced to within hand-shaking distance and Troy, still smiling slightly and clearly confused, started to shake his head. “What show would that b—”

  He brought his left hand up, bringing the leather sap up with expert speed and precision. The sound it made against Hetfield’s head was a hollow thunk that was not terribly unlike the muted bass drum coming through the club’s walls. Not being a leftie, he knew he didn’t get his full strength behind it, so as Hetfield tottered and reeled back, almost falling over, he swapped it over to his right hand.

  The second attack was much stronger. It caught Hetfield right in the center of his forehead, right between the eyes. There was a crunching noise as the bridge of his nose was pulverized. With that, Hetfield’s knees gave out and he went to the ground right away.

  Standing there and looking down at Hetfield, he regretted that he had to move away so quickly. God only knew who else might come out of that backstage door and even now, there were cars coming out of the parking garage, their headlights coming dangerously close to skirting over the scene of the crime.

  He left Troy Hetfield on the ground, walking back over to his car. He stuffed the leather sap beneath his driver’s seat, started the engine, and pulled out onto the street. He’d sat and waited for nearly two hours and the act itself had taken less than five seconds. Still, it was worth it. And he could hardly wait until he got to the next red light so he could wipe yet another name off of the Life Fulfilled waiting list.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Rachel walked behind the coroner, a man she’d never seen before, although he still felt familiar. He was very tall and incredibly thin, almost like a skeleton that had simply had human skin draped over it and called a human. He was leading her down a long hallway that looked to be made of steel and was adorned with countless doors. Each door looked the same, made of either steel or some sort of silicon.

  “She’s been waiting for you,” the coroner said over his shoulder.

  “I know,” Rachel said. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”

  The floor began to glow slightly as they continued to walk. It looked almost like something out of a spaceship from a science fiction movie, all white and blue lights along metal surfaces. Finally, they came to the door they were searching for. When the coroner held the door open for her, he smiled at her, revealing a mouthful of back teeth. “Step inside,” he said in a voice that sounded like a hurricane passing through a cavern.

  Inside, he stepped in front of her. They were greeted with a room that seemed to have no end, metal containment drawers installed in a wall that stretched on forever. Fortunately, they did not have to walk a length the equal of the corridor they had used to get here. No, the drawer in question was right in front of them.

  As the coroner led her to it, the temperature of the room dropped substantially. Rachel could see her breath in front of her, a little cloud that hovered for far too long and then dissipated.

  “Feel free to do the honors,” the coroner said in that same horrid voice.

  Rachel stepped forward and grabbed the handle to the locker. It clicked open easily and when she pulled it out, it rolled along on tracks that sounded far too much like the snapping of knuckles.

  The body on the slab was covered in a sheet that was speckled with little droplets of blood here and there. She reached out and grabbed the sheet, slowly pulling it back to reveal the face.

  Rachel gasped and took a step back. She was looking down at herself. Her skin was pale, her eyes were closed, and there was dried blood matted in her hair.

  “How?” Rachel asked. “Why…?”

  But the coroner had no answer for her. On the slab, the dead Rachel opened her eyes and grinned.

  Rachel screamed.

  The scream tore her out of the nightmare with such ferocity that she almost fell right out of bed. And as she did her best to get control of her senses, she realized that it may have been more than the nightmare that had stirred her awake. It sounded like her phone was ringing, too.

  As she slapped around on the bedside table for it, her heart slammed madly in her chest. The digital numbers on her clock read 4:31. The call had to be from Jack. Jack and Director Anderson were the only ones who ever called her at such an hour. The absurdness of the moment, interlaced with the surreal dream, made her wonder if she’d really put in that two weeks’ notice after all. Had that been a dream? Why else would Jack be calling her at such an hour?

  She grabbed the phone and brought it to her ear. “Yeah?”

  Sure enough, it was Jack on the other end. “Hey, Rachel. I should, uh…I should let you know that I instantly regret calling you. Forget I called, okay?”

  “What? Jack, wait…”

  There was silence on the other end, and she was certain she’d somehow missed the click of him hanging up. But after a few moments, his voice was there again, soft and in her ear.

  “There’s been another murder. Not sure if it’s our guy, but it was a knock on the head. From the little we know about him, he was recently diagnosed with a deadly and rare liver disease. I thought you’d want to know and then by the time I realized you weren’t my partner anymore, your phone had started ringing. I blame it on being woken up just after four by the phone.”

  “It’s okay, Jack. I appreciate it. Will you come get me?”

  “No.”

  “Then send me the address and I’ll come on my own.”

  “No, Rachel, I can’t keep let—”

  “Then what the hell did you call me for, Jack?”

  “Habit.”

  The line went quiet again and she eventually heard one of Jack’s patented long, exhaustive sighs. “Damn. Fine. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  She opened her mouth to thank him, but this time the call had come to an end. Rachel, surprised to find that she wasn’t tired at all, slowly slid out of bed and thought of how to best communicate what was going on to Grandma Tate. She left her bedroom and walked down the hall to the guest room. Rachel raised her hand on Grandma Tate’s door, realizing before she even knocked that she was starting to cry.

  ***

  The body was still on the pavement when they arrived. It was a male, twenty-nine years old, by the name of Troy Hetfield. His face was in much worse shape than the small bit of blood on it suggested. The bridge of his nose had been broken and it almost looked as if that portion of his head had tried to collapse in on itself.

  A deputy with the police was on the scene with about eight others. Forensics had already arrived, kneeling by the body and doing their work under the glow of headlights and a few portable halogen lamps. The deputy stood with Rachel and Jack while forensics did their work. He looked to be a bit older than fifty, with the beginnings of a beer gut and a deeply receding hairline.

  “The body was discovered by another concertgoer,” the deputy said. “We think the body was found very soon after the attack because the witness said the blood was still coming from the wound in above the nose.”

  “And this person saw no one else out here?” Jack asked.

  “No,” the deputy said. “But they did say there were still cars coming out of the parking garage over there. There was a concert here tonight, a pretty big local cover band. We were able to confirm with the band that the deceased had special backstage passes. Some sort of special privilege because of some bad news the guy had been dealt recently.”

  “Is that how it was discovered the victim had been diagnosed with liver disease?” Rachel asked.

  “Yeah, as far as I can tell.”

  Now that they had a name, Rachel pulled her phone out and navigated to the Life Fulfilled waiting list. As she suspected, Troy Hetfield was indeed listed there. The odd thing, though, was that he was the very last name on the list. Based on the scant information provided by the list, he’d only been added a few days ago.

  “There are security measures in place at the doors, correct?” Jack asked.

  “Yeah,” the deputy said. “And we’ve already spoken to the head of security. He allowed us to have a look at the night’s logs. Nine hundred and eleven people attended the show tonight and only four were turned away out of refusal to pass through metal detectors at the door.”

  “What about backstage?” Rachel asked.

  “Doesn’t matter,” the deputy replied. “Even those with backstage passes have to be admitted through the front gates.”

  “Any security footage?” Rachel asked.

  “Not from back here. There are eight different camera in the club and two right there up front at the gates. But there are none back here. I’m told it’s something of a controversial measure so that the bands aren’t easily ensnared in illegal activities like drugs and things like that. Seems ass backwards to me, but…”

  He shrugged, as if that was the end of the conversation as far as he was concerned.

  Rachel stepped closer to the body. Of the two forensics officers, only one was still kneeling down by the body. The other was standing and typing something into a smart pad.

  “Anything of note?” Rachel asked.

  “He was attacked from the front for sure,” the kneeling man said. “I can see at least two different attacks, one right there, above the left brow, and the other, stronger one, right between the eyes. In terms of any physical evidence for you, I’m afraid there’s nothing.”

  Rachel nodded, taking another look at the body. A young man, just a few years younger than her, already dealing with terrible news…and here he was, dead, because someone else had decided to take whatever time he had left away from him. She was sad about having left Paige again, and the conversation she’d had with Grandma Tate before she’d left the house had been tense, but looking down at Troy Hetfield assured her that she’d made the right choice. She was going to catch this bastard if it was the last thing she did.