by Angel Lawson
1
Prologue
He killed again.
Vicious and grotesque, he left the remains where I would find them, like breadcrumbs trailing through the forest. One here, another there. Random enough to confuse the police, but not me. We thought alike, our skills comparable, but at the end of the game our objectives are infinitely different. I was the Hunter and he, the Predator.
Working my way through the dark forest I paused to inhale, pinpointing his exact trail. I caught a hint of blood and sweat mixed with decay from the forest floor. Moving closer, the scent grew stronger, fresher. The kill was recent, but the killer was long gone.
To be safe, I scaled the nearest tree and surveyed the scene below. Blood soaked the damp ground, seeping into the dirt and leaves. A woman’s body laid on top, her flesh torn to shreds. She wore athletic clothing and the type of shoes for running. I jumped to the ground for a closer look, the earth tremoring under my feet upon my landing.
Mud covered her exposed knees; she’d kneeled at one point, most likely begging for her life. I bent over her body, sniffing at her hands, at the marks on her neck, the cuts on her wrists. Two others had helped the Predator, and while his scent lingered in the area, it was not on the victim. For some reason, he never touched them himself. That was one of the many questions I had about these deaths. Why murder these women if he didn’t join in the kill? Surely he needed to feed?
I scanned the area, searching for a message or a clue—anything from the Predator. As usual, he’d left nothing but destruction and death. The kill itself was his message. He wanted to taunt me on my own territory. Murder people under my watch.
It was something he would soon regret.
Chapter 1
Amelia
The boxy, four-story building sat on the edge of town, jutting from the asphalt-lined streets. I double-checked the address on the unimpressive building, comparing it to the slip of paper in my hand. The numbers matched, confirming that this was indeed the location for my appointment. My job interview, actually.
Frowning, I looked down the street, empty other than the cars parked along it. The address was right. The appointment was today. I had little choice but to put my game face on. I needed this job—immediately. Why did it matter if I couldn’t figure out how a multi-million dollar foundation operated out of the building in front of me? Sure, the building looked to be in good condition, although it was probably close to a century old. Truthfully, I expected something a little more modern. But who was I to judge the quirks of the rich? What did I know? Clearly not much, since I had two weeks before I had little choice but to pack my bags and move back home if I didn’t secure some sort of job.
I climbed the steps to the second floor entrance. Nothing identified it as an office building, but there was an intercom on the wall outside the door. I pressed the black, plastic buzzer with my thumb. A woman answered.
“Palmer Residence.”
“Hi,” I said, searching for a camera. None were visible. “Hello, this is Amelia Chase. I have an appointment at nine?”
“One moment, please,” replied the voice on the other side of the intercom.
The door swung open and I was met by an attractive woman who looked to be in her late thirties. Eyeing her drastic, raven-black hair with blunt bangs and blood-red lipstick, I secretly wished I could pull off either and not look like a hooker.
“Amelia,” she said. “Nice to meet you. I’m Genevieve, Mr. Palmer’s current assistant.”
That was the job I was applying for. The one that, hopefully, would keep me in Asheville with my best friend Drew.
“Please come in,” she suggested, ushering me past the sparsely decorated foyer. I followed her to a sitting area, our feet crossing from hardwood to a finely woven rug. She gestured for me to sit. “Thank you for coming in on such short notice.”
I smiled. Short notice wasn’t a problem for someone close to being jobless.
“Mr. Hudson had many wonderful things to say about you,” she said.
“Mr. Hudson has been a wonderful supervisor at the library,” I said, looking around the room, still a little confused. “So this is the Foundation’s office?”
“Oh, no. This is Mr. Palmer’s home office.”
“Home?”
“He lives on the upper floors. The corporate offices for The Palmer Foundation are in Raleigh.”
“That’s a three hour drive.”
“Yes, which means Mr. Palmer works here sometimes but often spends time out of town. As his assistant, you’ll manage household affairs and the home office.”
Manage the house? That wasn’t how Mr. Hudson had described the job. I assumed I would work at the actual foundation offices. Two phrases came quickly to mind: ‘beggars can’t be choosers’, and the always lovely, ‘to assume makes an ass out of u and me’.
“So, if I got the job, I would work here?” I said, taking everything in. Paintings and artwork lined the walls. The room had an elegant feel, and I definitely suspected that the couch I sat on was an antique. Although, it could have been fake or a reproduction. I had never been in a home with such expensive and tasteful décor. But then again, I had never known anyone who had a personal assistant or was the CEO of a multi-million dollar foundation, either.
“Primarily.” Genevieve sat down in the seat across from mine and smiled. “Mr. Hudson and I met when we worked together on the fundraising campaign for the art history collection at the University several years ago. When Mr. Palmer was seeking a new assistant, he came to mind for a referral."
I smiled back, feeling relieved that she seemed so nice and casual. “I’m thankful he suggested me for the job. The post-college job search has been a little intimidating.”
"Let me start by saying that this is not really an interview. Mr. Palmer has reviewed your resume and Mr. Hudson’s recommendation. He thinks you will be a wonderful assistant and would like for you to start immediately after graduation.”
“Wait, so I already have the job?”
“If you’d like it. We realize it’s below your educational achievements and doesn’t require much other than a strong sense of organization and good work ethic, both of which were applauded in your recommendation, but it pays well and is perfect for an entry level job.”
“Believe me,” I said, “I’m not really in the position to be picky.”
“Great.”
“Do you mind me asking why you’re leaving? I know it seems forward but—“
“No, it’s understandable. I’ve decided to take some time off and go back home to my family,” she said. “Because of the short notice, Mr. Palmer would like you to spend some time training with me before I go. Again, it’s not a difficult job, but Mr. Palmer is very particular about how he likes things managed. "
“Sounds like Mr. Hudson,” I said fondly about my soon-to-be-former boss.
She smiled. “That’s why it should be a perfect transition.”
Relief washed over me the second I heard I’d already gotten the job. I wouldn’t have to move back home and Drew and I could make next month’s rent. I fought back a squeal of excitement and plastered on my game face.
"Amelia,” Genevieve said, “before you agree, it is important for you to understand exactly what is expected of you for this job. Although Mr. Palmer would like you to take the position, it needs to be a good fit for you as well. If you think you are in over your head at any point, tell me so we can make other arrangements.”
“I’m sure it will be fine, but tell me whatever it is I need to know. I definitely prefer being prepared.” I dug a small, leather-bound journal out of my bag along with a pen, ready to take notes.
&n
bsp; “No smartphone?”
“Oh, I have one of those, too, but I prefer to take notes on paper and then transcribe them onto my phone. I’ve had more than one lost document in the electronic world.”
She nodded approvingly. "First, let me explain that he is really a wonderful man. I’m sure you’re aware of the outstanding work the Foundation does in the community. They support so many programs in the tri-state area.”
“I’ve seen their name on the art building at school.”
“Yes, the whole family is a huge patron of the arts. Grant Palmer, in particular, has a strong connection and desire to work closely with mental health services. It’s his pet project. Each year the Foundation holds an important fundraiser for the psychiatric hospital.”
“He sounds generous.”
“He does, and he’s very passionate, sometimes to the extreme. He can be singularly focused, which means that, as his assistant, you will need to be prepared for this type of hyper-focused personality.”
“Extreme how?”
“Mr. Palmer is very quiet and keeps to himself. Some weeks I don't see him at all." I had no problem with this since I preferred to work in a quiet environment. I gave her an encouraging smile and asked her to continue.
"He will leave you a list of duties on your desk each morning or send you an email if he is not in town. They're not difficult jobs,” she assured me, “but he is rather particular about how he wants things done. No matter how abstract, it is important for you to follow his directions carefully. Order is incredibly important to him. I can show you some examples."
Genevieve had such a worried expression on her face that I felt the need to interrupt her. "Genevieve, I promise you that you cannot scare me off. I am pretty meticulous about my work as well, so this sounds like it will be a good fit. Mr. Hudson wouldn't have suggested this job to me if he didn't think I could handle it."
"I agree and am glad you feel that way.” She exhaled—the tension on her face lifting. I had the impression that she may be more nervous than I was. “He’s an extremely private person. If you want to keep this job you must use discretion about him at all times. He holds a position of prominence in the community and his reputation is very important. Do not go out on a Friday night and talk about him in the middle of a bar. Do not send a gossipy email about how nice his home is. And never speak to the press or any other publication without permission.”
I scribbled all this down even though I knew none of those were intentions of mine.
Genevieve continued, “If you break any of these basic agreements he will find out and you will lose your job. You’ll be asked to sign a confidentiality agreement before you start. I hope that’s not a problem.”
“I can’t see why it would be.”
“Good,” she said. “Would you like to see the house?”
I nodded and stuffed my notebook in my bag, following Genevieve out of the sitting room. To be honest, I tried not to gawk and show my inexperience, but it was hard. Despite the plain exterior, the building was gorgeous and absolutely immaculate. Like a museum.
The downstairs held the parlor, a kitchen, a small office for me to use, and a library. I peeked in the library, assessing the sheer number of books in his personal collection. For a booklover like myself, it was a dream. The shelves were lined floor to ceiling, and on the other end of the room I saw rows of record albums and a table with a record player. Nothing fancy, but similar to the kind my parents had growing up.
Genevieve noted my interest. "As Mr. Palmer’s assistant you are welcome to read his books or listen to his music. Just make sure you put it back where it belongs. One time I put a copy of Dickens back on the wrong shelf and he spotted it immediately. He has eyes like a hawk."
We made our way to the kitchen and Genevieve opened some cabinets and the refrigerator, which all held minimal amounts of food. She laughed when she saw the questioning look on my face and said, "Mr. Palmer primarily eats out of the home and adheres to a specific diet. You don’t have to worry about groceries or food shopping. You’re welcome to keep coffee or tea here for yourself and to keep your lunch in the refrigerator, if you'd like.”
We moved on to the laundry room and storage areas, and then she gave me a quick tour of the basement garage. It housed several expensive cars. I was completely clueless about cars, other than to fill mine up with gas when the light turned on.
“Will the cars be part of my responsibilities?”
“Mr. Palmer tends to take care of his own automotive needs. In general, it is not something with which you need to concern yourself."
We went back inside and she explained that the house had a front and back staircase. We took the back staircase to the second floor and she quickly pointed out the areas I was prohibited from entering. Genevieve waved her hand down the hall to two closed doors. "Those are Mr. Palmer's private rooms. Do not enter them at all. Ever.”
“Got it.”
“There is a guest room and bath down the hall if he has a visitor, which does happen from time to time, and, well…follow me.” Before she opened the door she caught my eye and said, "If you can handle this room, you can handle this job.” She pushed open the door and I felt my jaw drop.
We entered a full-sized room that had been converted into a closet and dressing room. All four walls were filled with shelves, drawers, or rows of hanging racks. Full-length mirrors adorned a portion of one wall. Genevieve opened a panel and revealed a long row of suits. I ran my fingers down the fabric, noting it had been arranged by color or possibly season.
I glanced at Genevieve. "This is unbelievable."
There were lines of shoes and shirts and coats, each with its own special drawer or shelf. A ladder was mounted against one wall leading to a series of upper cabinets. It would take several lifetimes to accumulate this much clothing and accessories. I couldn't imagine the amount of time or money it would take to shop for a wardrobe like this. “How can he even wear all of these?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” she replied.
I inspected the items closely and noticed a trend. Several looked vintage. All were in good condition but clearly from another time or era. I pointed to a row of hats on an upper shelf and wondered aloud if he was a collector.
"Collector is a nice way to put it. You’ll find that he is something of a hoarder. I don't think he has ever thrown anything away that he has intentionally purchased.” She looked around the dressing room. “At least once per month a large package of new, seasonal clothing will arrive. It will be your responsibility to sort and arrange them.”
“Wow.”
“You think you can handle this?”
I took it all in, the clothes and shoes and neat lines of matching hangers. I thought about the books and music, the way Mr. Palmer seemed to truly love what he owned. He was passionate, I thought. There was nothing wrong with that. “Yeah, I think I can manage this. It’s like a library but with clothes.”
“Exactly.” She showed me a couple more areas of interest and then we walked back downstairs. We worked out a part-time schedule for the next week, allowing time for me to complete my final exams.
“When do you think I’ll get a chance to meet Mr. Palmer?” I asked, stashing my notebook back in my purse.
“I’m not sure. Please understand I am not exaggerating when I say he is fairly reclusive. But it’s not a bad thing, it’s just his nature,” she said. “Work is his element. He is very good at his job and he’s developed an extensive system to ensure communication with his employees that, at times, may come across as a little brash and impulsive.”
“I’m sure it will be fine.”
She escorted me to the door and I walked out to my car, feeling a little overwhelmed from all the information. I wasn’t completely sure what I had gotten myself into. From what I could gather, I had apparently agreed to work for the next year for a reclusive, obsessive-compulsive, vintage-clothes-wearing and special-diet-eating boss.
Chapter 2
&
nbsp; Grant
Daylight faded as I turned my car down the alley that led to the garage. After parking I entered the house and listened carefully. Nothing but sweet, glorious quiet. Genevieve must have already left for the day. That relieved a bit of the tension that had built in my shoulders and neck. After a long day of working in the Raleigh office, I coveted time alone.
I crossed through the kitchen and inhaled, pausing for a moment. What was that? An odd scent lingered in the air. Something lemony. Maybe Genevieve wore a different perfume? I inhaled, trying to narrow down the origin, but couldn’t put a finger on it.
“Stop obsessing,” I said aloud, mimicking Genevieve’s authoritative voice. The fake voice was right, because really, I had things to do, and analyzing perfume scents wasn’t one of them.
Walking past her desk, I picked up the report sheet she left me each day, updating me on messages and paperwork or any assignments not completed. The day was perfect, every task checked off and that was why I would miss her working here. She never let me down. Not once—other than the occasional book mix-up. Nothing related to work, for sure.
I did see the notation that Amelia Chase, the new PA, had come in. She’d passed her initial interview and was set to return next week under Genevieve’s instruction. Good. The less disruption, the better. Between the Foundation and my personal work, I had little time for any interruption in how my offices were managed. I made a mental note of her start date and headed upstairs.
In my dressing room I was struck by the same scent from before. Faint, but enough to taste on my tongue. I caught my reflection in the mirror. The pulsing dilation of my eyes told the true story. I was famished. Unfortunately, I had work to do first.
After changing and dropping my soiled clothes into the hamper, I entered my office. I inhaled. No lemons here. Just perfect, quiet, nothingness. I set the iPod, and spread the day’s newspapers across my desk, flipping through the pages, looking for the details on the murder I’d heard about in the news today. The police didn’t have much—only a body and some lame theories. Their favorite being the ridiculously misinformed ’animal attack’.