The car started up. They had driven only a few hundred meters when Karen heard a faint rustle from the back seat. Immediately afterward, an arm hooked around his neck, followed closely by warm, liquor-scented breath brushing his ear.
"Madam, I'm driving."
In the next second, Karen felt his earlobe drawn into a slick, warm embrace. It was quite a thrilling sensation.
"Madam, I am driving," Karen felt compelled to remind her again, easing off the accelerator at the same time.
"I'm so stupid~" Mrs. Hughes whispered softly against his ear.
"Madam, how are you stupid?"
"I'm an ugly, unfortunate, and very stupid woman."
"Madam, please don't speak of yourself that way."
"Didn't you say I was stupid?" Mrs. Hughes asked. "On the phone."
"When did I ever..."
Karen felt a sudden jolt in his chest.
"And this afternoon in the living room, weren't you discussing me with that police officer? From your expression and tone, I could see nothing but utter contempt for me."
"Mrs. Hughes, please don't joke like this," Karen said, quietly checking the rearview mirror to assess what was happening behind him.
"You showed contempt for my artistic abilities. No, you showed contempt for my entire being. Karen, I'm truly so heartbroken... so heartbroken that you see me this way.
"Do you know, from the very first moment I laid eyes on you, I wanted you in my bed. I was going to give you true pleasure and turn you into a... real man."
Karen's left hand slowly slid down the steering wheel, his right foot poising over the accelerator.
A sudden stop should make her lose her balance from behind, giving him the chance to bail out of the car.
Except... damn it!
Why did he have to possess such good habits? The police in Rojia City never checked whether drivers wore seatbelts, nor would they deduct points for it, so why on earth had he habitually strapped himself in!
"Sob, sob, sob..."
Mrs. Hughes began to weep.
"Karen, you truly broke my heart. You still aren't wearing the watch I gave you."
"Believe me, Mrs. Hughes, starting tomorrow, that watch will stay by my side forever, through thick and thin."
"A man's words can never be trusted." Mrs. Hughes's other hand rose slowly from behind him. "Still, I have another way to make your words come true."
Watching through the rearview mirror, Karen tracked the movement.
Floor the gas, slam on the brakes, unbuckle the seatbelt with his right hand, pop the door with his left, use the momentum to tear free of her grip, and throw himself out—even rolling onto the road if necessary.
She was probably holding a knife. At worst, she would slice a few cuts into him. A minor injury, a bit of blood—nothing he couldn't handle.
Karen worked through the plan in rapid-fire succession;
Right until he saw what Mrs. Hughes held aloft in her other hand.
It was...
A revolver.
*Fuck.*
*It's a gun!*
The next instant, the cold muzzle pressed firmly against his temple.
Karen knew that no matter how fast his reflexes were, they would never outrun a bullet.
He had no choice but to abandon his earlier schemes. A few slashes from a knife probably wouldn't kill him, but a bullet...
"Madam, I believe that for an artist, you should use a blade. A gun lacks soul."
"I don't have much strength, so I can't manage a knife. Only with a gun would Cole and Old Darcy behave themselves before me."
"I'm not like them. I saw Cole—he had a large build. Old Darcy was up in years, but working as a crematory operator kept him in great shape.
"I'm different.
"I believe that if you used a knife, Madam...
"No, even if we fought bare-handed right now, I probably wouldn't be a match for you."
"Hehehe, you're quite funny. See, you still take me for a fool."
"No, Madam, the fool isn't you. It's me."
This was Karen's honest thought right now.
Not long ago, he had delivered a criminal psychological profile right in front of the police inspector, scoffing at how stupid the killer was;
And now, here he was, driving the killer down the street.
Yet sometimes, when someone was genuinely stupid enough to confound all your predictions, it looped around to an entirely different extreme.
At that very moment,
Inspector Duke, having just received the latest report at the station, was equally stunned.
One was her lover, and the other was her longtime employee.
The former was a kept man she supported, and the latter had died inside her crematorium.
One could say that laying the dossiers of the two victims side by side pointed straight at her with glaring obviousness.
It was precisely because Cole was from out of town that investigating his identity and local network had eaten up precious time, granting Mrs. Hughes the window to roam about freely.
Calling this killer stupid was an understatement; she was borderline brainless, a madwoman who didn't even know how to cover her tracks.
"Madam, may I discuss something with you? I'll drive you home right now, you get a good night's sleep, and we'll pretend none of this ever happened. Tomorrow's weather will be lovely, full of bright sunshine and crisp air.
"Please rest assured, I am very good at keeping secrets."
"You'd better not speak carelessly right now, Karen. Because every single word leaving your mouth sounds to my ears like a constant repetition of:
"*I am stupid, I am stupid, I am stupid!*"
"Understood."
"I need a place right now, somewhere quiet and undisturbed. I want to spend a wonderful night with you."
"It would be my honor, Madam. Where would you like to go?"
"I can hardly wait. I'm impatient, especially after drinking so much tonight. I feel so excited."
"As do I, Madam."
"Turn up ahead and go to No. 128. Didn't they just move out? It's nice and quiet."
*No. 128?*
Karen felt a sudden pang of... conflict.
That was an area he always went out of his way to tell cab drivers to bypass.
Yet hearing Mrs. Hughes choose that house, he let out a quiet sigh of relief in his heart.
He had a psychological shadow over that residence, true,
But the trouble was,
His current situation couldn't possibly get any worse.
Seeing a ghost was terrifying,
Yet when staring down death itself,
Ghosts
Weren't so hard to accept.
First, because nothing was more terrifying than death, and second, because once dead, you became one of them anyway.
Karen slowly depressed the gas pedal. The car turned smoothly at a steady pace and proceeded down the street before coming to a stop outside No. 128.
Mrs. Hughes opened her door first and stepped out, keeping the barrel aimed squarely at Karen.
"You get out too."
"Of course, Madam."
Karen exited the car.
"Open the trunk."
Karen walked around to the back and popped the trunk, which held a mountaineering backpack.
"Pick it up."
Karen hoisted the backpack. It was somewhat heavy, and judging by the hard shapes pressing through the fabric earlier, it held numerous tools.
"Inside here... are these your paintbrushes, Madam?" Karen asked.
"Yes. The brushes you once called mediocre."
"Had I known that artist was you, Madam, I would have bowed at your feet long ago."
"Head inside."
"Right away, Madam."
Pushing open the courtyard gate, Karen carried the pack inside, with Mrs. Hughes following close behind.
Karen wondered if swinging the heavy pack backward right now could knock her to the ground.
He immediately abandoned the thought, doubting whether his strength was enough to swing it with sufficient force.
More importantly, Karen noticed that the hand Mrs. Hughes used to hold the revolver was exceptionally steady.
"Do you know when Mary and I first met?" Mrs. Hughes asked.
By normal logic, one ran a funeral parlor and the other ran a crematorium, so they naturally met through business.
Yet Aunt Mary had become a mortuary cosmetologist only fairly recently, and the Hughes Crematorium had originally been managed by Mr. Hughes until his passing, after which Mrs. Hughes took over.
"The first time I met Mary was one afternoon. I had just won a shooting championship, and before I went on stage to accept the trophy, Mary came to do my makeup."
"Madam, you can rest easy. I am very timid, and I will follow your instructions to the letter."
"Good. Now open the door."
"I don't have a key."
Karen reached out and gripped the doorknob.
*Click.*
The door swung open.
It wasn't even locked!
What Karen did not know was that just days ago, a young man named Jeff had stood in this exact spot and muttered a similar remark.
"All the valuables have already been moved out, so why lock it?" Mrs. Hughes chuckled. "Even if it were locked, I have tools in my bag to pick it.
"Now, go on in."
Carrying the bag, Karen stepped into the house.
"Keep going."
"Alright."
*Snap!*
Mrs. Hughes flipped the light switch.
"Madam, turning on the lights might draw the neighbors' attention," Karen warned helpfully.
"This is a cold, indifferent society. I hardly think any neighbor will notice whether a recently vacated house has its lights on, let alone be bored enough to call the police over it.
"And even if they did, by the time those officers arrive, whatever was meant to happen will already be over."
"I couldn't agree more with your assessment of the police, Madam. Their response time is slower than our family's hearse."
"Go upstairs."
"Understood, Madam."
"The master bedroom."
"Right away, Madam."
"Now put down the bag, and lie down on the bed."
Karen walked over to the bedside and sat down.
Keeping the gun in one hand, Mrs. Hughes crouched down slowly and unzipped the pack, rummaging through the tools inside.
"Madam, if Aunt Mary hadn't insisted on dragging me along for barbecue tonight, your target would have been..."
"Yes, my subject for tonight was originally meant to be Mary. She is my dearest friend, and I know her intimately. Weaving her into my work would allow me an immense degree of immersion.
"Just like Cole, who knew all my sensitive spots, and Old Darcy, who served me for so long.
"You must understand, what matters most in art is resonance."
"Yes, Madam, I wholeheartedly agree."
A mocking smile touched the corner of Mrs. Hughes's lips.
"Shouldn't skill matter as well?"
"Believe me, Madam, that was merely the sacrilege of an artistic layman toward a sacred craft. I have already repented for it countless times in my heart."
Mrs. Hughes drew a cleaver from the bag. It closely resembled the kind butcher stalls used, looking very suited for chopping through ribs.
"You may lie down now. Or, you can choose to resist. Because this is your final chance.
"Mink Street isn't like those vagrant quarters; the public order here has always been excellent. A gunshot will certainly alert many people. But rest assured, I can guarantee that by the time the shot rings out, your body will already have several holes in it."
"That is a difficult choice indeed," Karen remarked with a sigh.
"It is."
"Madam, your first piece was a religious painting of the Berry religion, and your second was one of the Church of the Abyss. I'm quite curious about what your third piece will be... No, don't answer yet. Let me guess...
"Could it be... the Church of Order?"
Mrs. Hughes looked surprised.
"Did I guess right?" Karen feigned pleasant surprise.
"Yes, you guessed right."
"Let me guess further... The piece you wish to pay homage to is the painting of the God of Order punishing his daughter, Ankara—*Light of Order*—isn't it?"
"Karen, I must admit, you truly understand me."
"Yes, Madam. I feel our aesthetics share so many similarities, and there is so much we could confide in one another about, so..."
"That is precisely why I chose you, Karen!"
Karen was rendered speechless.
"In truth, you were never Mary's substitute. You were always the primary choice for this piece. If you had returned any later this afternoon, I would have had to settle for Mary."
"Madam, I believe careful planning is necessary before creating art. Ankara's body was torn apart."
"Yes, so I've already prepared. I will chop you into fine pieces—after you're dead, of course, so you won't feel any pain."
"But how do you plan to portray the imagery of being swallowed into the maw of a savage beast? I wouldn't want you to repeat the regret from Old Darcy's piece. You know you weren't truly able to complete that one."
"This time, I have an excellent method."
Just then,
Karen noticed a dark patch appear on Mrs. Hughes's face. The black blemish slowly spread until it covered one of her eyes.
And when she spoke her next words,
Her voice took on the rough, heavy timbre of a man:
"My artistic presentation this time will be, after mincing you into fine pieces, to consume you... bit by bit."
Karen knew that timbre well;
*"You're interrupting my artistic creation."*
It was the voice from the phone call!
What was happening to Mrs. Hughes?
She couldn't possibly be a cross-dresser like Piaget; she was definitely a woman. Karen was certain of that, because while lying across the back seat on the drive earlier, she had hitched her skirt all the way up, revealing flimsy, narrow lace beneath.
Though Karen hadn't stared intentionally,
Those brief glances had left no room for doubt.
Mrs. Hughes was indisputably not a man!
Yet as she stepped toward him now, she looked... like something had possessed her, radiating an aura of obsessive madness.
Karen's gaze swept the room, desperately hoping to catch sight of a red high-heeled shoe, but saw nothing.
That crimson shade he had previously avoided at all costs was something he now passionately yearned to see—to the point where he wouldn't hesitate to kneel and kiss its leather.
"Karen, I acknowledge your intelligence, and I acknowledge that your artistic taste surpasses mine. Therefore, I intend to use this method to complete my work. And once I consume you, you will merge with me, and I shall inherit everything you are."
"I have one final request—an artistic request. I hope you will grant it."
"Speak."
Karen pointed toward an old peanut-tube radio on the desk.
"Madam, don't you think chopping me to pieces accompanied by the soft night music of the radio would make for a truly picturesque scene?"
Mrs. Hughes hesitated, genuinely pondering the suggestion. Then:
"I think you're right."
With that,
She reached out and clicked the radio switch.
Right at that moment,
A brief hiss of static crackled from the speaker,
Followed closely
By a magnetic male voice drifting through the room:
*"Good evening, dear listeners. Welcome to Rojia Story Hour..."*
Chapter 20