Chapter 2

I took a deep breath, pulled out my cracked-screen burner phone from my pocket, and dialed 911.

"Hello, I need to report something! I'm at the city zoo's tiger pavilion. There's someone here who might be the serial disappearance suspect."

After two seconds of silence, the operator's voice came through with professional calm: "Please describe the situation in detail."

"Male, about five-foot-nine, wearing a gray baseball cap, black windbreaker, dark blue jeans, white sneakers. He has a knife in his pocket."

"How did you discover this?"

I glanced at Charlie, who was licking his paws behind the glass, and forced out the words: "I saw the outline in his pocket."

It was a lie, but I couldn't exactly say a tiger told me.

"Understood, ma'am. Please don't alert him. We'll dispatch someone immediately! Keep your phone on."

After hanging up, I leaned against the iron door of the feed room, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it would jump out of my throat.

My name is Samuelle. I'm twenty-four years old, an utterly ordinary temporary zoo worker.

A month ago, I came down with a high fever—104.4 degrees. I lay in bed for three days. After the fever broke, this happened—I could hear what animals were thinking.

I'd thought the biggest use for this ability would be helping tourists find their lost pet dogs for spare change.

Never imagined my first real case would be reporting a murderer.

I returned the metal bucket to the feed room and walked to the employee passage of the tiger pavilion, acting casual while secretly observing the man through the one-way glass.

He was still there. Phone raised, he took two photos of Charlie, then slowly walked toward the exit.

Charlie's voice came again: ["He's leaving. Always like this. Watches for a bit then leaves. Does he like watching me eat? No. He likes watching blood."]

I clenched my phone, staring at that retreating figure with only one thought in my mind.

Don't go. Don't leave. The police will be here any second. But his footsteps didn't stop.

I bit my lip, rushed out from the employee passage, circled around to the visitor path, and followed him at a distance.

He walked unhurriedly, even stopping briefly at the monkey mountain to watch for a few moments.

The macaques in the monkey enclosure went wild, screeching as they fled behind the artificial mountain.

An old monkey's voice entered my mind: ["Danger. This human reeks of death. Stay away. Everyone stay away."]

My stomach clenched violently. Even the monkeys feared him.

Just then, sirens wailed at the zoo entrance.

Two police cars stopped at the entrance, and four uniformed officers strode in quickly.

The man in the baseball cap paused for just a moment.

Only a moment. Then he removed his cap, ruffled his hair, stuffed the cap in his pocket, changed direction, and headed for the side gate.

I panicked and broke into a run.

"That man!" I shouted toward the police. "Black windbreaker! He's going to the side gate!"

The officers reacted quickly. Two immediately ran toward the side gate.

But the man was faster. As if he'd already scouted the route, he twisted through a couple turns and disappeared behind the park's landscaping.

By the time the police reached the side gate, they found only an empty pathway.

He was gone.

I stood there, feeling as if all the strength had been drained from my body.

An older officer walked over and looked me up and down. "You made the report?"

"Yes."

"You said that man is a suspect in the serial case. What's your evidence?"

I opened my mouth, realizing I had no way to explain.

I couldn't say a tiger told me he reeked of dead people's blood.

"I saw a knife in his pocket." I repeated what I'd said on the phone.

The officer frowned. "Having a knife in your pocket doesn't prove anything. Plenty of people carry folding knives. Do you have any other observations?"

"He always stares at the tiger eating meat whenever he comes." I pushed forward with my improvisation. "And the times he's come match up with when the disappearances happened. I've worked here over a month. He's come at least four times."

The officer's expression softened slightly. He pulled out a notepad and jotted down a few notes. "Can you describe his appearance?"

"His cap was pulled down low. I only saw the lower half of his face. Sharp chin, pale skin, thin lips. There's a scar on his left wrist—very thin, looks like an old wound."

These were details I'd desperately memorized while following him.

The officer finished writing and handed me a business card. "If he appears again, contact us immediately. Don't follow him yourself. It's dangerous."

I took the card and nodded.

After the police cars drove away, I stood alone in the empty park, my legs still shaking.

Charlie's voice drifted over from the distance, lazy: ["He got away? Shame. I wanted to smell him more. That scent was special—like he buries his prey somewhere very deep underground. Earthy smell, rotting smell, and disinfectant."]

Underground. Earth. Disinfectant.

I burned those three words into my memory.