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Chapter 11 - Certain Things Are Better Left Unsaid

I peer discreetly across the coffee table into the adjacent room, where an unusually narrow staircase forms an extreme angle leading up to a hatch-like ceiling trapdoor that appears to be padlocked shut. Although it’s common knowledge that they almost always work alone, there are I believe at least a few documented cases of serial killers pairing up—that father and son team with the Hispanic last name, for example. And all at once it seems perfectly logical that Catfish and Georgia are in cahoots, with Catfish luring the prey over to Georgia’s with the promise of too-good-to-be-true apartments and Georgia taking it from there, engineering a series of slick abductions now extending to yours truly, who will soon find himself chained up in the attic among a host of former victims in odd poses and various stages of decomp, including whatever’s left of the once resourceful April, barely able to breathe between the discolored dish towel duct-taped into my mouth and the dangling grove of pine-tree shaped automobile deodorizers, staring through swollen eyelids at the row of common household implements aligned atop one of those fold-up picnic tables available at Wal-Marts nationwide as one “family member” after another slips in and out to ogle and prod while waiting for the real fun to begin.

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