Chapter 2: Blood on Southern Soil

Savannah—a city as beautiful as a postcard. Spanish moss draped the oaks, pastel row houses lined every street, and a humid breeze swept in from the river, thick with the scent of magnolias. To Derek and his crew, Savannah felt like another planet—too bright, too alive, nothing like the frozen silence of Minnesota.

In a shabby motel room that smelled like mildew and old cigarettes—the kind of place you paid for by the hour—Aubrey, in too much eyeliner and a cocktail dress, shimmied out of her heels at the foot of the bed. The faded floral wallpaper peeled at the corners, and the bed creaked with every movement.

The skinny man on the bed could barely contain himself, ready to pounce. He licked his lips, trembling with anticipation, his shirt clinging to his bony shoulders, eyes wide with hunger.

Just as things were heating up, Aubrey handed him a glass of coconut water, tapping her nails against the rim—a practiced, almost affectionate gesture masking her nerves.

From a crack in the closet door, two pairs of sharp eyes stared at the man’s reaction. Derek and Marcus, crouched in the shadows, barely breathed. The musty air pressed down on them, the muffled sounds of the motel TV next door making their hearts hammer.

He downed the drink in one gulp, then lunged for Aubrey. As soon as he set the glass down, his hands were everywhere. Aubrey bit her lip, waiting for the right moment.

She leaned in, lips brushing his ear. "Relax, sugar. You look like you could use a drink," she whispered, a sly smile flashing across her lips.

The next second, the man’s body went limp and he collapsed onto the pillow. Aubrey slid out from under him, barely suppressing a sigh of relief.

Marcus and Derek crawled out of the closet—one burly, one tall and handsome. Marcus stretched his cramped limbs, while Derek moved like a cat, eyes sweeping the room for trouble.

They checked the hallway, then rifled through the man’s briefcase. Marcus pressed his ear to the door while Derek flipped open the case, careful not to leave prints. The motel clock ticked away, every second a countdown.

Inside: a driver’s license, bus tickets, and a brick of cash wrapped in newspaper. Marcus’s eyes went wide, and Derek let out a low whistle. They’d hit the jackpot.

"Hahaha, we’ve struck gold—at least five grand!" Marcus fanned the bills, mouth watering. Derek snatched the cash, stuffing it in his jacket with a triumphant laugh.

For a moment, they forgot the danger—dreams of steak dinners and new boots dancing in their heads. They’d learned to celebrate small victories, even if they never lasted long.

Derek’s eyes gleamed as he looked at the unconscious man. He pulled a folding knife from his pocket, tracing the tip along the man’s chest. The blade glinted in the lamplight, his grin growing darker.

"Just robbing is boring. I haven’t had meat in a long time."

Marcus’s mouth went dry. He looked away, pretending to study the peeling wallpaper. Aubrey’s pulse raced with panic—the walls seemed to close in.

As the blade hovered over the man’s heart, Aubrey pressed her lips to Derek’s ear, voice low and urgent. "Don’t be stupid. This isn’t home—one drop of blood and we’re toast."

Derek’s eyes flickered, and after a tense moment, he snapped the knife shut and stuffed it back in his pocket, muttering about bad omens.

Aubrey breathed a shaky sigh. At least no one died this time. She gave Marcus a tiny nod, her shoulders sagging. Even a moment’s reprieve felt like a victory.

After all, she hadn’t chosen this life. If she didn’t listen to Derek, she might be the next body in the cellar back in Minnesota.

Her mind flashed back to the frozen pit, the smell of rot, and Derek’s icy threats. She wondered if she’d ever feel truly safe again.

In the month since heading south, they’d robbed several men using Aubrey’s charms—always the same: a cheap hotel, a lonely man, a drink laced with something special. They moved fast, leaving town before anyone caught on.

Most of their victims felt too ashamed to report the crimes. Aubrey knew the type—men with wedding rings hidden in their pockets, company cash in their suitcases, desperate for something they’d never admit. She took no pleasure in their misery, but clung to survival.

But this skinny man, upon waking and discovering his company’s procurement funds gone, went straight to the police. He stormed out of the motel, vowing revenge—this time, shame wasn’t enough to keep him quiet.

At first, Savannah police were stumped. Surveillance cameras were rare, and there were no clues. Detectives canvassed bus stations and motels, but nothing turned up. The crew had been careful—until luck ran out.

They were caught at the Toledo train station. An off-duty cop clocked Marcus’s nervous sweat and Aubrey’s sky-high heels. Tourists, they were not.

That day, the trio had picked a new target. Just as they were about to act, station police stopped them. A security guard, bored on lunch break, radioed for backup. Within minutes, police had them surrounded.

A scantily clad woman with two shifty men—no good at a busy station. The sergeant took one look at Aubrey’s heels and Marcus’s twitchy hands. They didn’t fit. Word was out about tourist muggings.

Sure enough, the cop dumped their bags on the table—bundles of cash, five fake IDs, and a bottle of pills that rolled across the linoleum. The evidence was damning: cash with rubber bands, IDs, vials of powder, and a stack of tickets.

Toledo police guessed they’d committed crimes in Savannah, too, and rang up Savannah PD. The puzzle started to come together.

Further investigation suggested they might be involved in homicide—two of the IDs couldn’t be traced, and the owners were missing persons up north. Minnesota authorities were called in, files pulled from dusty cabinets. Everything pointed back to Maple Heights.

Savannah police set up a task force, suspecting they’d caught a big fish. Photos of Derek, Aubrey, and Marcus were pinned to a corkboard, alongside a growing list of victims.

No one yet realized these three had done far more than a few robberies and two murders. Their crimes were unspeakably heinous—enough to shake the nation.

The case exploded: a shocking serial spree had put Maple Heights on the map.

In the interrogation room, Derek sat with his legs crossed, lips curled in a sinister smile. He leaned back, smirking. "You boys got nothing on me. Just a couple of lost wallets, right?"

He looked calm and composed, not the least bit rattled. He toyed with the chain around his neck, daring the officers to try harder.

He played deaf and dumb, certain the police had no evidence. It was just another game.

With the investigation stalled, police tried their luck with the others. Maybe the woman would talk, or the fat guy would crack. Someone had to give.

Caleb Howard, fresh out of the academy and still wearing his badge on a lanyard, knocked before he entered Aubrey’s room. He had an earnest face and Midwestern manners that made even hardened suspects open up.

The first time he saw her, Caleb sensed she was different. He noticed her shaking hands, the way she stared at the table, eyes darting whenever the door opened. Something about her was raw, broken—a kind of fear he’d only seen a few times.

Though she tried to act calm, she was clearly nervous—her brow furrowed, sweat beading on her face, weighed down by a secret.

Caleb poured her a glass of water, watching as she wrapped trembling fingers around it. He asked about the weather in Minnesota, about her family, anything to chip away at her armor.

Her voice cracked. “I—I need some things. For, um, my period.” She stared at her hands, cheeks burning. Caleb nodded and ducked out, grabbing a pack of tampons and a candy bar from the corner store.

When he returned, Aubrey’s eyes filled with tears. She mumbled a thank you, clutching the bag. Sometimes, a single act of empathy could crack a wall built by years of pain.

She squeezed the water bottle so hard it crinkled. Caleb waited, not saying a word. Her lips parted, but no sound came.

Tears streaked her mascara, but her voice was steady. “I’ll tell you everything. Just—let me see my son, and don’t tie me up when it’s time.”

Caleb nodded, pulling his chair closer. This was his shot. He promised nothing would leave the room unless she wanted it to.

She began her story—a confession that would shock the country.

She remembered the way Derek’s eyes lingered a second too long, his smile never quite reaching his eyes. He’d found her at the Duluth bus station, offered a job at a candy factory, and lured her to Maple Heights.

At first, he seemed gentle, almost caring. Deep-set features, tall and thin, fair-skinned—he was attractive in every way. He promised her a fresh start, and Aubrey, a burned-out preschool teacher, wanted to believe.

But the "factory" was just a shabby rental house. Derek’s wife, Lillian, opened the door, eyes cold and appraising. Aubrey’s optimism faded fast. Lillian retreated, leaving Aubrey alone with the growing sense of dread.

Aubrey shivered. The house was sealed tight, the air heavy and stale. When she tried to open a window, she found it locked. Panic bubbled up.

Derek grabbed her from behind, covered her mouth, and pinned her down. His hands were iron. She screamed until her throat was raw, but nobody came to help.

The gentle Derek became a ferocious demon, assaulting her. When he was done, he bound her hands with wire, choked her neck, and whispered, "Once you set foot in this house, don’t dream of leaving alive. No woman has ever escaped me."

The hunger in his eyes went beyond sex or violence. He wanted power—absolute and total. She believed every word.

But this time, Derek failed. Aubrey’s will to live was stronger. She fought back, clawing at his face, kicking with everything she had. Darkness finally took her, but she swore she’d find a way out.

Her last thought before passing out was of her son—a memory that kept her alive, even in the pit.

She woke choking on a foul stench, her body battered. Everything was pitch black. A sliver of light revealed a decomposed face inches away. Aubrey screamed, struggling in panic, her hands slipping on something wet and soft—skin, maybe, or what was left of it. The stench was so thick she tasted it.

Everywhere she reached, her fingers sank into unspeakable muck. She realized she was in a pit—layers of bodies oozing putrid fluids, packed tight.

She vomited, then forced herself to act. She shouted, but no one answered. Trembling, she stacked the corpses beneath her, raising herself inch by inch toward the light. As Aubrey clawed her way up the pile of corpses, one thought burned in her mind: If she survived, she’d make them all pay.