Payback Princess (Lost Daughter of a Serial Killer Book 2)

by C. M. Stunich

  She doesn’t seem to be in a rush, finishing her drink and then pouring another glass from a fifth of scotch that I’m more used to seeing Paul drink.

  After a few minutes, I decide that I can’t take it anymore and break the silence myself.

  “So about today …” I start but Tess lifts up a hand to stop me before I can even start. Her eyes are a bit glazed as she looks past me toward Lake Washington. Her mind is clearly elsewhere, wishing for Parrish’s safe return but imagining the worst.

  I bet even her crime thriller writing mind couldn’t dream this one up. I take a sip of my tea in a futile attempt to soothe my nerves.

  “I saw your video, Dakota,” she tells me, once again nailing my name. Why she waited until after all of this crap to get it right, I have no idea. It only makes things worse to be honest. “And I appreciate the effort, but you won’t find Parrish by making silly internet videos.”

  And here we go, back to the same old, same old. My mouth twitches, but I can’t exactly protest, not after destroying her typewriter and bailing on the press conference.

  Her next response surprises the shit out of me.

  “I also just wanted to add that we’re not going to talk about the typewriter or the car.” I raise an eyebrow, my cheeks and chest flushing red with shame. “You’re hurting; I’m hurting. Emotions are running high, and I know you miss your brother.”

  My … brother.

  The word only increases that sense of shame in me. I wish I could tell Tess the truth, but I can’t do that without Parrish by my side. He has to be here for this; it affects us both but him more so. What if he’s changed his mind since? What if … what if he doesn’t make it and I destroy Tess’ last memories of her son? My stomach roils, and I down the rest of my tea in one go.

  “I appreciate that,” I whisper back, ignoring the distant chatter of the reporters outside the front gate. Vultures, the lot of them, picking at the carrion of others’ feelings.

  “Is it okay if I tell you a little story?” Tess asks, finishing her drink and pouring a third glass. That’s … a lot of alcohol, but I can’t exactly blame her. I’d love a drink myself.

  I nod, even though I’m a little confused. I still have no clue where she’s going with this.

  “Did I ever tell you that my grandmother—your great-grandmother—wanted to be a writer?” Tess leans back in her seat, her espresso-colored hair catching the cool breeze as it comes off the water.

  “To be honest, Tess,” I start, and she cringes slightly, in much the same way that I do when she calls me Mia. Would it be hard for me to just try to call her mom? The thing is, mom is an honorific, a position that’s earned, and not just a name. I’m not sure that I’m ready for that. Part of me still feels a sense of loyalty for Saffron. “You haven’t told me many stories at all.” I swallow hard and set the mug on the small bistro table, rushing to correct myself before she gets the wrong idea. “But I’d like it if you did.”

  She sighs but more like she’s tired and less like she’s annoyed.

  “You’re right,” she says, but more to herself and less to me, like she’s making a mental note. Tess splashes more booze into her glass and chugs it, slamming the glass down on the table as I wait patiently for her to continue.

  God, authors are so. fucking. weird.

  “Well, my grandma wanted to be a writer so damn bad that she worked her ass off as a waitress to buy a typewriter from a secondhand shop. There was no chance in hell that she could save up for a computer at the time, so she did the best she could.” Tess taps her fingernails against the surface of the table in thought. When she finally looks at me, I’m struck by the earnestness in her expression. Where has this woman been all along when I needed her? I almost like the person I’m talking to now. “A 1960 Royal Royalite with a brown leather case. And oh, it was beautiful, so damn beautiful. She used to let me play with it when I was a kid, you know that?” Tess laughs and shakes her head slightly, lifting her drink to her lips. “Of course you don’t because I never told you.”

  We both pause at the sound of the balcony doors opening. Kimber appears, hair disheveled and face red from crying. Without a word, she pads out onto the balcony and takes the chair on the opposite side of the table.

  Tess watches her for a moment and then turns back to me to continue her story. Neither of us has to ask why Kimber is crying. We all know.

  Parrish.

  My stolen crush.

  I rub at my face to push back a surge of emotion.

  “Anyway, my grandma wanted to write murder mysteries—just like Agatha Christie. It was a hell of a lot harder back then for a woman to write anything but romance, so she tried her hand at that, too. No luck. She had over a hundred rejection letters from publishers.” Tess holds up a hand, running it across the sky like she’s seeing something in her mind’s eye. “Every time she got a new one, I’d help her pin it to the wall until it was papered in them.”

  “You’ve never told me this,” Kimber hiccups, looking like a wet kitten, all scrunched up and shivering. If Maxine were missing … ugh, I can’t even imagine. I don’t want to. Kimber’s going through hell right now. Just keep going, I think at her, gathering my strength together.

  Today sucked ass. Tomorrow has to be better. It just has to be. I want to believe that: I need to believe that.

  “I haven’t told anyone but Parrish this story,” Tess admits, tracing a finger around the rim of her glass. “I’ll admit, I’ve always favored him.”

  “Mom!” Kimber chokes out, but she doesn’t seem overly upset by the admission. She tucks some ratty hair behind her ear and stares at her lap. “It never bothered me; he’s the oldest. It makes sense.”

  Kimber pauses and then both of them are looking at me like they’re not sure where I fit into this puzzle.

  Frankly, I’m not sure either, but that’s okay. Or … it would be if someone we all love wasn’t missing.

  “I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” Tess admits, taking yet another drink. Before too long, she’s going to be too drunk to talk. Already, her words are slightly slurred. “But I’m willing to listen and learn. I’m …” She pauses briefly to catch her breath, blinking back tears. “After Parrish comes back, things will be different. I’m canceling my next book and taking some time off.”

  My eyes go wide as Kim’s jaw drops open in shock.

  “Returned Under the Guise of Night?” I breathe, thinking of that awful, horrible page that I found on her desk. “You’re canceling it?”

  Tess lets out a bitter laugh, her gaze back on the lake again. It doesn’t seem like the sound was directed at me though.

  “My agent says the publisher’s going to sue me. You know what I say? Have at it. Once Parrish comes home, I’m turning my focus back to my fictional series.” Tess looks back at me, causing all of these strange, conflicting emotions to bubble up inside. “The typewriter that my grandma wrote on, she gave it to me.”

  My heart drops, shattering to bloody pieces inside my belly. I feel sick. I feel so fucking sick.

  “And I destroyed it,” I breathe, but Tess is already shaking her head.

  “No, you didn’t,” she corrects, her lips thinning as she purses them in anger. “He did.” She stares at me as I shift in my seat, wishing I could run away from whatever it is she’s going to say next. I have a feeling that I’m not going to like it. “Your father, Justin Prior, he’s the one that destroyed it. The typewriter that you broke was a replica that I purchased after I sold the rights to Abducted Under a Noonday Sun.” She sighs as the world tilts strangely all around me.

  That’s it.

  That’s really it.

  For the last eight days, I’ve been telling myself that there was a chance Parrish’s kidnapper was just some rando, like a crazed fan or something.

  But this information changes everything.

  I can’t deny it anymore.

  Justin Prior, sperm donor extraordinaire, is the man behind the mask. Or … behind Mr. Volli w
earing a mask? I have no idea.

  I chew my lower lip, but the move makes me think of Maxx, so I force myself to stop.

  If Parrish knows this story, then maybe he told the kidnapper? Maybe … maybe … But no. This whole setup is too personal; it reeks of personal payback, doesn’t it?

  “Anyway, I just thought you might want to know why working on the typewriter was important to me.”

  “Was?” Kimber queries, and it occurs to me then that Tess hasn’t told any of her other kids what I did.

  Tess turns to her daughter and forces a tight smile.

  “Why don’t you go inside for a minute, honey? Dakota and I have something to talk about.”

  Kimber gives me a strange look, but she doesn’t argue. There isn’t enough fight left in her to push back anymore.

  She pushes away from the table and heads inside, risking one last glance back at us before pulling the doors closed.

  Tess pours yet another drink.

  “The FBI is getting involved in Parrish’s case,” Tess tells me, and my pretend kitty ears perk up at the news. This is more proof that The Seattle Slayer and Parrish’s kidnapper really are one in the same. And, like, the FBI is good at what they do. They can crack this case a million times better than I can.

  Only … I feel like Justin isn’t going to give up quite so easily.

  “They’ve been so thorough, collecting evidence …” She trails off and swigs her drink. I expect her eyes to be even more glazed over when she looks at me again only … they’re not. There’s a sharpness to her that frightens me. “They went through the trash,” Tess continues, and … one, two, three seconds later, it clicks.

  The trash.

  The condom I used with Parrish.

  I blanch.

  “They found a condom in the garbage can in the garage. It was mixed in with trash from Parrish’s bedroom.” No, no, no, please make this stop. Please gods make this stop. She can’t find out this way; this isn’t what Parrish wanted. “But you know what I remember?” Tess continues, still staring right at me. “I remember Chasm bringing that garbage downstairs and disposing of it.”

  It takes me almost a full minute to make the connection.

  Oh.

  Oooooh.

  Shit.

  “So I need to know, Dakota: is that Parrish’s condom or is it yours?” It never occurs to Tess that it could be ours. Fuck. Guilt and relief sweep over me in equal measures, making me feel queasy.

  If I say that the condom belongs to Parrish, then the authorities might have it tested for evidence. Then they’ll know. The whole world will know. Tess will know.

  “It’s mine,” I breathe out, looking down at my lap and remembering with a start that I’m dressed head to toe in Chasm’s clothes. For a second time. Yep, I can see how this might look.

  There’s a long pause there as Tess mulls this information over. Either she’s been broken by her son’s disappearance or she’s drunk or … she really does want to change. Her response is calm and measured which I appreciate, and not entirely unexpected.

  “You understand that Kwang-seon won’t be able to come over for a while?”

  I nod.

  Silence reigns between us, like a princess on a throne. It’s so awkward; I can’t even look at her. All I can do is stare at my lap and be glad the sweatshirt covers the hot flush on my chest.

  “Do you …” Tess starts, stumbling over the words a bit. I look up and realize that she’s struggling not because of the alcohol, but because she’s embarrassed. “Do you have any questions about … anything? Boy bodies can be weird. Penises especially—”

  I cut her off before this gets any more disturbing.

  “No, no, I’m … I’m good. I … thanks but my grandmother gave me the talk in junior high. She’s a doctor so …” I trail off as Tess nods again, lifting her drink up in the direction of the balcony doors.

  “You can go,” she tells me, her voice dropping into this distant, dreamy thing. I imagine that being an artist is a double-edged sword, too, just like love. You can dream up pretty, wistful things. Hell, you can create an entire world to your liking. At the same time, the nightmares must be so vivid, visions of Parrish bleeding and broken.

  I stand up and flee the balcony before things get any heavier.

  It hurts too much to look at Parrish’s door or to think about Maxx being behind it, so I rush into my room, slam the door closed, and put my back against it.

  Without any apparent input from me, my body slides to the floor and I end up sitting hunched over for a while. Eventually, I gather the energy to reach over and open the nightstand drawer, pulling out the drawing that Parrish gave me.

  The motion causes the nightstand to shake slightly, knocking several yellow petals loose from the sunflowers.

  They’re dying. After eight days, they’re fucking dying.

  I squeeze the drawing in my hands so hard that the page wrinkles.

  “I’ll win this thing, Dad,” I growl out, fully aware that he’s listening in on me. I might only have theories at this point, but there’s no doubt about that. “Do your worst.”

  Maxx is waiting for me when I come downstairs the next morning. He hands over a cup of coffee without a word, and even though I don’t usually do coffee in the morning, I take it with a grateful smile. I notice he isn’t drinking any and then remember my sister told me hates coffee. So … he made this just for me?

  “I’m taking you both to class today,” he explains, glancing over at Kimber’s slumped form. She isn’t wearing a lick of makeup and her uniform is disheveled, the pieces a bit mismatched. The school gives us all these options—blazers, knitted vests, shorts and skirts, slacks—but there are only certain combinations we’re allowed to wear. Kimber is definitely a walking violation today with her shorts and vest and unzipped sweater, but I doubt any of the administrators will bother her.

  “Are you staying here for a while?” I query politely, adding some … caramel chocolate marshmallow creamer? … to my coffee and missing the fresh milk from back home. Our neighbor had cows, so we always had the good stuff in the glass bottles with the cream on top.

  Maxx gives me a wry look, his mouth quirking up sharply at one corner.

  “You’d like to me to leave, I’ll bet,” he whispers, turning on the sink to help drown out his voice as he pretends to handwash a mug. “Or maybe the kidnapper would like that?”

  I stir my coffee with quick, angry motions. This idiot thinks he’s helping but in reality, he’s trying to get us all killed!

  “You’re right: the kidnapper told me he’d kill Parrish if anyone flapped their big mouth. So maybe can the bullshit, X.” He looks askance at me, but my face is stoic and stern. He can’t discern if I’m serious or not which is sort of the point.

  Like I said: this is all one, long, complicated game. Each move matters. There are no restarts or continues, no extra credits or lives to bargain with.

  I finish my coffee quickly and off we go, fighting our way back through the reporters and heading toward Whitehall in near complete silence.

  “I’ll be picking you guys up after school, too,” X adds after a while, shifting in his seat like he’s a bit uncomfortable. I glance his way as we pull up to a stop sign and find him watching me curiously, trying his best to put the puzzle pieces together. He’s wearing a loose tank today that shows off the impressive muscles in his arms and chest. Apparently, wrestling a two-hundred-pound bike takes upper body strength. “You said you wanted to join the search party tonight?”

  The question surprises me for a minute before I remember him telling me that he could arrange a meeting with my sister today.

  “I’m in,” I agree, feeling this huge surge of relief at the thought of seeing Maxine. At the same time, I’m wondering if the move puts her at risk of Justin’s wrath. This man knows everything Dakota. He didn’t start a game that he wasn’t damn near certain he could win. Maxine’s in danger whether you see her in person or not.

  When
we pull into the white gravel loop out front of Whitehall Preparatory Academy—I’ve since learned that this spot is generally reserved for the students in the lowest social standing—I see Chasm waiting with his back pressed against the towering stone walls.

  He’s smoking a cigarette, but he puts it out as soon as he sees me, tossing the butt into a nearby can.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I blurt, scrambling out of the Jeep so quickly that I almost stumble. Chas catches me, holding my elbows as I regain my footing. He glances over my shoulder as Kimber joins us, giving Chas’ hands on my arms an irritated look as she passes by.

  “About last night …” Maxx starts as I look back to see him watching us. “I’m sorry, Chas. I’m just worried about Parrish.”

  Chasm sighs and releases me, ruffling up his black and yellow hair.

  “Me, too, man. Me fucking, too.” He sounds tired, the expression on his face tight and wary. No surprise considering the day we had yesterday, but I feel like there’s something else.

  His dad. That’s gotta be it. I messaged Chasm on Facebook to let him know where to find his phone, but he never replied.

  “You forgive me then?” X asks, trying to play up the question with a cocky smile. He can’t quite hide the hint of need in his voice though, this little thread that tells me he truly cares what Chasm thinks about him.

  “I always do, don’t I?” Chas retorts dryly. X smiles, giving the two of us one, last studying look before he rolls the passenger window back up and takes off. “We might have to tell him,” Chasm adds, surprising me.

  “Tell him?” I query back, giving Chas a skeptical look that he returns with a raised brow of his own. “I thought the whole point was to ensure that he never found out.”

  “I’m worried he’s going to dig a hole he can’t get himself out of,” Chas muses, leading us toward the front doors of the school. I reach out to touch his arm and he shrinks back from me.

  That’s not a good sign.

  I stop walking, alarm bells going off in my head.

  “He hit you, didn’t he?” I ask, and Chasm balks at me.

  “What … how would you even make a jump like that? Maybe I just don’t like the idea of my best friend’s girlfriend putting her hands all over me. Did you ever think of it like that?” He turns away from me, but I’m not done.