“Oh. My. God!” Goldie said as her gaze dropped to the twinkling jewelry on Queen Bee’s left hand. She grabbed Queen Bee’s hand and took a closer look. “How the hell many carats is that thing? Five?!”
Queen Bee scrunched up her nose and sniffed delicately. “Six, actually.”
“And it’s canary yellow. It’s gorgeous. I’ve never seen anything like it, except for JLo’s old ring maybe.”
“Now, that thing was gorgeous.”
“It sure was. But this might just be prettier, I think. Oh, honey, I’m so damn jealous of you.” She giggled when she said it but she could feel the green-eyed monster growing stronger by the minute.
“Isn’t it fantastic? Terry found it at this super exclusive little jewelry store here in Louisville. He knows the owners somehow. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I tell you, it’s only been, like, a week, but…when it’s right, it’s right. That man and me…mm-mmm. Honey, we’ve only come up for air tonight because I need to earn my keep around here. I’m not even sure when he’s had the time to go ring shopping. I’ve been keeping him busy, know what I mean?” She leaned in to whisper conspiratorially, “He told me this morning that it’s a shame I insist on keeping this job because that means I have to get dressed to go out. Terry said that if he had his way, he’d throw away all my clothes and just keep me naked and ready for him. Can you believe that?”
Goldie forced a laugh. Even though she felt bad about it, Goldie envied her friend. Couple that with her overwhelming survivor’s guilt, and it was almost too much for her.
She was doing things she shouldn’t, things she had to hide. She was right back where she’d started: weighed down with secrets that would cost her everything if anyone found out. She had done something she wished like hell she could undo, but it was too late now. She had crossed the point of no return.
Chapter Thirty Six
Thomas pulled the baseball cap down over his eyes. He was following far enough behind the man to go unnoticed, but close enough to make detection a tantalizing possibility.
The need to kill never really went away. It was beyond his control. Like an addiction, the craving was ever-present. With time, the malevolent urge would fester deep within him until it was a raging inferno that threatened to overtake him completely. The longer he left his darkest urges untended, the greater his satisfaction when he found and dispatched another victim.
It had been a while. He had wondered if married life might weaken or even eliminate his bloodlust, but only a few days in as a husband and here he was on the street, hunting. And loving it.
He enjoyed killing for the sheer pleasure of the act itself but he had decided that, like his father, he would kill only those who deserved to die. Case in point: the man he was following tonight was a pedophile who had gotten off on a technicality. Tonight the man would pay for his sins. There would be no mercy. No going free. And there damn sure wouldn’t be any more kids suffering at his demented hands.
Thomas hated people who preyed on kids. Sick fucks who did that deserved to die, the slower the better.
He could feel his heartbeat quicken as he sped up. The man heard his footsteps and turned around as if trying to figure out if he knew him.
“Hey, I know you. I’ve seen you in the paper.” Thomas stuck his left hand out as if he was going to shake the man’s hand. The man held out his right hand as he usually would, then hesitated as he realized he needed to offer his left instead. That moment of hesitation was all Thomas needed. He raised took the icepick in his right hand and brought it down fast, driving it into the man’s temple. The gloves he wore would prevent any fingerprints and the fact that it was an old icepick from a thrift store would ensure the authorities wouldn’t have any hope of tracking where it had been purchased.
The death was quicker and, thus, more merciful than the guy deserved, but Thomas didn’t have the luxury of time to torture him if death was slow. The man dropped to the sidewalk and Thomas quickly turned the corner, walked back to his SUV, and headed home. There would be no more children who would suffer at the hands of that pervert. He pulled out of the alley and glanced down the deserted street before turning for home. His need to kill had been sated, for now, and another sick fucker was off the streets—his streets.
He hadn’t expected his wife to be awake when he got home.
“Where have you been, Thomas?” She was in bed, reading. She was reclining against the headboard, wearing one of his t-shirts. She hadn’t climbed under the covers yet, and her long, silky legs seemed to go on forever. “Thomas?” She sounded pissed and Thomas shook his head as he struggled to gather his thoughts and form a complete sentence. Nouns. Verbs. Legs. Fuck.
He was a husband now, and he hadn’t told his wife he was going out or why. In hindsight, he recognized that this had probably not gotten their married life off to the best start. Only a few days in and he was already fucking things up.
He knew the truth might make things worse but lying about it wasn’t an option. So he took a deep breath and went for broke. “I killed a man tonight.”
She lowered her book down next to her on the bedspread. “Wow. Most guys would just tell their wives they’d stopped off for a drink with the guys.”
“I’ll never lie to you. I promise you that.”
“I know,” she said, swallowing hard and frowning. “So, um, this guy. What happened?”
“He was a pedophile. He had been acquitted. Not because he was innocent, but because of a technicality. Somebody forgot to dot an i or cross a t. He was a free man, out for an evening stroll, probably hoping to find a child who’d wandered away from his parents, and he’d be only too glad to help. Sick fucker.”
“So he’s…gone now.”
“Yes.”
Silence reigned as he watched her reaction. If she couldn’t handle something like this, they were done. And he didn’t want to think about what that would mean. What he would have to do.
She looked him up and down, then crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re a mess, you know.”
He grinned. “Yeah.”
“Take your clothes off before you get blood all over the place. I’ll wash them, unless you’d rather just burn them. Then get in the shower.”
He watched, slack-jawed, as she strolled past him to start his shower. She wasn’t pissed anymore. She was perfect.
Chapter Thirty Seven
The next day, Sheryl Harmon was checking her grocery list. Cantaloupe. Asparagus. Green beans. She aimed her cart toward the produce aisle and focused on the task at hand. She had just had lunch and grocery shopping was next on her list of things to do.
Today’s trip to the grocery store was the same as it always was—just like everything else about her life. From the minute she’d said ‘I do’ her life had been a bad spoof of that Groundhog Day movie. It wasn’t that things weren’t good, exactly. Her bills were paid, her husband was faithful, and she had good standing in the community. She was just so…bored. Her life was dull. Repetitive. Confining.
She woke up every morning at six, made breakfast, packed lunches, and took her kids to school. Monday was her housecleaning day after a long weekend. Tuesday was laundry day. Wednesday was grocery day (today was Wednesday). Thursday was laundry day (again). Friday was housecleaning day (again). Saturday and Sunday were spent bringing Harold a steady supply of beers while he watched whatever game was on—which consisted of anything with a ball involved. Then…it started all over again.
He barely spoke to her, unless it was to tell her what to get at the grocery store. Sex was rare and—when they actually had it—perfunctory. Boring, like everything else. So repetitive. First, oral (for him, never for her), followed by less than a minute of actual sex, then a strangely prim kiss like she might expect from an uncle on Thanksgiving. Done.
Oh, and every Saturday morning was taken up with their son’s soccer. There was always soccer before her beer duties began. She shook her head. She was a damn soccer mom. Unbelievable.
She thumped the melon and squeezed the tomato as she coyly side-eyed the handsome man who had been watching her for the last three grocery aisles. She still looked nice enough, but it was gratifying to know that someone else noticed. Harold hadn’t noticed her in years, unless he happened to be running out of chips and beer.
He wasn’t bad looking. Not the kind of GQ magazine looks that screamed player. He was more All-American-nice-guy-next-door, with just enough of a mischievous glint in his eye to make a girl…curious.
Sheryl looked down at her average wedding ring and sighed. Like everything else average in her life, of course she would never act on an impulse. Would never be unpredictable. Surely it was okay to flirt a little though, just to remind herself life wasn’t completely over for her. After all, she was married but she wasn’t dead, right? She smiled sadly at her little joke.
“You know, I never can figure out how to tell when these things are ripe.” He smiled, a disarming expression that made her feel better about her hedgehog day. No, it was Groundhog Day, she thought with a little giggle, feeling like a teenager flirting with a cute boy in the high school gymnasium.
“Well,” she said, clearing her throat awkwardly. “You can tell some by color and others by texture and some by their scent.” A blush started at her chest and rose up her neck to her face, making her feel vulnerable. She decided it wasn’t an entirely bad feeling. “Like this melon. See?” She tapped the melon against the edge of the counter. “If it thumps just right then it’s perfect.” She smiled, somehow summoning the courage to look him in the eye.
“How do I know if it’s just right, though?” he asked with a grin and a little wink.
“Oh. Um, you just have to get a feel for it, I guess.” She swallowed hard and took a shuddering breath. “If you’re not sure by thumping it, you can just, um, squeeze it.”
“And you think this one’s good, huh? Let me see.” He placed his hand on a cantaloupe in the display bin and softly squeezed, pressing his fingertips into the rind hard enough to leave slight impressions behind. “So you’re telling me this is what a man would be looking for.” His voice dropped to a low rumble as his eyes traveled her figure. “Beautiful, round shape. Perfect size, just a little more than a handful. Soft, but firm.”
She gulped. “Uh-huh.”
“But you wouldn’t know for sure until you opened it up and had all that luscious fruit dripping on your tongue.”
“Um, r-right.” Sheryl could barely breathe as she blinked hard against the images his words were creating in her mind and the fireworks that were going off between her legs.
He stepped closer until his arm brushed against hers and she could feel his breath against her cheek as he continued, “I imagine you’d have to do it a few times, though, to be sure. So how did that thumping thing go again?” He covered her hand with his and followed along as she swallowed hard and thumped the melon twice more.
“Yeah, I can hear that now,” he said, never taking his eyes off her. He seemed to be hanging on her every word. He’d become quite adept at reading body language and hers was announcing to all who were paying any attention that she was going to have her first foray with infidelity today.
It was a decision she’d regret for the rest of her short life.
“And this avocado needs to be soft but not too soft or it will be dark on the inside, which is never good. You know, appearance is important when entertaining guests.”
“Thank you…?” He paused and waited.
“Oh. Sheryl. My name’s Sheryl Harmon.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Sheryl Harmon. I’ve never had the ins and outs of ripe fruit explained to me so charmingly.” They both continued laughing softly over the life lessons to be had while grocery shopping on the produce aisle.
She blushed prettily as she talked to him. She felt empowered by the interest he took in every word she said. How many years had it been since anyone had listened to her? It felt good to feel attractive and to know someone else thought so, too. She couldn’t remember the last time Harold had looked at her the way the handsome stranger was looking at her. When he wasn’t gazing into her eyes, he was taking in her curves and subtly shifting his weight as if trying to adjust himself without being noticed. But, boy, it was impossible not to notice the bulge that was suddenly pressing against the front of his slacks. She had given him an erection! Just by standing there talking about melons, she had gotten him hard.
Yes, Sheryl was glad she’d taken the extra time to put on makeup today and fix her hair. For the first time in years she was connecting with a man on what felt like a personal, intimate level. And for the first time in her life she was contemplating having a one-night stand—or, in this case, more like a one-hour stand. After all, she had to get dinner going by five.
Chapter Thirty Eight
Sheryl Harmon didn’t make it home that night. The soccer coach called Harold at six when Sheryl didn’t pick up their son from practice. He had to cook dinner and put their son to bed. Then he started making phone calls.
The following evening, Rene was watching her partner as he scowled and bit on the end of his pen as if his life depended on it. It grieved her to see him like this, as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. He took every Mummy Man victim personally, as if it were somehow his fault. Her heart ached for him, really. Perhaps retirement would be the only escape for him. Couldn’t he see it wasn’t his fault? After all, he wasn’t the caped superhero of Louisville, Kentucky.
She finally said what had to be said: “David, you can’t blame yourself for a troubled city and the sick fuck who’s killing the women in it.”
“It’s ‘Agent Turner’ when we’re at work. You know that,” he growled, then immediately regretted it.
The phone rang and he took the call while shooting her a chastened look. It wasn’t her fault there was a psycho causing mayhem in their city and they couldn’t find him. He didn’t apologize, though. There’d be plenty of time for apologies and maybe a little retribution later.
“This is Turner.”
“We’ve got a body and it looks fresh.”
“You need to work on your communication skills, asshole. Is that the only thing you know how to say?”
“Don’t blame me if a serial killer has this city by the balls,” the defensive voice on the other end of the line said. “Just get the fuck down here, Turner.”
Agent Turner slammed the landline receiver back on its cradle, shaking his head in disbelief. He’d aged ten years since the Mummy Man had started terrorizing the city and it was taking a toll on his partner as well as himself. The sooner they could figure this guy out and get him off the street, the better.
“We’ve got another warm one, Rene. Let’s go.”
As he stood from his desk and strode angrily toward the door, she looked at him in disbelief. He never called her by her first name at work. “Hey,” she said softly. “You can’t blame yourself for what a serial killer is doing. You just can’t keep doing this to yourself. It’s aging you.”
“What?” he smirked. “Are you concerned about my looks now?”
“No, of course not. But this level of stress is going to take years off your life. And I’m greedy where time with you is concerned.”
His eyes softened. She was right; not being able to identify the one common denominator in the Mummy Man equation was weighing on him. He was missing something. It was right there in front of him but he couldn’t see it. Fucking forest for the trees.
Women would keep dying if he didn’t figure out that one thing all the murders had in common. Rene could tell him all day long that none of it was his fault, but wasn’t his job to keep the city safe? He didn’t want to be so egotistical as to ask what Louisville, Kentucky, would do without him when he retired. But, hell, the thought had crossed his mind.
Chapter Thirty Nine
Sheryl Harmon had proven to be the epitome of the ultimate kill, and not a bad lay either. That…well, that had be
en the fucking ultimate. That had been bucket list shit, right there.
All that bullshit about fruits and vegetables and the flirting in between had been heavenly. And he’d fucked this one real good, too. Somewhere in between oh that feels so good and hey not so hard and why are you doing this, he’d wrapped his hands around her unsuspecting neck and choked her until she’d passed out. Then the real fun had begun. And the best part? She was married. Oh yeah, life was so fucking good.
The way she had side-eyed him on the produce aisle like she was trying to pretend he wasn’t flirting with her, and then the way she’d shyly glanced over at him sending the message that maybe she was flirting too. He had been able to tell that it had been a long time since she’d felt like a man wanted her. And boy had he ever wanted her. In the worst sort of way.
He hadn’t been able to control his dick’s reaction when she gave in and decided to take a walk on the wild side, but, as it turned out, that seemed to have worked in his favor. With his dick at full attention, she’d gotten a hint of what he was packing down south, and she’d practically salivated. He didn’t have a particularly thick dick, not at all, but it was plenty long; so long, in fact, that most women balked at the prospect of taking him deep. That’s why he tended to take the decision out of their hands. Problem solved. It had been the most satisfying kill he’d had in a long, long time…
“Bet your husband never touches you, does he? Never eats your pussy. Not like this.” His words were muffled and indistinct, which was not surprising considering he had a face full of Sheryl Harmon’s pussy.
She shook her head frantically. “No, no, he never goes down on me. He’s hardly touched me in months. He’s, um, never tied me up though. I don’t know about this…”
He smacked the side of her hip as hard as he could, leaving a vivid red palm print. She gasped at the stinging impact and tried to shimmy away, but he wouldn’t have it. “Shut up. This is how I do it.”
Mommy's Dearest (Black Rose Book 3) Page 13
