“So you went to high school here?”
“Only for three years, but for some reason it feels like home. That was the most stable time of my life, I guess.” I made sure to lose my Okie accent in college, so he’ll never guess my real roots. “What about your family? It sounds like you’re really close.”
“Absolutely. Well, to be clear . . . I’m close to my dad. My mom left when I was fifteen. It got pretty ugly.”
“Oh no.”
“She cheated on him,” he says tightly, and I have to stop my grin. Jackpot.
Instead of laughing, I whisper, “I’m sorry.”
One of his shoulders rises in a jerky shrug. “My dad is a pastor, so you can imagine how humiliating it was for him.”
And you, I think.
So his dad is a saint and his mom is a whore. If I were a normal person, I’d feel sorry for him. Nothing good ever comes of an ugly divorce. But I’m not a normal person and I know the kind of adult he’s become, so I feel nothing but contempt.
Regardless, I reach for him. His hand is tight beneath my touch. “It must have been awful.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you on good terms with her now?”
His lip lifts in a small sneer, but he shrugs again. “We’re fine. I got over it.” Even the most trusting person could spot that lie, and I trust no one. He hates his mother. Not a good prospect in a boyfriend.
He flips his fist over and engulfs my fingers in his grip. “Anyway, that’s all in the past. My dad and I are still close. I go to his church every Sunday. I do some work for him. My brother has two great kids, and I love being an uncle.”
“So do you want kids of your own?”
“Someday.” He winks as if he’s handed me a little treat. I’ll tuck it in my pocket and put it in my Big Book of Dreams when I get home.
“Where is your dad’s church? Is it big?”
He tells me about United in Christ Church as I do away with another piece of garlic bread. The place is out in the white-bread suburb of Apple Valley, where the Christians have money.
“It’s grown quite a bit lately. The world is chaotic. People are coming back to God. We’ve got almost twenty-five hundred members now.”
“That’s huge. And you work there?”
“I’m a deacon.”
“Wow. I didn’t think there were any good guys around anymore.”
He swallows that hook, line, and sinker. He knows he’s a good guy because he goes to church. It doesn’t matter how he treats people. It doesn’t matter if he’s cruel. He’s a God-fearing man, so he’s good. I swallow my anger down with my wine. He refills my glass without asking. Flushed from temper and alcohol, I take off my cardigan.
Today my bra is lavender lace and it peeks up above the last straining button of my dress. Steven has finished his glass of wine too, and he can’t stop his eyes from dropping. And staying. He might fear God, but he still loves boobs, and I know for a fact that he’s a big believer in fornication.
Our salads arrive and he digs in with gusto.
The nice thing about bad men is they’re easy to manipulate. If he were truly a good guy, I’d be lost. How could I know what motivates nice people? How would I get him to do what I want? But this isn’t a matter of hoping Steven notices me and wants to start a relationship. I’m good at manipulation because I’ve had to study and learn how people behave.
Before I knew what was wrong with me, I felt like an alien. I didn’t fit in anywhere with anyone. It was typical teenage angst . . . except I honestly didn’t fit in. I was so damn alone.
The first time my brother was sent to prison, I was sixteen, and I still remember my deep, disturbing confusion at the emotional reaction of my family. My mom wailed about how unfair it all was and that the system was rigged and he would never get a decent job now. My father actually cried for his “baby boy.” Wept like a child. My grandmother threw in a couple of racial epithets and complaints that a hardworking white boy couldn’t get anywhere these days.
It was all complete nonsense. He’d deserved to go to prison. He’d finally gotten caught selling stolen goods out of the back of his raggedy truck, and—lucky for him—he was only doing time for what he’d been caught with and not the hundreds of other things he’d stolen and sold over the years. Everyone knew white people got the best breaks in the criminal justice system. He’d gotten way less time than he should have.
Plus he was a lazy asshole and always had been, and a decent job had never been in his future.
So why the grief and surprise?
When I pointed out that he was, in fact, guilty and deserved to do time, my grandma called me a nasty little bitch. I’d heard it before, of course, usually from my mother. A nasty, cold-blooded, selfish, grasping, uppity, ungrateful goddamn little bitch. And I knew that to be true. I could feel the coldness in my own veins.
What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I be normal? Like any other teenage girl, I just wanted to fit in. I hadn’t been good at faking it back then because I hadn’t understood what I was trying to fake: a soul.
My senior year of high school, I took psychology as an elective, and boom, there it was. A description of me right in our textbook. That first time I read about sociopaths, I felt filled up with a bright light that was equal parts terror and joy. Finally—finally!—I understood. It was scary to know the truth, yes, but not nearly as frightening as ignorance.
I didn’t feel doubt. I didn’t feel guilt. And empathy was mostly beyond my grasp.
Of course, that was the golden age of serial killer true crime books, and for a while I thought being a sociopath meant I was destined for an existence of psychopathic evil. I thought it was the inevitable progression of my life. After all, I’d slept with my married English teacher and felt not one ounce of regret despite that his wife was my very kind calculus teacher. He, on the other hand, had sobbed with shame and guilt. Afterward, of course. Always afterward. Erections and guilt can’t exist in the same plane. One makes way for the other.
I’d watched him weeping, his penis flaccid and wet, and I’d thought, Well, that was my first act of true evil. I’d seduced my teacher just because I hated the homework so much and I wanted to blackmail him into an A. I figured I was heading into serial killer territory soon. I set my next-door neighbor’s pet rabbit free in the woods, because I was sure I’d wake up one morning tempted to kill it. I wanted to put off my degeneration as long as possible.
But, happily, later research at the county library assured me that most people like me don’t grow up to be killers. We lie and manipulate and take advantage, but usually that just makes us great at business. Yay for capitalism.
From then on, I worked on navigating my way through life with this . . . disability. I even learned to appreciate my affliction, to see the decency of living with logic instead of being buffeted by the whims of a fickle heart.
I’ve felt different my whole life, because I am. Still, I’m not as different as you’d think. There are a lot of us. More than I even realized back then. Most of us are just trying to get through the day, like aliens living secretly among humans. And we’re great for the economy. It’s easy to turn a profit when you have no self-doubt.
“You’re a healthy eater,” Steven says. He could be complimenting that I’ve eaten all my greens, but he isn’t. He means I’m keeping up with him.
“Thanks,” I respond.
He laughs in surprise at that, and then our entrées arrive, and, boy, I’m going to health the heck out of that plate. The Bolognese smells amazing, and I’m suddenly thankful for this night with Steven. The waiter adds Parmesan with a flourish, and Steven watches as I take my first bite.
Oh my God, it’s perfect. He grins at my happy groan and I relax into the pleasure.
He mentions judo, and I know if a grown man is practicing martial arts, it’s important to him, so I ask questions and let him talk about it for a full half an hour to make him feel important. I don’t mention that I’ve seen elite karate and jujitsu match
es all over Asia. It’s not something I’m interested in; it’s just part of business networking there.
By the end of the meal, I’m stuffed, half-drunk, and thinking the best ending to the night would be sex. Hell, I’d even go for sex with Steven at this point. He’s been entirely pleasant, but pleasant or not, sleeping with him now would be a tactical error. He’ll lose all respect for me. I’ll just be the slut at the office who puts out too easily. He’ll avoid me. He won’t invite me over. He won’t be vulnerable.
I need him vulnerable.
I could have just gotten rid of him, of course. I could have flown into town, poisoned him, shot him, stabbed him, whatever, and been on my way, a complete stranger with no connection to the crime. The perfect murder.
But I want to hurt him in the worst way possible. Death, after all, is one moment in time. But what if I can find a way for him to live in misery for years? I need to get closer to find out his weakest point, and if I have sex with him now, I’ll be trash.
Women have to worry about that kind of bullshit when they’re dating and when they’re plotting a crime. Hardly seems fair, does it?
Oh, well. I’ve already decided Steven won’t be good in bed, so I play coy even as I giggle drunkenly at his flirting. He’s sure he has a chance tonight. I’m tipsy and I’m wearing a lacy bra and I’m on the rebound. He thinks he can get in my pants, which means he’ll want it even more when I don’t put out.
Steven throws some twenties on the table, then stands up to pull out my chair. He even helps me back into my sweater. His hands smooth over my shoulders and squeeze my arms. “I’ll give you a ride home,” he murmurs into my ear.
I loop my arm through his as we walk out the door of the restaurant and into the cool night. The gorgeous scent of dead leaves wraps around us on the breeze. I shiver and tuck myself a little closer to his body warmth, and I’m more than willing to let him wrap his arm around my shoulders for the sake of comfort. His cologne swamps the delicate smell of autumn, but I can still hear the dry leaves shaking overhead.
Fall is my favorite season. It reminds me of myself, all hollow and cool. And despite the dying crispness of it, people still find it beautiful. Maybe they could feel that way about me too.
I think I had too much wine.
He opens the passenger door of a big silver SUV that looks as if it’s never touched mud. For a moment after he closes the door I’m alone, and I want to open the glove compartment and look for a sign or a clue of who’s been here before. A hair clip. A lipstick tube. Maybe even an actual glove. But then he’s opening the driver’s-side door and I’m smiling at him again.
“My place is only a mile away,” I say before I give him directions. The seat heater kicks in quickly, and now I’m cozy and tipsy and full of good food and I can’t wait to get home and go to sleep. I don’t like cuddling, but a warm body would be nice right now. Not Steven, though.
Maybe I should get a cat.
The thought invades my head fully formed and utterly obvious. A cat. Another little sociopath to curl up beside me at night and keep me warm.
The idea is a sudden, desperate need in me. And it’s an awful idea. I won’t be here long, my apartment doesn’t allow pets, and I’m heading out of the country after this. But I’m terrible at denying myself what I want, and I’m already wondering where the nearest animal shelter is.
“Right here?” Steven asks, and I realize we’re on my street.
I point to my run-down 1920s apartment building. “This one.”
“I’ll walk you up,” he says as he pulls to the curb.
I’m irritated that I have to stop making plans for my new cat and pay attention to him again, but I wait like a nice, patient girl as he walks around to open my door.
He walks me up the stoop, waiting while I unlock the main door with an old-fashioned metal key. There must be hundreds of these floating around. I can’t imagine when they last bothered changing the locks. I glance at him. “Thank you for walking me up.”
“I’ll take you to your door. This doesn’t look like the best neighborhood.”
“You don’t have to.”
But he holds the door open and follows me into the dingy lobby and past the mailboxes to the stairs beyond. My place is on the second floor, right at the top of the stairs. I’ve heard it’s better to be farther from the entry for security reasons, but I like watching my unsuspecting neighbors come and go through the peephole. The woman three doors down is an old barfly who brings home a different drunk codger every night, and she’s my favorite. Everyone needs a hobby, and I’m glad she’s found hers.
But tonight I’m the scandal in the hallway. I stop at my door. “This is me.”
“Must be noisy here by the stairs.”
I let him get his dig in. Yes, I was too stupid or poor or weak to demand a better apartment. Another barely noticeable insult to grind me down, but I know his game and I hear exactly what he means.
“Thanks for dinner,” I murmur shyly. “It was really, really good.”
“I had an amazing time. You’re a fun girl.”
But how much fun? That’s the question.
He moves closer and tips my head up with a gentle nudge. I let him kiss me. He’s not bad at it. Careful but firm. Not asking so much as suggesting. His tongue slips quickly in, claiming my mouth. I settle in against my door and try to enjoy it.
He’s already excited. Excited that I’m letting him. His fingers curve around my waist and grip me. He’s breathing harder, kissing me more deeply, sliding his tongue in a suggestive rhythm over mine.
I pull back a little and pretend to be breathless too.
“Maybe I should come in,” he whispers against my mouth.
I shake my head.
“I don’t mean that. We can have a drink.”
“No. I . . . I can’t.”
He growls a little and presses his hips to mine. “God, you’re so damn hot.” His mouth is wet on my throat now, his erection poking my stomach. I breathe with little panting sighs that make me sound helpless.
His hand slides up to palm my breast and he groans. I was eleven the first time I let a boy touch my breasts. I was so ready for it, and then when it happened I thought, That’s it? That’s what I was waiting for? It feels like he’s honking a horn. Such a letdown after all those stolen copies of Penthouse Forum.
Steven’s technique isn’t much better. He’s rubbing and squeezing and getting mostly padded bra. I let him go on for a little while before I finally say “No” and push him gently away. “I can’t do this. It isn’t right.”
“It feels pretty right,” he says with a sly smile.
“What kind of girl would I be if I slept with you on our first date?”
We both know the answer to that.
If we were already in my apartment, he’d push harder, of course. Here on the landing he has no choice but to give in gracefully, so he chuckles and tries to pretend his face isn’t flushed with lust. “I know. But what kind of guy would I be if I didn’t try?”
In deference to my role, I don’t answer “A born-again Christian with sincere beliefs and a genuine respect for women?” but it’s a close one. Instead, I ask, “Will you call me this weekend?” and give him a little power back.
“Yeah, if I can. Weekends are pretty busy.”
“Sure. Well, I had a good time. Thank you again.”
He winks and gives a little wave as he backs away. I open my door and slip inside and feel confident we’ll be going out again soon.
CHAPTER 11
The nearest animal shelter is twelve blocks away, but it’s a gorgeous day for a walk, so I set off with enthusiasm. I’ve never had a pet before. Oh, my family cycled through a couple of mangy guard dogs chained in the front yard, but they were vicious and flea-ridden. Just another dreary part of my childhood landscape.
My future hasn’t become any more solid, but my determination has. I want a cat. And when it’s time to move back to Malaysia, I’ll deal with the issue
then. It isn’t a real problem yet.
I pass close to the Italian place and make a detour thinking I can stop in later, but they’re not open for lunch. The neighborhood deteriorates further as I approach the shelter. I’m entering a quasi-industrial zone near the railroad tracks, and there aren’t many pedestrians around. I’m just considering reaching for my pocketknife when I see the shelter sign ahead and perk up. I can already hear dogs barking.
The parking lot is small and nearly full. Saturday must be a busy day for this place. As soon as I enter, I’m in the middle of two families with kids who are here to pick out dogs. I weave my way through their jumpy little bodies and approach the counter.
“I’m looking for a cat.”
The clerk is a pale young man who looks like he suffered a terrible haircut nine months ago and decided to never try again. He finishes writing something on a paper and sighs. “You’re looking for a cat you’ve lost?”
“No, I’d like to adopt a cat.”
“Okay. Cats are through there.” He points without once looking up at me. He’s being rude, so I steal a tiny metal dog figurine from the edge of his tall desk. I don’t want it; I just don’t like his attitude.
Turning in the direction he indicated, I push through the glass door, and the sounds of dogs and little kids fade to a low roar when the door closes behind me. I expect tiny cages, and there are lots of those, but most of the cats are portioned into group living for the day. Five or six cats wander rooms filled with carpeted trees to climb or sleep on. They don’t look miserable. Most seem perfectly content. Like me, they don’t need constant human contact.
I walk up and down the hallway, noticing which cats immediately rush to the gates and meow. They’re cute, but they are not the cats for me.
A small black cat sticks its paw through the metal grating, reaching for me. I touch the tiny pink pads of her foot, but then I move on down the short hallway. At the next partition, two cats are waiting for me. Two are asleep. The fifth cat watches from the middle of the floor, her golden eyes meeting my gaze with a haughty coolness. I like her immediately. I know I’m anthropomorphizing, but I’m sure she’s female because of the regal stretch of her neck and the occasional elegant flick of her tail. She has short gray fur that looks tipped with silver. There’s no question her body will be a soft, warm comfort.
Jane Doe Page 4
