by Anne Frasier
“Okay.” A nod. “I’ll call if I see her.”
“Thanks.” The words were spoken in unison as Jude and Uriah got to their feet.
“Why did you react to the name Clementine?” Uriah asked once they were in the car.
“The girl who called and asked to talk to me the night of the telethon said her name was Clementine. I gave her my number, and she called me several days later.”
“Unusual name.” They were both thinking it was more than a coincidence. The light turned green and Uriah accelerated.
“She didn’t tell me where she was or why she was calling.”
“The dye-tossing incident is beginning to feel less and less like it was about your father,” Uriah said, “and more and more like it was about the Fibonacci murders.”
“That’s what I’m thinking too. But I still don’t get the connection. Or why the dye was thrown at me. It seems too risky for people who are ordinarily good at covering their tracks. It makes no sense.”
The rest of the day was filled with briefings, another press conference, follow-ups, and poring over evidence results for various crime scenes.
“I’m going home,” Jude finally told Uriah. It had only been dark two hours—a short day for her. “I need to put up flyers and leave a can of cat food on the roof.” She stuck the stapler from her desk into her messenger bag, next to the flyers Elliot had made.
“Want me to help you look?”
“That’s okay. You’ve had a longer day than I have, and I suspect you’ll be here several more hours.” She could also see pain lines in his face, an indication of another one of his headaches.
It was no longer raining, but she took a cab rather than a bus or the light rail. When they reached her neighborhood, she told the driver to stop at various corners so she could attach flyers to telephone poles.
At home, she was opening a can of cat food to take to the roof when a light knock sounded on her apartment door. It was Elliot.
“Is this Sir Orangey?” He held up a yellow cat. “I went up to the roof and he was just chillin’ like he belonged there.”
She slipped the cat from his arms.
“Guess it’s him,” Elliot said.
Jude nodded but didn’t look up. She had her nose buried in the animal’s fur. The door closed softly. That was followed by the sound of Elliot’s footfalls on the stairs. Now that he was gone, Jude did something that took her by surprise. She started crying. The cat squirmed away, his feet hitting the floor with a heavy thud. He ran straight for the kitchen, jumped on the counter, and began eating the opened cat food. She didn’t even tell him to get down.
CHAPTER 29
Iris’s life was a cliché, but she was trying to do something about that. She wanted to be more than the daughter of a rich, business-suit-wearing, briefcase-clutching CEO who only cared about money. She wanted to be more than the brat raised by so many nannies she’d lost count.
But yeah. Cliché. Rich kid. Wealthy family. Despised the parents. Dropped out of college. Nineteen, old enough to be on her own, but she continued to kiss ass while resenting them.
Tonight was one of those kiss-ass nights.
Her mother had insisted Iris come home so she could attend a small dinner at her parents’ multimillion-dollar house just off Lake Harriet in the upscale Lynnhurst neighborhood of Minneapolis. This was the price for letting them continue to support her. They paid for her apartment and had even bought her a new car. But none of it was really free. She had to attend their events, keep her spine straight and chin high, as she’d been taught. Smile, sound intelligent, be gracious, not get too drunk, engage guests in conversation.
She’d been doing it for years.
Her parents employed their own chef, yet this particular meal had been overseen by some fancy dude who’d waltzed in and out of their house, staying long enough to boss people around and berate their cook. Typical of her mother to bring in someone prestigious so she could attach his name to the meal. It was all about status. Get the best chef in town. Pay him a shit-ton of money. Invite the Minneapolis elite. This time it was a guy who owned the power company, along with his wife and son. The son was an obvious attempt at a set-up. Like that hadn’t happened before. His name was Tristan Greer. She’d covered a laugh with her hand when she’d heard that. Pompous and lame.
“I’m glad you left your surly goth look at home,” her mother told her.
They were standing in the kitchen and the guests would be there soon. They’d have drinks and talk boring talk before moving from the massive living area, with its expensive paintings, to the formal dining room.
Iris looked down at her black-and-white-print skirt. It was full, and it covered her well. No slutty stuff tonight. On her feet were black Mary Janes. Her top was red and sleeveless, with a neckline that allowed her to lean forward and flash some boob if she got the notion.
Lifting a cracker with caviar taken from some poor Russian fish, she paused with the black eggs on the way to her mouth, saying, “I gave up goth years ago.” She smiled at the server as if they shared a joke between them. And they did. They both knew her mother was obnoxious, and the money she’d spent on tonight’s dinner could probably put the guy’s kids through college. It was shameful. The server looked nervous and didn’t smile back.
Thirty minutes later, their guests arrived sans the potential mate, Tristan.
“He’s coming later,” Tristan’s mother explained as she passed her coat to Iris’s father. “Let’s not wait for him.”
Looked like Iris wasn’t the only one dreading the evening. She wondered if Tristan would come at all.
They had drinks, they talked, Iris pretended to listen, her parents gave their guests a tour of the house, and finally it was time for the meal. The empty chair next to Iris’s waited for the mysterious Tristan. Next to it sat Iris’s brother. She called him Damien, but his real name was Monroe.
She wouldn’t be talking to him. She never talked to him.
Hardly anybody knew it, but the power-company guy had been behind the blackouts that had pretty much destroyed the city months ago. Iris had heard her parents whispering about a cover-up, how the man had taken bribes and swapped good equipment for cheaper stuff. The cheap equipment had weakened the whole system, and something had blown. Her dad said it was just a matter of time before they had another citywide outage, because the crook had only patched things instead of replacing them. “It would cost too much money.”
Even her father had been horrified, and that said a lot about how bad it was. But there were also rumors of an activist group being behind the blackouts. She wanted the activist group to be the real story, because the country needed to jump to its feet and toss a table. Nothing had been exposed or proven, and now she had to talk to the liar. Another man just like her father.
They were halfway through the main course when she pulled her phone from her skirt pocket and checked the time.
“No cell phones,” her mother said from the opposite end of the table. “You know that.” She wiggled her fingers. “Give it here.” Iris passed the phone to the power guy, and the device moved down the table until her mother set it beside her plate for safekeeping.
Five minutes later, Iris excused herself, ignoring her mother’s look of displeasure. Instead of going upstairs to her old room, she leaned against the wall in the foyer and closed her eyes. As she rested and waited for time to pass, her ears picked up the distant sound of soft conversation. She marveled at how dull they all were and how excruciatingly boring the night was. Privilege and boredom seemed to go together. She’d rather be poor. She’d rather be homeless, living on the street. That kind of life was exciting and different every day. This . . . this wasn’t living.
She heard a soft knock on the front door and opened her eyes. Her heart began to pound. She considered not answering, but what would be the fun in that? Crossing the room, she turned the deadbolt and opened the door.
Four people dressed in black, all wearing ski masks,
stood on the dark step. Three men, one woman. Two of the men wore black sweatpants and long-sleeved T-shirts; one wore a tuxedo. Unlike the other three, who wore latex gloves, his were white cotton. One of the men in sweatpants held a can, cap off. Iris could smell spray paint.
She attempted to slam the door. Not fast enough. The one in the tux blocked her, then leapt silently over the threshold, pushing her to the side, a finger to the smiling lips framed by the mask. Shhh.
“No,” she whispered. “Don’t.”
The smiling man grabbed her arm, squeezing hard.
From the dining room came the voice of Iris’s mother. “Is someone here?”
As if of one mind, the four masked guests swiveled toward the voice.
CHAPTER 30
The door closed softly and one of the men locked it behind him. All four of the intruders peeled their ski masks to the tops of their heads, and faces were revealed. The leader in the tuxedo leaned close to Iris, smiled, and put a finger to his lips again. Behind him, one of the men clutched a handgun, his arm bent, the weapon pointing toward the ceiling. The girl’s eyes were vacant and reflective, pupils large beneath her wispy blond hair.
Iris’s breathing was coming in short little pants, her heart slamming, body covered in sweat. None of them had spoken any real words. All of them were staring at her.
She became aware of the sounds of normalcy coming from the dining room. That soft conversation and silverware striking china. She wished she were back in that room. She wished she hadn’t opened the door.
The man in the tuxedo reached for her. She recoiled, then corrected so he wouldn’t notice. He grabbed her and pulled her close, right hand to her spine. With his left, he threaded his gloved fingers through her bare ones. Almost silently, like the star of his own play, he began to waltz her around the room in what seemed like some crazy performance. But the threat was there. In the firm grip of his fingers. In the stiffness of his body. They were twirling so fast his shoulder-length dark hair flowed in a theatrical way. She closed her eyes a moment, almost tricking herself into thinking this was some prank, something one of her old school friends had devised.
“Honey, what’s going on out there?” Iris’s mother must have heard the shuffle of feet against the wooden floor.
The man stopped the mad dancing and kissed Iris on the lips, smiled, and whispered, “It’s time.” He held out a gloved hand and one of his team gave him a knife.
He brought the wide, shiny blade to Iris’s face. Then he touched the cold steel to her throat, and chuckled at her reaction before flipping the weapon and pressing the blade handle into her palm. She curled her fingers around it.
The knife was heavy and warm, and seemed to have a life of its own. She wasn’t a strong person, but adrenaline pumped through her veins. Maybe she could kill him. Take the knife and stick it in his jugular before anybody could stop her. He was the leader. Once he was dead, the rest would scatter.
She couldn’t do it. She was too scared. Her brain seemed to shut down and the room faded. Even the man’s tuxedo made everything feel like a dream. He pressed something else into her other palm. A pill, small and pink. Then he pulled her close and whispered in her ear, “This will make you feel better.” He watched, waiting for her to take it. She obeyed and tossed the pill into her mouth. He smiled again and nodded, almost like he was proud of her. As if by some silent communication, because they’d done this kind of thing before and practiced this kind of thing before, the others moved in unison, two guns visible now. The leader turned Iris toward the dining room. With a hand to her back, he urged her forward.
Robotically, still gripping the knife, she began taking jerky steps toward her family.
Upon seeing the five of them enter the dining room, the people at the table froze in confusion. That confusion quickly melted, displaced by alarm. Iris’s father got to his feet, braced to demand answers. But his status had no power over these people. Her mother asked Iris a question about the strange people in the black clothes. Iris might have replied. She wasn’t sure.
One of the men with a gun, along with the blond girl, disappeared through a doorway that led to the kitchen. They were looking for others. Looking for staff. Her father, mother, brother, and the power guy and his wife were quickly and efficiently bound and gagged in the chairs where they sat.
It was interesting how none of them fought, not really. Her father and brother reached for their phones, but there was no struggle. They hoped their good behavior would lead to survival. Be good, don’t make noise. We’ll rob you and be on our way.
But this was no robbery. The intruders could be identified if anyone survived.
The two who’d gone to the kitchen returned. At first, it might have seemed they’d worn black to sneak inside without being seen. But now Iris noticed their faces were flecked in blood, their shirts soaked with it. Blood even dripped from their gloved fingertips to the floor, yet the red on their clothing wasn’t obvious.
The next thirty minutes expanded to feel like a lifetime, like the night would never end. Seconds felt like days, and heavy movements were accompanied by sluggish vapor trails.
Her mother, behind her duct-taped mouth, was crying, tears running down her cheeks, body shaking. Iris’s brother was crying too—the kid who tortured small animals was sobbing silently, his red eyes glassy with fear. The girl with the long blond hair stepped up to him. Like a baby offered candy, he stopped sniffling and his shoulders quit shaking. She wasn’t much younger than him. Pretty, Iris supposed. Maybe he didn’t notice how odd she was, how evil.
The blond girl bent down and looked into his eyes. Iris could feel Monroe’s frozen anticipation. Maybe this girl would have mercy on him. Maybe this girl would even think he was cute. Because a lot of girls thought he was cute. A lot of girls had been destroyed by him.
The girl pulled off the duct tape in one quick jerk. Iris’s brother gasped in pain, but continued to watch his tormentor, a hopeful expression on his face. The girl climbed on him, a leg on each side of the chair. She leaned forward and kissed him. Not a chaste kiss, but a sexy one, thrusting her tongue deep into his mouth.
Everybody in the room watched, transfixed, wondering what the hell was going on. Finally, the girl pulled back several inches. Monroe’s mouth was red from the pressure of the girl’s lips, and his eyes were confused.
As Iris stared at her brother’s face, the red around his lips grew. A puzzled moment passed before Iris realized the blooming of red was blood. His eyes changed. Alarm replaced the question as a gurgling, sucking sound came from somewhere within him. And then Iris noticed the smile on his neck. A big gash that began to squirt blood.
He turned his head slightly, looking for her, his eyes making contact. What was he thinking? What did someone like him think about when he knew he was dying? Was he sorry for the things he’d done to her? Things her mother and father refused to believe? Was he sorry about that? No, he was probably just thinking of himself.
While this played out, sounds were emitted by the other captives. High keening noises, and chair legs banging against the wooden floor.
Monroe’s eyes went flat and the blood stopped spurting. Iris felt a strange sense of relief, almost as if his death erased his misdeeds.
The girl with the yellow hair kissed him again, slipping her tongue inside his dead mouth. This time, when she pulled away and tipped back her head to laugh, her teeth were covered in his blood. Then the girl spun around, strode up to Iris, and kissed her on the lips. The taste was metallic and salty.
There was a roaring in Iris’s head, a hundred times louder than the ocean. And yet, when the girl with the glassy, soulless eyes leaned back and spoke, Iris heard her. “That’s how you do it.”
If the scene had a soundtrack, it would be thundering dread. Or maybe something sad and soothing. Iris latched on to the idea of something sad and soothing.
She felt a hand at her back. The girl was pushing her forward, toward the dining table, where her parents still
sat. Iris wondered if they’d have tried to run even if they hadn’t been bound and gagged. The keening noises they’d been making had stopped, and their eyes held the deep shock and acceptance of the unthinkable.
Iris looked from one intruder to the next, pausing on the leader. His gloves were still white.
“Please,” she whispered. The drug he’d given her had kicked in. The room shifted, and the walls moved. Colors changed, and the shivering cold in her veins began to warm. She turned back to her parents. They sat on opposite sides of the table, facing each other.
“Make a choice,” the leader said.
He wanted her to kill one of them.
She began to hum a tune she’d forgotten until now, something one of the nannies had sung to her as a child. A song meant to calm hurts and fears.
The blond girl glided from Iris’s father to the next person, her eyes on Iris. She dug her fingers into Iris’s mother’s hair and pulled back her head, exposing a long, bare throat that had seen a lot of special creams over the years.
“Now,” the leader said, his voice a harsh command.
What if she disobeyed?
What if she obeyed?
“You never believed me,” Iris said. She chose her mother because the woman should have protected her, supported her, defended her. “You never believed me when I told you what Monroe did to me. But I think you did believe. I think you knew all along. I think you both knew and chose to ignore it. And you didn’t want anybody to find out. So you called me a liar, a spoiled brat. But you knew it was true. Didn’t you?”
Her mother squeezed her eyes shut and fresh tears ran down her cheeks. Iris stepped closer. With a burst of rage and a sweep of her arm, she cut long and deep. At first it seemed as if nothing had happened. But then a red line slowly appeared against her mother’s white skin, and blood began to run.
At almost the same time, the other intruders ended her father’s life, along with those of their two guests. Lucky Tristan.
The amount of blood was astounding, so much it seemed like a video game or TV show. Blood shot several feet into the air, hitting the walls. At one point, Iris slipped on it and crashed to the floor. She laughed and rolled and scooped blood up with her hands. The girl with the yellow hair joined her. She dipped her hands in the blood and crawled across the floor to write on the wall. When she was done, she rubbed blood on her face, laughing and talking to herself.
