The Tease (The Darling Killer Trilogy)

by Pill, Nikki M.

  “That’s why I work with babies,” she said. “They might up and die, but they don’t drop stuff on me like wanting to have sex with corpses.”

  I laughed. Though my body still hummed like a livewire, a sense of chocolaty well-being started to muffle the tension.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I don’t want to stay here too long. He already knows where I live, I don’t want him to know where you live also.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Don’t get me wrong, if I’m gonna die I’d rather do it with a hot burlesque chick in the apartment with me, but I’d rather stick around for a while.”

  “Me, too,” I said. “I just… I don’t know, I’m completely freaked out, and I don’t know what to do.”

  “Do you want me to answer that as a friend or fellow therapist?” she asked.

  “Both.”

  “Good,” she said. She frowned, took a deep breath, and said, “Murder board?”

  I blinked.

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s totally not like you,” she said. “You’re a yoga-doing pacifist.”

  “I don’t know that pacifist is the right word,” I said.

  “But you know what I mean. You don’t even own pepper spray. Wait. Why don’t you own pepper spray?”

  “I probably should,” I said.

  “Fuck yes, you should,” she said. “I hate to say it, honey, but the detective is right. This isn’t safe for you.”

  “But I’m not trying to catch the killer,” I argued.

  “Really?”

  Her piercing gaze unsettled me. “Well. Maybe a little.”

  “You can’t catch him a little,” she said.

  “He kills women,” I said. “He kills women, and he might be my client. And he’s killing women who matter to me. Monica, I can’t let him take dance away from me. I can’t let a man dictate my life again.”

  “That’s a noble idea,” she said, “but he’s not some bully. He’s a serial killer. So it’s good not to let Kevin walk all over you, but maybe you should let the Darling Killer walk wherever he’s going to walk until the police figure out who he is. They’re trained for it.”

  “I know,” I said wretchedly. “But I can’t just sit around and not think about it.”

  “No one’s asking you to stop thinking,” she said. “I think we just want you to not do anything stupid.”

  “I’ll buy some damn pepper spray,” I said, and refilled my wine glass.

  “You can stay here as long as you want,” she said, her tone gentle again.

  “Thanks,” I said. My phone buzzed inside my purse. I dug it out, saw Kevin’s name, and hit the silent button. “It’s Kevin again,” I told her. I stuffed the phone back in my purse and kicked it under her coffee table.

  “He’s not worth your time,” she said. “I can tell you, if he’s making out with Tish, he’s not worth it.”

  “I really thought he was,” I said, and took another sip of wine. “I wish you could’ve seen his place. He doesn’t have some secret lab where he makes the ‘real art.’ He makes these incredible miniatures so people can play Dungeons & Dragons. They’re beautiful without pretense. It was so great to be around someone that artistic and that secure in himself.”

  “There’s a difference between being secure and being a two-timing prick.”

  I sighed. “I don’t know what I saw,” I said. “I don’t want to judge.”

  “How about me?” she asked. “Can I judge?”

  “I guess,” I said. “I don’t know. Maybe I misunderstood.”

  “Anna,” she said. “You also didn’t think Josh was abusive.”

  The shot told. I didn’t say anything.

  “You know he’d be hitting you by now, right?”

  I shrugged. “Those things tend to escalate. I think he would’ve stuck with the psychological torture, but I’m glad I don’t know for sure.”

  “Me, too,” she said softly.

  The one time she and I ever argued was when I told her about some things Josh said that bothered me, and she had said, “Well. That’s a little better than hitting you,” and then, after a pause, said “Does it make me a bad therapist that I’m thinking At least if he hits her, she’ll finally leave?”

  I’ve never forgotten that she loves me enough to ask the hard questions.

  “I should give Kevin a chance to explain,” I said. “Just… not now.”

  “Not now,” she agreed. Caprice yawned and nuzzled Monica’s hand. Monica petted her absently and said, “Is there any way that the necro guy might know where you live?”

  I puzzled over it. “If he’s really patient and followed me home. I don’t know. The only other person who’s been over to my place is Lynne, and I don’t think she’s the Single White Female type.”

  “And it could be someone totally unrelated,” she said. “That’s what scares me, is that the interaction was a big deal to him, but not memorable to you, like at the dry cleaner or something.”

  I shuddered. “I don’t know which is worse.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I went to work early the next day. I’d woken hours before my alarm with an upset stomach, a purring cat snuggled next to me, and nothing better to do. I always found it surreal to get ready for work in other places. You’d think that years of pulling spangles and eyelashes out of suitcases would prepare me to get ready anywhere – and I was, for that purpose. Putting on my subtle makeup; conservative, black skirt; and soft, navy top was entirely different.

  I still couldn’t bring myself to wear jewelry.

  I fed Caprice, packed my go bag for rehearsal that evening, and left at six. I left her half a pot of fresh coffee and a thank-you note stating I’d be back late that evening.

  The sun was just expanding wanly across the sky when I walked into my office. I spent about an hour looking through my notes in Max’s file, anxiety about whether he’d find me and kill me competing with anxiety about Caprice knocking over fragile things or chewing on Monica’s hair bands.

  I almost jumped out of my skin when Jeff knocked on my door. I’d been staring at the file for an hour.

  “Sorry to startle you,” he said. “How are you doing?”

  I stared at him. It took me a minute to realize it was fine that he knew Katie was murdered. It all seemed so complicated. “Exhausted,” I finally said. “Sad. And a little freaked out.” Which was true, if you replace “a little” with “completely.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

  I smiled. “Not right now,” I said. “Thank you.”

  He hesitated. “You can probably reschedule tomorrow,” he said.

  “Tomorrow – oh, crap,” I said, lowering my face into my hands. He meant the clinical exam. The one that cost thousands of dollars and hours in prep material and time. The one I’d been working on for months. The reason I spent more time listening to Walter Fucking Donnelly than music. The reason I’d intended to take that night off rehearsal, but couldn’t, because I wanted to be there for the girls. Because I wanted to look Tish in the eye.

  “I’m sure there’s someone you can talk to,” he said. “If you need some time this afternoon, I can help you out.”

  “That’s ok,” I said. “I’ll… I’ll be fine. I’ve been studying like crazy.”

  “Try to get some sleep tonight, ok?” he said.

  “I will,” I lied.

  The rest of the day was a blur. I was grateful when ten a.m. rolled around so I could start my case load. Angela, the abuse survivor with PTSD. Luke, the biology PhD candidate launching a pre-emptive strike against his Seasonal Affective Disorder. Marion, a querulous histrionic who resisted all interventions and wanted to spend each hour on how everyone had wronged her. Each client was a relief: an hour to totally immerse myself in someone else, to forget the inside of my own head. When lunch time rolled around, my blood sugar was so low that my hands shook, yet my usually eager stomach was not
interested. I picked up a spinach salad from the cafeteria in the basement. Normally, I was driven to distraction by the smell of rich grilled cheese sandwiches. The lady at the deli downstairs made them with cheddar, mozzarella, and parmesan. I just wasn’t hungry.

  After I choked my lunch down with near-agonizing slowness, I tossed the leftovers in the trash and headed back to my office.

  My phone buzzed a few times during my 3 p.m. appointment. I checked it between clients. Both were Lynne, and she hadn’t left a voicemail. I turned the phone off so it wouldn’t buzz for the rest of the afternoon. Finally I could leave for rehearsal. Maybe moving would get the stress out of my body. I turned my phone on and began the crawl down Milwaukee to the theater. Walter did his best to regale me with facts about human development, but I couldn’t understand a word he said.

  I did stop at Target to buy pepper spray. The grey and silver cylinder with its red button didn’t make me feel any safer. It had a silver ring to attach to my keychain. It rattled against my keys and plastic key-ring cards as they swung from the car key in its ignition.

  Tish was setting chairs on the stage when I got to the Cat’s Meow. She wore white sneakers, grey sweatpants, and a loose white top. It would look like a tent on me, but somehow managed to accentuate the slim curves of her body. Large rhinestone hoops dangled from her ears. The piano had arrived, and huddled sullen in stage right as Tish pointedly ignored it.

  How could he want someone else so soon but her figure—

  I was surprised by the hot wave of anger that consumed me when I saw her. She had introduced me to Kevin as her “single friend,” and then ran up and kissed him?

  But then, I had dodged Kevin shortly thereafter. She probably didn’t know we were dating. Or based on the conversation I had with the girls at the diner, she might not know if we were still seeing each other.

  He fucking knew, I thought, and then stopped myself. Cool and professional. Be cool and professional. You can take the high road.

  “Need a hand?” I asked.

  “I’m good,” she said. “How’s it going? You look tired.”

  “Thanks,” I said dryly. “I—” the buzzing phone interrupted me. I pulled it out of my purse. Lynne again. I hit the “ignore” option and stuck it back in my purse.

  “Who was that?” Tish said.

  “Lynne,” I said. “I met her at the last show.”

  “Is she the one with the mousy hair and thin lips?” Tish asked.

  “I guess,” I said.

  “Yeah, she approached me about shows,” she said. “I don’t know, maybe she could play the MILF angle, but even that’s a stretch. I gave her a class card, but I’m not going to waste my time on private lessons for her.”

  I paused. “She’s taking private lessons with me.”

  “When?” she asked. “I don’t have it in the calendar.”

  “We’re meeting at my home studio,” I said.

  “Why not at La La?”

  “Because it’s half an hour away from both of us. If—” The phone buzzed again. Lynne. I hit Ignore.

  “Look, Velvet, if you’re not going to be supportive of your own teacher—”

  “But you just said you weren’t going to waste your time with her.” A terse edge crept into my voice.

  “But if you are, you should be doing it at the studio where you belong,” she insisted.

  “Tish, you never said that I can’t do private lessons on my own.”

  “That’s because you should’ve known,” she said.

  “How should I have known that?” I snapped.

  “Whatever.” She threw up her hands and started to walk away.

  “Don’t you walk away from me!” I shouted.

  She whirled to face me. “I’ll do whatever I want!”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty clear,” I said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that you’re—” I checked myself. It’s a cheap shot to aim right for a woman’s sexuality by calling her a slut or whore or bitch, and I narrowly avoided it. “I mean you’re shitty at communicating!”

  Her eyes widened, and a slight smile curled her lips. “I’m going to give you a chance to go take some Midol,” she said. “And then after rehearsal we’ll talk about whether or not you’re still in the show. I don’t want to get overly emotional and make a snap decision.”

  She turned on her heel and stalked away.

  I shook with adrenaline and anger. It was just too much. I should’ve stayed home to rest, but I drove all the hell way to the city anyway. I was always professional with her, always on time, tolerated her hissy fits, and she wanted to threaten my place in the troupe?

  I took one step after her, stopped myself, and brought my bag into the changing room. I braced myself before turning on the light. I hadn’t seen the room since I saw Lisa’s body in it.

  The yellowish lights flooded the room. I didn’t feel sad. I didn’t feel scared. It was just an empty room that smelled of pine disinfectant. There was no crime scene tape, no blood on the floor. I summoned a mental image of Lisa and ran through the details in my head – the folded clothes, the stockings in her mouth – and thought, Max said nice necklace maybe he wants a place to relive the fantasy but is faking necrophilia so I won’t suspect him—

  I set my bag down heavily, sighed, and dug into the side pocket for my emergency chocolate stash. I had a small box of truffles for real emergencies. I opened it, pulled one out, and bit into it. Heady dark chocolate, espresso, and a hint of cinnamon exploded in my mouth. As much as I wanted to throttle her, or at least tell her what I thought at the top of my lungs, I knew she wouldn’t understand. Tish had a Tish-shaped blind spot, and the remarkable ability to create a logical twist that shifted blame onto others.

  It’s better to be effective than to be right, I told myself, eating another truffle.

  My phone buzzed again. Kevin. I hit Ignore and took another chocolate.

  She probably felt threatened, I reasoned. She never invited anyone else to teach at her school, never encouraged anyone to produce their own shows or branch out. Maybe the studio wasn’t doing well, and she worried about the money. She had a background in jazz and modern; maybe it was really competitive, and she still felt the need to be the unrivaled best. Maybe the reviews mentioning me still rankled with her.

  Maybe she kissed Kevin just to get to me.

  I glanced at the clock. I still had half an hour before most of the girls would arrive for rehearsal. I took one last chocolate, closed the box, and washed it down with a swig of water. Then I changed out of my work clothes into my favorite red Capri pants with a ruffle at the calf, striped red-and-black socks, and black tank top. If nothing else, stockings are worth wearing for the moment your skin gets out of them and into some natural fibers.

  I shoved my bag to the side, took another sip of water, and started warming up. The dressing room, so cramped when it was full of eight girls, wasn’t actually that bad when I was alone. I inhaled, reaching my arms up for the ceiling. Exhale, forward fold, victorious breath. I felt my body flow into the sun salutations, awakening the blood and nerves, igniting my muscles. The movements connected with my breath, and my frustration started to fall away. My knotted back started to loosen as I engaged in the familiar rhythms.

  The phone buzzed into life atop the vanity.

  “GODDAMN IT,” I swore, and hopped up. It was Lynne again. I smiled through clenched teeth before I answered. “Hello?” I said.

  “Hi, Velvet?” she said, her voice far away and a little tinny.

  “Lynne, I am at rehearsal,” I said. “I need you to please trust my voicemail. If I’m not available, please leave me a message. I will call you back when I can.”

  “Velvet? I’m sorry, you’re breaking up.”

  I walked towards the door. “Lynne?”

  “You’re still breaking up.”

  I clenched my fists. “Hang on a sec.” I stomped out of the dressing room, through the side cor
ridor, down the stairs, and into the house. “Is this better?”

  “It is,” Lynne said. “How do you put the pasties on? I bought some on Ebay and I used the spirit gum, but they keep sliding around.”

  I closed my eyes. One. Two. Three. Four. The guy I was dating had been interrogated by the police and then kissed another girl, a troupe member and a former client were dead, Tish threatened to kick me out of the troupe for teaching Lynne, and she was blowing up my phone about pasties? Five. Six. Seven. Neither fight or flight was an option over the phone, so I walked into the lobby, hoping it would help to just move and breathe.

  “Velvet?” she said. “Can you hear me?”

  “I can hear you,” I said tightly. I opened my eyes to see Grant outside, walking towards the lobby door. He stopped and turned around as if someone had just called to him. “Lynne. I am at rehearsal. I need you to please trust my voicemail. If you leave me a message, I will call you back.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I just thought – I mean, you answered the phone, so I—”

  Another person walked into view. Max. I ducked back behind a pillar in the lobby and peeked around. Max took a step towards the door, and Grant stopped him. It looked like they were arguing. I was vaguely conscious that Lynne was still talking, but it didn’t register. The voices raised outside the door, but I couldn’t tell what they were saying with Lynne jabbering away.

  With a twinge of guilt, I hung up on her. I’d blame the connection. The phone buzzed in my hand and I hit the volume button without looking, muting it. Grant stood in front of the door, pointing toward the street. Max spat a few words out and walked off. Grant stormed into the lobby, and my knees buckled. I leaned back against the pillar.

  “Anna,” Grant said. “Some jerk outside was asking where you are. He said he knows you.”

  I shuddered. “Well. I do know him. Just…”

  His brows drew together with concern. “That’s not the guy, is it?”

  What guy? I wondered. Oh. Josh. The web of who knew about Max and who didn’t was getting too sticky for me. “No,” I said. “But…” I glanced down at the phone, wondering if I should call the police. I swallowed hard. “Thanks for chasing him off.”