“But I do.”
He beamed, then looked back down at the pan. “I hope you like your bacon crispy.”
“It’s perfect,” I said, sipping my coffee and enjoying a glowing sensation in my body.
Of course. It’s an escape from the pain about Kevin and Tish and when the body is aroused by fear it reacts to the threat of death by affirming life with the nearest partner—
I resolutely stuffed the thought away. I’d been attracted to Grant since we met. If the timing wasn’t great, well, too bad. The right person doesn’t always show up at the right time.
But if a client said that to you—
No. I’d known Grant for over a year. I trusted him. I felt like I knew what I was getting into. I am not analyzing myself. Just today, just once, just let me feel something without thinking it to death.
My phone beeped. I ignored it. I watched him move around the kitchen, his movements efficient and graceful.
My phone beeped again.
“I’m going to go turn that off,” I said.
I headed over to my purse, pulled out my phone, and swore. I had missed fifty-seven calls, and three text messages awaited me.
One was from Jeff.
I thought you had the day off already for the exam?
it said.
One was from Monica.
Sweetie r u watching the news? U ok?
The last was from my dad.
Please call when you can.
My stomach twisted. I headed to the TV and switched to one of the network stations.
The picture hummed into life with an image of me outside the theater in my Very Recognizeable Overcoat. A chaos of microphones and shouting reporters framed the image, probably from across the street. Uniformed officers were holding their hands up in the universal gesture of stay back. I was getting into a squad car, followed by Grant, Breaking News, announced a yellow text ribbon at, “…was questioned early this morning after another murder at the Cat’s Meow theater,” a female reporter’s voice announced. The camera cut to a performance shot of the Chicago Cabaret during one of our troupe numbers. I was center stage, laughing, strutting across the stage in a glittery red corset and fishnet stockings, with a black feather boa wrapped around my shoulders. “The police Office of News Affairs issued a press release this morning, stating that they have questioned witnesses, but have not filed charges against anyone yet.”
The next shot showed the reporter standing across the street from the police station, talking into a microphone, her orange hair coiffed neatly around her artfully concerned face. I couldn’t hear another word she said.
The worst is happening, I thought. The worst is happening now. Jeff must know. My dad must know. The clinical exam was already over; fifteen hundred dollars down the drain. And I’d be a laughingstock professionally: the stripper therapist.
Grant walked over and sat next to me, putting an arm around my shoulder. I leaned into him.
“My life is over,” I said.
“It’s not over,” Grant said.
I gestured at the TV screen.
“You can sue them,” he said. “For defamation of character.”
“I can’t sue them for showing a real photo,” I said. “It’s on the Chicago Cabaret website.” Which has a much, much smaller audience than the network news.
“Did they really let him go?” Grant asked.
“I don’t know,” I sighed. “I’m going to call and find out what I can.”
He nodded and kissed my cheek.
I called Detective Santiago. I wanted to freak out about my photo splashing all over the news, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good. “Detective, what’s going on?” I asked instead. “I thought you had him.”
“Miss Zendel, I can’t say too much,” he said. “But we couldn’t hold him.”
“How is the stocking not enough evidence?” I asked. Grant squeezed my hand in his.
“He had an alibi.”
“But the stocking was in his jacket,” I said.
“A stocking was in his pocket,” he said. “It could’ve come from anywhere. Stockings don’t fingerprint. He has a good attorney, and the DNA could take weeks.”
“I thought you had him,” I said miserably. “I thought it was over.” I just ruined this guy’s faith in therapy and he didn’t even do it—
“Miss Zendel,” he said, “this is important. Have you dated anyone other than Kevin Haynes in the past six months to a year?”
“No,” I said.
“Has anyone asked you out?”
I just made out with a guy in my kitchen, but you’ve already questioned him twice. “No,” I said. “I know, it’s pretty sad.”
“You need to be very, very careful,” he said. “I’m serious.”
“I will,” I said, and got off the phone.
“What happened?” Grant brushed my hair out of my eyes. Up close and in daylight, his eyes weren’t solid brown. They were a muddy hazel, hints of green and gold in a band of dark brown.
“The killer is still out there—” I started shaking.
He put his arms around me. “He’ll have to get through me first,” he said. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
I welcomed his warm body, his strong arms. “Thank you,” I said.
“C’mon,” he said, leading me back towards the kitchen. “We’ll have breakfast and figure out what to do.”
I followed him, setting my phone on the table with numb fingers. “He knows where I live,” I said.
“He’s known where you live for weeks,” he pointed out.
“That’s true,” I said. “You’re being awfully reasonable.”
He shrugged. “I’ve never been good at worrying.”
Yikes. Two people in a relationship who can compartmentalize. What if—
I shoved the thought away. “I just completely blew my clinical exam,” I said.
“Won’t they let you reschedule it?” he asked. “You just saw a murder last night. You must be able to say extreme circumstances.”
I stopped myself from arguing. Men are fixers. It’s okay. Let him be who he is.
“You can stay with me,” Grant said, opening the carton and taking out an egg. “I’ll make you breakfast every morning.”
“I’d be late for work,” I said, smiling in spite of myself. “If I still have a job.”
“Not if we’re on the road,” he said. He picked up the garlic clove and pepper and started juggling them with the egg. “We’ll join the Vaudeville revival. No one can catch us if we’re a travelling act.”
I laughed. He was calming me down. He was just what I needed.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said, snatching the egg, garlic, and pepper out of the air and setting them on the counter. “I already ran that guy off once.”
“That’s true,” I said, feeling that warm glow as I remembered the way he stood up to Max outside the theater.
He tossed the egg behind his back and caught it. His hands were so deft, so quick. I grinned, remembering the way he unhooked my bra so easily.
Sleight of hand, I thought, and my stomach bottomed out.
When he shoved Max at the theater… he put the stocking in the jacket pocket.
No. No way could Grant hurt anyone. He found Lisa’s body with me… and Tish’s… he was so sickened…
He was at every crime scene.
He had control of how the bodies were discovered.
He relished my reaction.
For God’s sake, I told him they couldn’t hold Max, and he’s juggling. He’s not scared at all.
He knows he doesn’t need to be.
“Velvet?” he said, looking puzzled. “Beautiful, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said, forcing a smile. Detective Brack’s accusation echoed through my mind: That sounds like a pattern to me.
“You had the oddest look on your face,” he said, crossing the room and holding his arms out for me. “What is it?”
&nbs
p; Panic took over. I bolted.
He grabbed me from behind, wrapping his arm around my waist and yanking me back against his body. He wrapped his arms over me, pinning mine. I struggled, but he was taller and stronger.
“What has gotten into you?” he whispered into my ear.
I couldn’t help myself. I started to shriek, and he clapped a hand over my mouth.
“Please don’t do that,” he said, a chilling note in his soft voice. I nodded, and he took his hand away. “We were having such a perfect morning. What are you doing?”
Perfect he likes things to be perfect— My breath came in short, shallow bursts. “Please don’t kill me,” was all I could think to say.
“Don’t… kill you?” he asked. “I would never – how could you say that?”
I shuddered. “Lisa,” I whispered.
He sighed, his head relaxing against mine. “That was an accident.”
I whimpered and struggled again. He held my arms close to my body, whispering “Shhh, shhh, shhh,” until I stopped. The adrenaline coursed through my body and spilled into tears.
“It was just an accident,” he said. “That’s all.”
“How can something like that be an accident?”
He nuzzled my neck. I grimaced, turning my face away. His other hand creeping toward my throat his arm was too heavy around my waist and it was going to hurt—
“I thought she liked me,” he said. “So I kissed her, and she…,” his arm tightened around my waist. “She laughed.”
“You’re hurting me,” I said.
“I’m sorry.” His arm relaxed fractionally.
Good. He doesn’t want to do this. My mind raced through my options. He was bigger than I was, and stronger. I didn’t have much going for me. I was a flexible dancer, but only marginally more graceful. I certainly couldn’t overpower him. Damn. Why did I do yoga instead of martial arts?
Yoga.
I was trained to make my body relax. Maybe I could catch him off guard.
I focused on my breath, on letting my muscles go slack, as if I was melting back into him. His arms softened a little and he nuzzled my neck again. I steeled myself to let him.
Maybe I could get him to talk.
“I know you don’t want to hurt anyone,” I said as gently as I could. “So why would you write ‘darling’ on her, if it was an accident?”
“I panicked,” he said ruefully. “I just… I was so angry… I saw red, and then I wanted to take it all back. I just thought… if they thought it was someone else… I didn’t mean to.”
“Then Tish… wasn’t you?” I asked.
“No,” he said, tightening his arms. “No, I would never – not like that.”
“That hurts,” I said. Damsel in distress, I thought. He liked it when I was a damsel in distress.
It worked. He relaxed his arms a little.
I had no idea whether to believe him or not. Kevin lied, Josh lied, Grant lied. There were too many lies to sort through.
So I lied.
“I believe you,” I said.
I was a dancer. A performer. I could pretend to be sexy and carefree even when I was in a whirlwind of panic.
“I just wanted someone to love me,” he said. “I would never hurt you. I would never do… what he did.”
“I know,” I said softly. I turned my head to press my lips against his neck, bile rising in my throat. “I’m sorry I panicked,” I whispered against his neck. “I’ve just been so scared.”
I felt his pulse speed up under my lips. “We’re ok?” he asked.
“We can work through it,” I said. “It was just an accident.”
“It was,” he agreed, but his grip didn’t relax.
“I’ll keep your secret,” I said. “I keep secrets for a living.”
“I want to believe you,” he whispered.
“Let’s run away,” I whispered back. “Like you said. Just forget all of this. Start over somewhere else. Just us.”
“Do you mean that?”
“We’ll figure it out,” I said. “I just want you. I just want to be with you, Grant. After all this time, we’re finally together. Don’t you want to be with me?”
He relaxed his arms enough for me to turn around. I pressed my body against his and kissed him, running my hands over his shoulders. He kissed me back eagerly, pulling me close to him. Nausea roiled in my stomach, but I kept my breath deep and passionate. I reminded myself of my training, of how I put on a good show even when Max was in the audience staring at me – but Max wasn’t touching me, making little sounds of pleasure, stomach chest and hips insistent against mine.
Any kind of sex?
Panic is a very different feeling from revulsion.
What you do is no different from dancing on tables you look like a slut— Josh’s voice echoed. I shuddered, pretending it was a shiver of passion.
I pulled him to the sofa, falling in a tangle of limbs and mouths. I reminded myself of what I told my clients at the women’s’ shelter: you did what you have to do to survive. The worst has already happened. Now I just need to survive. Now I just need my muscle memory. He made an intense, hungry sound in his throat. I rolled on top of him, tracing his jaw with my fingertips, and smiled down at him.
His dark eyes shone. “Thank you for not judging me,” he said.
“Everyone makes mistakes,” I said. “I’m not making the mistake of letting you go.” I leaned down and kissed his lips softly, moving my fingertips down his jaw and the sides of his neck, feeling over the sternocleidomastoid muscle, over the scalenes, and over the carotid artery.
I pressed. Hard. His body slackened as he lost blood supply to his head. I only had a second, so I leaned over him for a heart-stopping moment, grabbed the lamp from my nightstand, and smacked it down over his head.
He growled, his mouth twisted with rage, and he sat up, grabbing for me. I brought the lamp into his head sideways, connecting with his temple. It shattered as he knocked me back into the coffee table. It drove all the air out of my body so I couldn’t exclaim. I rolled over it and ran for the hallway. He got up and grabbed at me, catching my leg.
I fell hard onto my arm. I started crawling away, kicking to get rid of the hand gripping at my ankle.
It had come down to speed and force, and I had no weapon. My pepper spray was in my purse, still on the floor near the door. I’d have to get through Grant to get to it. My phone was still on the table. The knives, which gave me a sick feeling to even consider, were in the kitchen.
He pulled himself up and dove for me. I rolled away and sprang to my feet, ignoring the pain in my arm.
His legs were a lot longer than mine. It wouldn’t take him long to get to me. While he was still off balance, I grabbed the heavy Buddha statue from its shelf and smashed it into the side of his face. Something crunched and cracked.
Grant fell.
I shuddered, retched, and suppressed it. “It was an accident,” I whispered.
I looked down at the blood-stained Buddha in my hand. A strand of his dark hair stuck to it.
I could finish him. I could finish the lying bastard. Saying he’d protect me, saying he loved me, saying he’d—
But is it really him you’re mad at? asked the reasonable part of my mind.
Well. Yes.
I raised the Buddha overhead. I wanted to crush Grant’s skull, crush Josh’s skull, Katie’s sadistic ex-boyfriend, and then—
You’re a yoga-doing pacifist, Monica’s voice said.
“Dammit,” I said. I looked at the Buddha’s serene face. “Sorry.” I looked around the room and saw the roll of duct tape still on the end table.
I pulled Grant’s hands behind his back and taped them, making a sticky Mobius strip around his wrists. I ran it through several times, then moved on to his ankles. He stirred. I hastily tore off a piece and taped it over his mouth, accidentally catching a few strands of his hair in it. That was going to hurt. I didn’t look at the gory mess on the right side of his face
I ran to my sink and threw up, and that started the tears. Dammit. I’d cried more in the past few days than I had since my mother died. I rinsed out my mouth and picked up the phone to call Detective Santiago. My lips were sticky and salty as I told him I’d just incapacitated an intruder. The call waiting kept beeping with numbers I didn’t know. More reporters. I had to keep repeating myself to him.
Then things got really confusing.
• • •
I have no idea how long it took them to get there. I sat on the sofa, hands clasped around my phone, not answering it. When the knock sounded at the door, I opened it.
Detectives Brack and Santiago arrived shortly after the paramedics. Brack’s eyes widened fractionally and her lips parted, which was probably her equivalent of jaw hitting the floor. Later I realized it was the blood on my face and nightshirt. The forensics team was going to have a hell of a time. It was all over me.
“He’s still out there,” I told her, and stepped back to let them in.
Then there was a maelstrom of photographs and measurements and questions. “He’s still alive,” one of the paramedics said.
“We’re sending an officer in the ambulance with you,” Detective Santiago said.
Detective Brack approached me. “Miss Zendel, tell me what happened.”
“He’s still out there,” I said, and slumped onto the sofa. My bloody pink night shirt plastered against my chest, and strands of my hair stuck to my face. “He’s out there. Grant only killed Lisa.”
“I need you to tell me what happened, ma’am,” she said.
An evidence technician wearing latex gloves examined the Buddha statue, the blood and hair on its corner. “My dad gave me that,” I told him. Everything was so fast and bright.
“Miss Zendel.”
“Sleight of hand,” I said. “Grant does stage magic. He slipped the stocking into Max’s pocket. The killer is still—”
She crouched down, her eyes level with mine. “Anna,” she said quietly.
I started as if she had slapped me.
“Let’s talk about what happened,” she said.
Two people in uniform followed the paramedics wheeling Grant out on a gurney. The food on my counter was going to spoil if I went to jail. It was self-defense.
Any kind of sex?
The Tease (The Darling Killer Trilogy) Page 17
