by Mia Thompson
Sapphire grabbed a plate shard and her breath hitched. It wasn’t a shard; she was holding a knife. Her hands weren’t covered in ketchup, but blood.
The memory Sapphire had worked so hard to keep at bay hit her.
Richard Martin drove the knife into Charles’s chest. Sapphire tried to help Charles, but he just keep bleeding and bleeding and bleeding… then he was gone. Sapphire heard the killer laugh and she wrapped her fingers around the knife’s handle to yank it out of Charles’s chest.
She heard a door open, but it didn’t register.
She launched at Charles’s killer and drove the knife into his gut. Richard Martin fell to the floor, then Vivienne and Petunia were standing in the doorway. Petunia’s expression drained of shock and filled with glee. There was blood everywhere, and Sapphire was responsible for it all.
Sapphire shot up and knocked into another server’s tray. He fumbled and eight glasses of beer crashed on her head. She gasped as the cold liquid dripped down her back.
The restaurant turned silent, all eyes on Sapphire. She looked at her hand to find a plate shard, no blood in sight.
Colette came out with the broom and stopped to stare at Sapphire’s new mess, then lit up. “Shit Ha-ppins?”
“Oui, Colette.” Sapphire taught her the phrase last week and she’d been dying to use it.
“C’est la vie, Saphir. Go home.” Colette titled her head. “You’re costing me more money than you’re making me today.”
“Fair enough,” Sapphire sighed, brushing off her apron. Her new life wasn’t supposed to be like this. Paris’s perfectness was slipping away, and she felt like she was losing her mind.
“Bye, bitch!” Colette smiled and waved as Sapphire headed for the rickety staircase that led to the second level.
She cursed Father O’Riley again as she closed the door to her apartment and banged her forehead against it. She’d been fine until he told her she couldn’t outrun her demons, hadn’t she? Pushy bastard.
“Is that a pen in your apron, or are you just happy to see me?”
Sapphire blinked into the door. She knew that voice too well. She turned, her body rigid, and stared at the man in her tattered armchair.
It was definitely Aston Ridder—the man, not the figment. He had a beard and looked like misery itself, but Sapphire could pick out those piercing blue eyes in a crowd of millions. They sparkled at her and were the only jovial thing in his otherwise morose appearance.
It was only a pen in her apron, but she was happy to see him… yet terrified. She wanted to throw herself in his arms and run away from him. She did neither; she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.
“Love what you’ve done with the place.” Aston glanced around. “Nothing says home quite like mold, water damage, and a family of mice living in the pantry.”
They technically lived under the tub; the pantry was more like their vacation home.
“Nothing to say, huh?” Aston held his hands out in question. “How are you? How was your flight? I love your beard. Nothing?”
He grabbed the armrests to get up and Sapphire snapped back to life. She yanked the door open and looked downstairs. A group of people were huddled in the hallway below, waiting to get into the restaurant, blocking her exit.
Aston followed her out the door and Sapphire headed upstairs instead. She took the old steps two at a time, avoiding the questionable ones.
“Sapphire!” Aston’s foot crashed through a rotten step. He launched forward in the fall and grabbed her ankle. She lost her balance, fell forward and smacked into the stair. Sapphire kicked. She hadn’t meant to kick so hard, but she cracked his lip. He let go with a yell and she scrambled back on her feet.
Aston pulled his leg out of the hole and Sapphire bolted through the hallway toward the door to the roof top. Aston’s body slammed her into the thin wall. The old divider caved around them and they crashed into the connecting room. They wrestled before they stopped rolling. Aston landed on top and pinned Sapphire’s arms above her head.
“Listen! It’s not what you think—”
Sapphire smacked her forehead into his nose and pushed him off. She jumped out of the hole in the wall and kicked open the door to the roof.
Aston wasn’t great with heights and she hoped it would slow him down. She circled the roof until she found a spot close enough to the next roof top. It was far, but she could make it.
The door flew open behind her and she dashed toward the ledge. Aston apparently wasn’t as scared as he used to be, because he ran at her full speed.
She leapt just as he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her back. They stood close together, her back to his chest, and stared down at Boulevard de Clichy as they caught up on air.
“Stop… running.” His heavy breath warmed her neck.
Sapphire closed her eyes and tried to exhale the panic.
Aston peered at the drop and groaned. “You’re crazy; you never would’ve made it across.”
She would’ve, but that wasn’t the point. They stepped away from the ledge and she turned to face him. “You don’t have any jurisdiction here, you can’t make me leave.” She turned to the door.
“Sapphire, you have to listen to me—”
“I don’t have to listen to anything!” She already knew what he was going to say. “You’re under arrest for murder. Your whole family, everyone in Beverly Hills, and I hate you for what you did.” She wouldn’t—no couldn’t—go home.
Aston grabbed her wrist hard. The touch sent a rush of awareness.
Their eyes locked. Their past, their months of separation, and the future they both wanted burned around them.
A plan formulated in her mind. Sapphire stood on her toes and kissed him.
• • •
“Caroline Faulk,” the Serial Catcher said, dumping the dirt on the body. “Suzanne Richmond.”
Bennett, or the ODK—Online Dating Killer—lay cramped with rigor mortis at the bottom of the hole. She grimaced, thinking of what he may have done to the women he killed. Thanks to her, he’d never hurt another woman again.
She dumped a shovel full of dirt over his face. Bennett’s grave was only a few feet from two other monsters: The Pasadena Killer and the Highway Slayer. The part of the woods she’d chosen was perfect. It was on private property, so the odds that someone would stumble upon the graves were slim.
“Wendy Michaels.” She filled up the hole then jumped with venom to tamp down the dirt. “Lauren Smith!”
He’d been easy to catch, barely a challenge after the experience she’d gained. All the girls she’d named, the ones he’d killed, had the same hair. All she had to do was take a picture of herself with a perm, then join all the sites. She’d only gone on five dates before she met him. She knew Bennett was the ODK before they’d even gotten their appetizers. The man had made up so many different profiles to stay under the cops’ radar, he had trouble keeping his various interests boxes straight.
She stomped on his grave with a yell.
“Hello there.”
She stopped jumping and breathing. A hunter and his beagle stared at her from a hundred feet away. It wasn’t in a threatening way, but she noted the rifle in his hand.
“This is private land,” she said. “You can’t hunt here.”
“I’m aware.” He kept his eye on her. “It’s my land.”
She swallowed and watched the dog. He sniffed dangerously close to the Highway Slayer’s grave.
“Sorry,” she rushed. “I shouldn’t have, but it’s so beautiful and I love taking walks here.”
He nodded carefully.
Her eyes drew to the dog. It left the Highway Slayer’s grave and trotted toward her.
“What were you stomping on?” the hunter asked, pointing to his dog’s destination.
“A bug.”
The dog sniffed around her feet at Bennett’s grave. The beagle let out a bark, then lifted his front leg and pointed his nose to the grave. She held her breath, eyes on th
e hunter.
His gaze landed onto the size of the fresh soil. “Must’ve been one big bug.”
“It’s nothing, really,” she said, her heart in her throat. She could not get caught. She had important work ahead.
“If it’s nothing, I’m sure you don’t mind me calling the police.” The hunter whistled. “C’mere boy.”
The beagle let out a disgruntled snort, then hurried to his owner.
“Please, please…” She hurried up to him. “Don’t call them, and I promise never to set foot on your land again. Deal?”
The beagle sat at his master’s feet, sending a low gut growl her way.
“I’m sorry.” The hunter shook his head, then adjusted his riffle strap and swung around.
She touched his shoulder. “Sir, please…”
He turned with impatience. “I said n—”
Her hand launched to the hunter’s throat. Her fingers dug into the soft skin between the trachea, and tore out his esophagus.
The beagle barked and charged at her boots as the man’s face contorted. He fell to the ground, clasping his throat. It didn’t take long before the gurgling and thrashing ceased.
She stared down at the dead hunter. “You should’ve taken the deal.”
She grabbed him by the boots and dragged him. The beagle followed, letting out enraged yaps. She grabbed the shovel, and raised the blade over the dog’s head.
Just as she was about to smack him, he stopped barking. He sniffed the body, then squeezed in between his master’s arm and ribs. The dog curled up, then let out longwinded, sorrowful whines.
She tilted her head, then grabbed the dog’s collar and hurled him forward.
“Go on!” she yelled, taking a rock to throw at him. “Go!”
The beagle made circles of confusion, then took off into the trees.
This was not what she wanted today, but she couldn’t allow anyone to stop her. The future Wendies, Carolines, and Laurens, needed her to do this.
She dug a new grave and placed the hunter in the hole, realizing she’d have to find a new burial ground.
She clambered in her car and hit the road. She’d be with the one at home soon, and would have to pretend like none of this ever happened. She hated that. She knew some things she did may be considered immoral or brutal, but it was the right way, the only way, it should be done. The one at home wouldn’t have agreed with her actions today, neither would the original, she supposed.
I’m the one, the only Serial Catcher, she thought as she headed south.
And as long as the other one stayed away, there wouldn’t be a problem.
• • •
Aston lay naked and asleep on his stomach on top of her scruffy mattress. She took in his closeness, and wished she could freeze time.
It was like Sapphire’s fantasies, only this time his lip was split and his nose squealed at every exhale. She hadn’t meant to do that, but she’d been in panic-mode.
Once they’d hit the mattress and their clothes vanished, Sapphire knew she’d been lying to herself. There were better ways to get away from Aston, but she’d wanted it this way, wanted him. She’d pretended to fall asleep afterward to avoid the questioning. It didn’t take long before he drifted off, thank God for jet lag.
Sapphire held her breath as she slid off the mattress and ignored the pain; to remove her body from Aston’s was like peeling off a resistant Band-Aid. She collected her scattered clothes and realized she had to escape commando and braless; both items were lodged under Aston’s crotch and she couldn’t open her old, squeaky drawer for new ones.
She looked at him one last time, then turned to open the door. She had to leave and start over elsewhere; what she really wanted was impossible.
A gun cocked. “Don’t even think about it.”
Sapphire froze, then turned. Aston hadn’t even repositioned himself. He aimed the gun at her lazily in bed, eyes still closed.
“Aston, we both know you’re not going to shoot me.”
“Wrong.” Aston opened one eye. “We both know I won’t kill you, but I’m not above shooting you in the leg.”
They stared at each other as Sapphire evaluated the seriousness in his face. She smacked the door back shut and crossed her arms.
“Sit.”
Sapphire sat down on the windowsill next to the plant she bought when she first moved in, thinking it would make her place homey. It was long dead.
Her pulse escalated as she watched Aston sit up and light a cigarette. She knew what terrible things he was going to say.
“Your name was cleared from the incident at the country club.”
Okay, not what she expected.
“It was obvious what had happened when CSI came in. Richard Martin, a known serial killer, killed your stepfather, then went after you. You clearly killed him in self-defense… or is that not what happened?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “That’s what happened.”
Not what happened. Richard Martin, who came after her for revenge after she’d trapped him last year, made no advancement after he murdered Charles… she’d killed him anyway. “What about Petunia?”
“Petunia?” Aston’s forehead creased.
“My cousin.” A.k.a: Satan/Hitler/spawn-of-evil. To Petunia and Sapphire’s mother, it had looked like Sapphire killed both Charles and Richard Martin. Sapphire bolted, believing Petunia would tell the cops exactly that.
“Oh right. Your mother’s and my story discounted hers. She must’ve been hammered to even think that’s what she saw… right?” Aston looked worried.
“Right,” she hurried. “Right.”
Had Sapphire really been running for nothing? She loved her free life in Paris, but running from murder charges wasn’t exactly peaches and cream. It was more like spoiled gravy and stale bread, something she coincidently had to eat last week.
“I mean…” Aston’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not hiding anything, are you?”
A fear flared in Sapphire as she shook her head. What if Aston knew more than he was letting on? What if he’d finally put the pieces together of her as the Serial Catcher? Sapphire studied his worried expression and knew his suspicion lay in what happened at the country club, and nothing else. He and his weird partner Capelli had come close to figuring out her identity as the Serial Catcher in May, but she’d obviously managed to throw them off.
“So I’m totally clear?”
“Well, you’ll still have to make an appearance in court and pay a fine for fleeing a crime scene. But, compared to going down for murder, yeah… you’re clear.” Aston cocked his head. “I didn’t come here to drag you back home. I came here to tell you, you could go home. And what do I get? A split lip and a deviated septum.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.
The relief spread through Sapphire. She wasn’t a fugitive and she felt like an idiot. She’d treated Aston like a bounty hunter. It was Aston after all. The same guy who’d risked his life time after time to save her.
“But…” Aston’s blue gaze was penetrating. “If there’s anything about what happened in that room that you’re not telling me, I need to know now. If something comes up later, I might not be able to help you.”
Sapphire inhaled and gave Aston her utmost sincerity. “No.”
“Good,” Aston exhaled and his body relaxed. “So, ready to come home?”
Even without murder charges, going home meant facing everything else: the country club, the Vanderpilts, her mother, and worse, Charles’s death. But to see Julia again and to meet her newborn would be amazing. Sapphire would have money for coffee again. Hell, she’d have money for anything again. At the top of the mountain of positives: she’d get to leave with the man sitting in front of her. The image of Aston by her side demolished the fear of the Vanderpilts blacklisting her in Beverly Hills.
Maybe she’d go home and be…
A murderer, a thought declared inside her.
And be fine, Sapphire corrected. If it didn’t work out, she could always
come back to Paris.
“So, what do you say?” Aston raised a brow.
Sapphire looked at him. Was this finally it? Would Sapphire and Aston get on that plane and land in the States together? Like together, together.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” Aston got up, his grin wide with joy.
“Okay.” She smiled back as he pounced at her.
Aston grabbed her by the waist and Sapphire let out a thrilling scream as he hurled them both back into bed.
• • •
Twenty-five minutes.
“Je m’appelle Aston,” Sapphire directed over the airplane’s strident hums.
“Jim’s apple Aston,” he repeated.
“Merci beaucoup.”
“Mercy buttercup.” Aston held his hands out, proud as hell. “Nailed it, right?”
“Sure, why not.”
Aston reached over to grab her face and gave her a long, wet kiss. He’d felt like this since Sapphire agreed to come home with him, like the world was their vacation, like Sinatra walked behind them singing and snapping his fingers to their beat. Whether it was reality or not didn’t matter, Aston wanted to take it in. He gave Sapphire another smooch.
“Seriously, you guys,” Bob, the guy seated between them, said. “You know how awkward this is for me?”
“Sorry, Bob,” Sapphire and Aston replied in unison. They pulled back to their window and aisle seats, eyes still on each other.
The seatbelt sign dinged just before the plane descended and Aston leaned back in his seat. Twenty minutes.
He looked out the small window as LAX came into view. A year ago he wouldn’t have set foot in an airplane. He used to hate heights, but it seemed easy now with Sapphire… and Bob, by his side. He’d even prefer staying in the air.
They’d spent the days before the plane took off in a fog of food in bed, drinks in bed, and sex everywhere else. It was just him, Sapphire, and the old bohemian part of Paris that seemed to belong only to them. They didn’t speak of the past or the future as they roamed the narrow cobblestoned streets at night. It had been the best three days of Aston’s existence.
