by Sam West
Suddenly, the vast room was plunged into light and I jumped in shock, spinning round.
“I see you admiring my favourite painting. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Beautiful yet ugly, repulsive yet compelling, a real juxtaposition.”
The man extended a hand and I took an awkward step towards him to shake it. So this was Mr Thomas Jones. The love of my life’s father. All I could think in that moment was that he looked exactly as I had expected him to look.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Chloe. Scott has told us so much about you.”
I realised I was staring at him; I could feel myself going bug-eyed being caught off-guard like that. He was not unattractive for his age. I had been expecting some fusty old fart in a tweed jacket with round spectacles and white hair, and that’s pretty much what I got. But he wore it well and I wondered if he had a big cock. The ‘intellectual’ look can be quite a turn-on.
“It’s lovely to meet you, too,” I gushed, finding my voice at last. “I’ve been looking forward to it all week.”
“Oh, so have we.”
His gaze slid down my body in a not-exactly paternal way and I felt the blood rush to my face. Not out of embarrassment, but out of horniness. The knee-length, black dress I had opted for had definitely been the best choice – classy, grown-up and just on the right side of slutty.
“Scott also never mentioned how beautiful you were.”
Dirty old bastard, I thought in delight. This was going to be so much fun…
I waved my hand in front of my hot cheeks to deflect his compliment. “Oh, stop, really. You have a beautiful home.”
“Thank you. Would you care to take a seat?” he said, gesturing to the long red sofa. “Can I get you a drink? I’m having a whiskey.”
“That sounds nice. I’ll have one too.”
“A girl after my own heart,” he said with a wink.
I watched his tweed-clad back as he busied himself pouring the drinks over by the art-deco, glass cabinet which was next to the huge window.
Again, I wondered what it would be like to fuck Mr Jones. Did he get ‘overexcited’, like Scott? Did his penis also veer to the left? Would he be good at eating me out?
Well, if he isn’t I’ll just do it myself and show him how I like it done…
“So, Scott tells me you’re a writer,” he said, spinning round suddenly and catching me staring at him.
I felt my cheeks heat again under his gaze; he was going to cotton on that I was a horny little bitch with the amount of times I kept heating up.
Either that, or he’ll just think I’m a sweet, nervous little flower.
“Yeah, I just self-publish, nothing grand,” I said, cringing at my false modesty. “Not like you.”
He raised one thick, black eyebrow. “Like me? How’d you mean?”
“You know, an academic. I’m no retired university professor who writes high-brow literary articles and academic textbooks. I write to entertain myself, and hopefully to entertain others. But I’m no Hemmingway, put it that way.”
Shit, my mouth was running away from me.
Way to go, Chloe, don’t give the game away too soon.
“What do you write, Chloe?”
Hadn’t Scott told him? I wondered. Had he made me out to be more mainstream than I actually was? Was Scott ashamed of me because of what I wrote?
Maybe. He always was a self-righteous prick.
“Horror.”
His blue eyes flashed something, although I wasn’t sure what.
“I know that, but I don’t know the details, Scott just said I’d have to ask you.”
“I write extreme horror, I guess you could call it pretty dark stuff.”
“That sounds… interesting. I’d like to read something of yours one day.”
“Oh, you’re just being polite.”
“No, I have nothing but respect for innovation and imagination. You saw a market, and you went for it. You dared to think outside the box and I say good for you.”
This conversation was not going as I had expected it to. Scott had painted his parents to be kind people, but somewhat staid and old-fashioned in their values. He said they were cool with what I did for a living, but at the same time they wouldn’t want to actually read it.
Wrong again, Scotty-baby.
“I’m surprised,” I said.
“Why would you be surprised? People are multi-faceted, do you not think, Chloe? No one is ever quite as they appear.”
Ain’t that the fucking truth, I thought with a serene smile. “No, I guess not.”
“I’m thrilled my son has met a girl like you, you are perfect for each other; his practicality and your creativity go so well together.”
“Yes, I suppose so. I think Scott’s quite brilliant doing what he does. Being an electrical engineer is nothing short of genius as far as I’m concerned. He’s so clever.”
I was gushing smarmy crap again, but the truth was, my future, would-be, father-in-law was making me distinctly horny with that whole, open-minded, academic thing he had going on. I shifted slightly on the red leather sofa, conscious that the edging of the cushion might ladder my black tights.
And I so wanted to look nice for this man.
“He is very clever to land a girl like you.”
“Where are Scott and his mum? I’m so looking forward to meeting your wife,” I said, to deflect the compliment before I did anything rash.
I was in a quandary over whether to call Scott’s mum ‘Mrs Jones’ or ‘Elizabeth’. The first was too formal, the latter too familiar, hence the generic ‘your wife’.
“Scott and Elizabeth had to pop to the shops.”
“What? Really? When? I didn’t hear them leave.”
“They went in our car, we keep it parked round the back. They went just before you came in. Scott said you were likely to be on the phone for a while and he’d probably be back before you were finished talking.”
I stared at him in confusion, my heart suddenly beating uncomfortably fast. He was still standing over me and that made me nervous because this was the perfect opportunity to start my game. I took a large gulp of whiskey and savoured the soothing heat slipping down my throat.
“I thought there weren’t any shops around for miles.”
“Yes, four and a half, to be exact. We may live in the Lake district, but there’s still an Asda superstore on the outskirts of town.”
I laughed, but it sounded hollow to my own ears. “We’re more about the Tescos down south.”
Why did I say that? I thought. It sounded so god-damn lame.
“Indeed. Elizabeth forgot the ingredients for the salad. Speaking of dinner, I promised I would keep an eye on the casserole while they’re gone. I’ll be back in a moment.”
He stood up and strode over to the door that I had watched Scott disappear through earlier. I breathed a shaky sigh of relief; it was nice to be left alone for a moment to collect my thoughts. Mr Jones, or Tom, as I supposed I should call him, shut the door behind himself and I jumped to my feet. My tumbler was empty – I was sure he wouldn’t mind if I helped myself to a refill.
Over by the drink’s cabinet my gaze was drawn to a framed photograph, lying face-down next to the silver drink’s tray. I smiled at it and set it up-right again.
It’s a sign that their numbers are up…
The phone was also there next to the framed photo so I took that opportunity to reach inside my shoulder bag for the penknife I always carried, and slice through the wire.
When I had done that, I studied the framed photograph, running a trembling finger over their smiling faces. The snapshot taken on a sunny day was old; Scott couldn’t have been a day over twelve. His blonde hair, broad grin and lanky body was unmistakable. With her matching broad grin and sparkling brown eyes, the blonde woman on his right could only be his mother.
Mr Jones looked a lot younger; his receding hair a light brown. He was laughing, squinting into the sun.
“Helping yourself to the whiskey, I
see?”
I dropped my hand from the photo like it had scalded me and grabbed the whiskey bottle. Composing my features into what I hoped was a passable imitation of a normal, calm human-being, I twisted my head round to smile at him.
“Sorry, I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Of course I don’t, you’re obviously a girl after my own heart. I think I’ll have another one, too.”
He came up behind me and I willed my hands not to shake. A whiskey was a bloody good idea right about now. When he plonked his empty glass down next to mine, I tried not to visibly cringe at his nearness. I could feel him directly behind me, in my personal space. I pretended it didn’t bother me and poured out two generous measures of whiskey.
It took every inch of willpower not to breathe a sigh of relief when he took his drink and retreated to the couch.
Mentally, I ran over my possibilities at the speed of light.
Strip naked and make him fuck me?
Or perhaps just slit his throat with a shattered whiskey glass – something fun for Scott and his mum to see when they got back from the shops?
I contemplated just pulling my gun from my stylish little black shoulder bag, but then the game would be up. Besides, where would be the fun in that?
I decided to bluff it out for a little while longer, just for shits and giggles. “They’re taking a long time.”
Mr Jones stretched out his long, corduroy-clad legs.
“They’ll be back in a minute. Come and sit down, you’re making the place look untidy.”
I remained standing where I was, every muscle in my body coiled tight.
“Actually, I need to use the bathroom, if you wouldn’t mind.”
He regarded me levelly, a friendly smile tugging at his mouth. “Bathroom is through the door and up the stairs, second door on the right.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll be honest with you, Mr Jones, I was asking for later, you know, when I need to wash your blood off me.”
And there it was. The Pivotal Moment. Knowing I wasn’t what I first appeared to be changed everything about the dynamics between us…
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Greg had been so engrossed in Chloe’s words, he only then became aware that the rain had turned into a full-blown thunderstorm. He was wrenched out of the story with a start, that sense of dread intensifying with every passing second.
On trembling legs, he went over to the living-room window and yanked the curtains across, blocking out the rainy night. He shuddered. It was pitch-black out there. Anyone could be lurking in the bushes outside.
Like Chloe…
The DCI’s words echoed in his mind:
Keep your doors locked…
Had he done that earlier today? He tried to think. When he’d been back and forth with the grocery shopping this afternoon, he’d left the front door open then.
Why am I going down this road?
He told himself he was being stupid. He’d only turned his back for one second as he unloaded his groceries.
Come on, surely that doesn’t count. How else am I going to get the shopping inside? By osmosis? She is not in my house.
Even so, he jumped to his feet and ran upstairs, taking two at a time. First of all, he went into the bedroom he had once shared with Chloe which still felt humid and steamy from the shower he had just taken in the en-suite bathroom. He got to his knees and checked under the bed. Then he threw open the wardrobe door.
Nothing.
Of course there’s bloody nothing.
While he was in there he figured he may as well chuck on a pair of jeans before the police arrived, then he went into the spare bedroom. It was tiny, with no space under the single bed and blatantly no one crouching underneath the open desk where Chloe had once written.
Chiding himself for being stupid, he went back downstairs. But he still checked the laundry room at the back of the kitchen before he sat down in the armchair once more.
Why are they taking so long? It’s been ten minutes now.
Less than a week ago, his home had been under twenty-four hour surveillance. Where were the bastards when you needed them?
He picked up the diary once more, and began reading it at break-neck speed:
He regarded me levelly, a friendly smile tugging at his mouth. “Bathroom is through the door and up the stairs, second door on the right.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll be honest with you, Mr Jones, I was asking for later, you know, when I need to wash your blood off me.”
And there it was. The Pivotal Moment. Knowing I wasn’t what I first appeared to be changed everything about the dynamics between us.
Nervous butterflies fluttered in my stomach and I took a deep, shaky breath. Getting overexcited never helped anyone, I had to remind myself, and I kept my cool.
I took a gulp of my whiskey like I didn’t have a care in the world. “Do you want to fuck me before I kill you, or should I just kill you?”
I have to give Mr Jones his due, his eyes barely even flickered. “What is this?” he asked calmly.
“It’s a game, Mr Jones.”
“What do you want? Who are you?”
“Honey, I’m your worst nightmare come true. I’m the bogeywoman.”
He must have been shocked to the core but he refused to drop his gaze or show his fear. If he was a character in one of my books he would have been running screaming for the door by now.
And he’d also be very fucking dead.
“Boo!” I said.
The bastard didn’t even flinch.
Cool customer, ay? Well, I’ll soon break that icy exterior…
“Who are you?” he asked, his voice quavering, betraying his nerves. “What do you want?”
“Now we’re getting to the nitty-gritty of it, aren’t we?”
I almost felt sorry for him. A strange woman had stumbled into his life, turning it into the worst possible nightmare going and he didn’t have a fucking clue what was going on.
I did say almost felt sorry for him.
“Please…” he began, then instantly clamped his mouth shut. Maybe he guessed that when a character in one of my books started saying ‘please’ to the killer they were as good as dead.
“Please? Please don’t kill you? Now why would I want to go and do a thing like that?”
The truth was, I hadn’t quite decided what I was going to do. All I knew was that I was going to have some fun, and he probably wasn’t.
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on here, but nothing’s happened yet. Nothing has to happen. Just let me and my family walk away and we’ll pretend you never even came here tonight.”
“Walk away Scott free? I don’t think so. Although you could say the world is about to be Scott free…”
“What do you want?” he wailed, obviously forgetting all that stuff about keeping his cool.
Shame. I was actually beginning to respect him, in my own special way.
“I want to see your blood flow, that’s what I want.”
Mr Jones got to his feet. His hand must have been trembling and sweating so much that the glass slipped through his fingers and shattered on the floorboards. “Keep away from me,” he said, his eyes darting nervously from side to side as if frantically going over his options in his mind.
Good luck with that, mate.
“What’s the matter, Mr Jones? Don’t you like your future daughter-in-law?”
“Fuck you,” he said.
As soon as it was out of his mouth I could tell he knew it was a mistake.
“That wasn’t a very nice thing to say in front of a lady. In fact, you’ve made me very, very cross.”
Then I was on him. One second I was standing there, the next I sprang forward with all my trademark grace and agility. He too sprang into action, lunging for the door but I jumped on his back like an overexcited dog and he fell to the ground with a nasty smack that knocked the stuffing out of him.
I straddled his shoulders, enjoying the solid wei
ght of him between my thighs, loving the way the side of his face was crushed against the unforgiving floorboards. I leaned down and breathed hotly on the side of his neck, whispering in his ear;
“You’re not going anywhere, Daddy.”
Shuffling down his body, I wrenched his hands behind his back. He sucked in a sharp intake of breath – I had probably painfully wrenched his shoulders – but hey, at least my weight had shifted off his upper back so he could breathe again.
Unzipping my shoulder-bag, I produced a roll of sticky-tape – a girl should always be prepared. Deftly, I unrolled the tape and bound together his wrists. Pleased with my handiwork, I dismounted my new toy and did the same at his ankles.
Mr Jones wasn’t going anywhere.
“There, all done,” I said.
Just then, I heard voices drifting our way through the closed door that led to the kitchen. Scott and his mum were back and must’ve slipped in through the back-door. Wanting to prolong the fun and games for a little while longer, I skipped gaily in the direction of the kitchen.
“Back in a minute,” I said.
I burst through the kitchen-door, a little breathless and probably flushed.
“Chloe,” Scott said, dumping a carrier-bag on the kitchen island.
It was a very nice kitchen, I noticed. Much like the main living-room, it was a mix of old and new, kind of a cross between an old country cottage kitchen and a state of the art, restaurant kitchen. Despite its size and gleaming chrome features, it was cosy.
“What a lovely kitchen you have, Mrs Jones,” I said truthfully.
She smiled warmly at me. “Thank-you. And please, call me Elizabeth. Oh, come here, it really is lovely to meet you at last.”
To my surprise, she pulled me into a scented hug and I let her hold me. When she was done, she held me at arm’s length, examining me. Discreetly, I examined her right back. Just like her husband, she was pretty much as I had expected her to be. She looked to be in her early sixties, a handsome woman with neat, white, bobbed hair, a knee-length tweed skirt that was actually quite fashionable right now and a silk blouse. She was tall, like me, and slim.
“It’s lovely to meet you, too,” I said.
