by Mia Thompson
“Who’s here?” the woman said.
“Just a deranged patient of ours,” Dr. Rues said, dialing the phone.
Dr. Rues’ wife peeked into the living room.
Odd. Sapphire stared at the giant pair of boobs entering the room a freakishly long time before the rest of the body followed. She’d seen the picture of Dr. Rues’ wife at his office and the woman hadn’t seemed as busty in the photograph.
A smile spread on Sapphire’s face.
“Why Dr. Rues, that’s not your wife,” she chirped as if he didn’t know. “Here I was accusing you of being a late night snacker. The whipped cream was clearly only meant for recreational purposes between you and your receptionist.”
Dr. Rues’ top-heavy receptionist threw a confused glance at Sapphire and then at her lover.
“As kindhearted as it is of you to lend your wife’s side of the bed to your receptionist while your family is away,” Sapphire said, “I don’t know if your wife would see it that way. What do you think?”
Dr. Rues swallowed, putting the phone down.
“Darling,” he sighed, turning to the receptionist, “why don’t you go on up while I do a quick session with Ms. Dubois?”
The receptionist shrugged and left, then came back to snag the whipped cream.
“Please, make yourself comfortable on the couch,” Dr Rues said. Sapphire moved to let him take the chair.
“So, you said you couldn’t sleep.” He put his finger to his chin, resuming a position of authority. “Can I assume nightmares, night terrors?”
“Nightmares that, um…I’m sorry,” Sapphire said, staring at his junk pushing against his underwear. “It’s really hard to take you seriously right now.”
Dr. Rues muttered and covered up his tighty whities with a blanket from the chair. “Proceed.”
She told him what she felt he needed to know.
“So can you fix it?” She settled into the couch. It was just as suspiciously comfortable as the one in his office. “And where the hell do you get these couches, IKEA?” She turned, searching for a tag.
After a moment, Dr. Rues spoke. “It’s possible you tapped into a repressed memory when you went under hypnosis.” He watched her for a second. “Speaking of which, there was something I meant to ask you during our last session. I decided not to because you seemed to be doing well, but while you were under you were clenching your fists.”
“And?”
“Based on my studies, most patients who clench their fists during hypnosis are experiencing reluctance from the subconscious mind. Many times this can be linked to severe childhood trauma.” He studied her again, probably until he felt he’d made her uncomfortable enough. “Have you, Ms. Dubois?”
Sapphire chuckled. “If you’d ever walked in on your mother having sex with your second grade teacher, you’d probably be traumatized too.”
Dr. Rues wasn’t amused. “What about recurring nightmares prior to the hypnosis?”
“No.” Yes. From time to time, over the years, Sapphire had woken up screaming, never able to remember the dreams.
“Any unhealthy obsessions or urges? Things you are compelled to do, perhaps without understanding why?”
“No!” Yes. The bastard was reading her mind, emptying it of everything tagged serial killer. “I grew up in Beverly Hills, Dr. Rues, how traumatic can it get?”
That seemed to do it. Dr. Rues let go of the intense stare. “Either way, your mind won’t be satisfied until you’ve seen what you are supposed to see and have accepted it.”
“I saw it, accepted it, and now I want it to go away.”
“I can target your sleep cycle and try to remove the images from there,” Dr. Rues sighed. “But I can’t guarantee they won’t appear while you’re in other states of mind. Sometimes when we consciously try to suppress something the memories grow instead of weaken.”
“Will I sleep?”
“Most likely.”
“Then do it.” Sapphire lay down and closed her eyes.
* * * * *
Sapphire was in a meadow, surrounded by bright blue skies, feeling tranquil. She knew everything she experienced was fake, conjured by Dr. Rues, but she felt wonderful.
“This place of harmony,” Dr. Rues said, his voice echoing in the sky, “is where you’ll find yourself every time you go to sleep.”
Sapphire noticed her mother. She was standing in the middle of the meadow holding a shoebox. She looked around, paranoid.
“Sapphire…” Vivienne clenched the box. “Don’t tell your father we found it.”
* * * * *
Dr. Rues snapped Sapphire out. “How do you feel?”
“Good,” Sapphire said. This time, she did feel good. She was ready to do some serious sleeping and prodding.
“Great.” He clapped his hands. “Then please get out of my house and feel free to find a different doctor.”
Rude.
Dr. Rues slammed the door behind her, and Sapphire dialed her phone, going for the prodding first.
“Vivienne Dubois, please.”
“Ma’am, it’s five in the morning. Our residents aren’t woken until seven.”
“It’s an emergency. This is her daughter.”
The receptionist put her on hold as Sapphire paced the sidewalk outside of Dr. Rues’ home.
“Is it Charles?” Vivienne panted into the phone. “Has he died?” She didn’t even bother hiding the hope in her voice.
“What was in the shoebox, Mom?” The box could have been nothing, a fake image like the meadow Dr. Rues had created for her, but it felt real.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What was in the box?” Sapphire’s tone grew more urgent as she stepped into the road, heading for her car.
“I don’t…how do you…you were so young…”
“What was in the goddamned shoebox?!”
“Killers!” Vivienne blurted out. “Newspaper clippings about murders, victims. Sick, horrible, things that nobody should save, that nobody should collect!”
Sapphire stopped in the middle of the road.
“I found the shoebox in the back of the closet. He never thought I knew anything. I’d see him glued to TV reports about killers and murders with this worried look on his face. I got the feeling he thought he could help and be some sort of, I don’t know…”
“Vigilante,” Sapphire filled in. Everything started spinning. The expensive houses with their greener-than-green grass, the street, the cars, even a Corgi whirled around Sapphire as if she was in the eye of a tornado.
“Yes,” Vivienne said in a disconnected tone. “Any more painful memories you’d like to rummage through or will that be all?”
Sapphire exhaled and the tornado settled.
“Just one more thing. Screw you for sleeping with Mr. Welsh; he was my favorite teacher.” Sapphire hung up and moved toward her Range Rover.
Like father, like daughter, she chanted in her mind. She supposed she should feel happy about sharing a connection with her father, but something didn’t feel right. She didn’t feel right about it.
It would explain his sudden disappearance. He was either killed by one of his adversaries, or chose to leave because he couldn’t lead a double life anymore. It hit home…more than Sapphire wanted to admit.
Perhaps her father was still out there somewhere, doing what she did. Two Serial Catchers. Aston’s brain would explode.
Sapphire was just about to unlock her Range Rover when she saw the white Audi parked a few yards down. The same Audi that had been outside the mansion. It reversed and peeled off in the other direction.
Sapphire stared after it.
Once was nothing. Twice was trouble.
Chapter 14
Tick. Tick. Tick. Fifty-three minutes.
Sapphire stared at herself in the wedding dress in the 360 degree mirror and felt the sweat accumulate above her lip. It was suffocating her body and its tight, off-the-shoulder straps squeezed her arms into s
ubmission.
She’d gotten home from Dr. Rues’ that morning ready to see if the hypnosis worked. She didn’t even bother stripping out of her clothes before collapsing on her bed. She’d just closed her eyes when the door bell rang. Berta was out with Charles so Sapphire zombie-shuffled down to the door and opened it to find Eloise, the wedding planner from Hell.
“Oh great, you’re ready,” Eloise said.
“Um, ready fooor…”
Eloise’s eyes exploded with rage. “Ready for your fitting! I’ve sent the itinerary more than once!”
Sapphire was forced by limo to the bridal shop on Rodeo Drive and jammed into the Vera Wang.
Since the dress was designed for Sapphire by Vera herself, it wasn’t the fitting that took time; it was the accessories. Tiara, no tiara? Veil, no veil? Gloves, no gloves?
The company only made it worse. Chrissy sulked into her glass of red wine, which she insisted she had to have the moment the staff announced there could be no colored liquids near the dresses. Mrs. Vanderpilt, however, was cheerful, but only because Eloise gave her a Xanax. And Petunia and her mother, Heather, were having a blast attacking Sapphire.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Fifty minutes until she had to be at the Golden Mirage.
“Have you gained weight?” Petunia eyed Sapphire. “I get it, with your mother in rehab, it’s probably stress eating. She is the only family member you are actually related to, and she’s not even here. Carefuuul, don’t want to look fat on your honeymoooon.”
Sapphire opened her mouth but found no words.
Heather and Petunia had always taken stabs at Sapphire not being a real Dubois. Usually their comments barely grazed her, but today Petunia’s remark actually hurt. She’d never liked the name Dubois, but Sapphire Green felt too foreign.
“It must be so hard for you, Petunia,” Chrissy cut in, taking a sip of her wine. “Sapphire marrying a Vanderpilt has to remind you of how super single you are. I’m curious, how do you cope? By shopping discount designer wear from last season?” She nodded to Petunia’s fur vest.
Sapphire sent an appreciative smile, but Chrissy was already back to sulking.
“I have a boyfriend,” Petunia mumbled. “He could propose any day.” This was all she dared to say. The Krafts weren’t social enemies you wanted to make.
Petunia’s sudden need for marriage had nothing to do with social pressure…or love. She was in a lifelong competition with Sapphire. Anything she had, Petunia wanted two of.
Sapphire remembered the moment she realized her cousin couldn’t be the child of her kind Uncle Gary—that she was, in fact, the spawn of Satan.
It was the event of the season at the country club. Petunia and Sapphire had been 8 years old, sitting next to each other in their puffy dresses—no doubt made from unicorn pelts. Petunia had loved it, but Sapphire had felt trapped. She had stared at the exit, praying for the night to end.
Run. Sapphire had thought, before making her first mistake.
She had turned to Petunia and whispered, “Hey, let’s see if we can trick the chauffer into driving us somewhere.” Sapphire had felt a thrill run through her. “Anywhere but Beverly Hills.”
Petunia’s eyes had narrowed. “Why would we want to leave Beverly Hills?” She turned back to the stage. “You’re so weird.”
Sapphire had sunk back in her seat. “Yeah, no, I was kidding.”
She had sat still for five more minutes but she couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Pardon me,” Sapphire had nodded to Petunia, Uncle Gary, Charles, and the nymphomaniac staring at the waiter’s crotch: her mother. “I’m going to the ladies’ room.”
She had hurried to the bathroom and climbed up on the sink to open the small ceiling window, before leaping from the sink, grabbing onto the window, and pulling herself out. She had been halfway through when the dress’s puffy skirt got stuck. She couldn’t move.
“Sapphire!”
Sapphire had turned to see Petunia in the doorway.
“Petunia,” Sapphire had exhaled in relief. “Help pull me in. My mom will be so pissed if she finds out I tried to run away again.” A few seconds passed. “Petunia, hurry!”
Sapphire had squinted back into the bathroom. A smile crept onto Petunia’s lips. It was an evil, satisfied, version of glee.
“Oooh, Auntie Vivienne!” Petunia had called, turning on her heel.
Sapphire had been grounded for trying to escape and for embarrassing Vivienne. It had taken three servers to get her out.
From that day on, Sapphire disliked Petunia. Her cousin, however, felt more than just a mutual dislike. Petunia hated Sapphire, she knew it.
Tick. Tick. Tick. 45 minutes to get to the Golden Mirage.
“Chrissy.” Sapphire turned to the only other person who didn’t want to be there…who was she kidding? Nobody—except for Eloise—wanted to be there. “You were going to show me that thing in the dressing room?”
“What thing?”
“The thing.” Sapphire gave her a look.
“Riiight, the thing.” Chrissy used her whole face to wink, making it obvious to the whole room.
Sapphire closed the curtain behind them. “Chrissy, can you help me get out of here? No questions asked.”
“Why?” Chrissy asked, taking a sip of her red wine.
“Do you not know the meaning of no questions asked?”
“Whatever. You sure?”
“Yes.”
Chrissy shrugged and tossed her glass.
Sapphire exited the dressing room with the stained Vera Wang, and the women’s cries of despair were heard by the whole county.
* * * * *
Long, dark hair. A sharp but rounded nose. The eyes were the important part, taunting and full of darkness.
Richard Martin stared at his drawing on the napkin and took another bite of the dry breadstick. Yes. It was her.
He was back in L.A., and he’d searched all over the county. Marina Del Ray. Burbank. Santa Monica.
He was in West Hollywood now. It was 7 p.m. and the sun had set, reminding him of another day gone. Another failure.
Every day she faded more in his mind, and he hoped the sketch would help him remember her face. He used to love drawing when he was a kid on Park Avenue in New York. Once his nanny quit, and there was nobody around to praise his work, he grew sick of it.
Now, it seemed, he’d grown sick of killing as well.
He’d tried killing that college girl at the restroom in Utah, but as he stood there ready to slice her throat, he couldn’t do it. He let the girl run away in tears when he realized she wasn’t her. None of them would ever be the Serial Catcher.
That’s how powerful she was. She didn’t even have to be present to keep taking things from him. Her actions in the forest months ago had caused an everlasting ripple effect of negativity on his life. She had made him impotent.
If the victim wasn’t the Serial Catcher, he didn’t want to kill. If he didn’t have killing, Richard Martin had nothing.
He licked the pencil tip and blackened her irises.
Who are you? He wondered. How will I find you?
“Another.” Richard emptied his beer and slid the glass to the bartender.
“Pretty.” The bartender nodded to the sketch.
“She’ll be prettier when she’s dead,” Richard mumbled.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, can I have some more bread?”
The bartender grabbed the bread basket, and Richard turned to a group of celebrating women that had just walked in. Their scant party dresses should have made his carnal being roar, but there wasn’t even a whisper.
He hated the Serial Catcher for it. Richard had killed a lot of women in his days; he never hated any of them. On the contrary, he loved them all, a little.
He heard her laugh again, taunting him from the past. He grizzled his teeth and pushed the pencil to her eye so hard it pierced the napkin. Putting a hole in her felt good and made him chortle. His laugh grew hysteri
cal and people turned their heads. He knew his hate for her had poisoned his mind and was making him crazy, but he didn’t care. He kept laughing until his stomach ached and his eyes watered. He sighed and wiped his cheek.
The chattering group of women sat down in the stools next to him.
“I can’t believe he proposed!” one of them yelled. “How’d he do it?”
The engaged woman showed them a strange blue ring and told them the story of the spontaneous proposal. “I’m sure he’ll be working on replacing it with a real one soon…” Her eyes landed on the counter then drew up to Richard and never strayed.
Maybe she liked the looks of him and was in need of a last hoorah before she got married. Or maybe…she recognized him from the news coverage of his trial.
Richard pulled his ball cap over his brows and shot out of his seat. He could not get caught before he found the Serial Catcher.
After he’d killed her he wasn’t sure he cared what happened to him. What would there be for him after she was gone?
He hurried out of the bar and tried to look natural as he shoved his hands in his pockets, matching the other pedestrians’ pace.
“Excuse me!” The hand with the odd blue ring touched his shoulder.
Tense, he turned to face the newly engaged woman. This would be the first time he would kill a woman out of necessity and not want.
How peculiar. Like killing a man.
“You forgot this.” She held out the napkin with the sketch.
“Oh, thank you.” Richard exhaled and relaxed. When he tried to take it from her, she held on, eyes locked on him.
Back to plan A?
“I have to give it to you.” She nodded to his sketch. “You’ve got some skills…”
“Mmhm.” Richard scanned the crowd. Would anyone notice if he dragged her into the alley?
“I recognized her right away.”
Richard’s heart jumped. He looked at the woman, then down at the drawing of his nemesis. “You know who she is?”
She smiled.
* * * * *
“No!” Ginger shouted. “I want the black one or I’m not going on!”
“The bloody number is called Randy Red Riding Hood,” Giles said, the patience in his voice running thin. “You don’t suppose wearing red would be more appropriate?”
