"Riiiight, like you even try, Peralta. When's the last time you had a damn girlfriend?" he asks, his face scrunched in wonder. "Last time you went on a date even?"
"Longer than I can remember, my friend. Now, don't we have more important shit to do than talk about my love life?" I say, waving the folder at him.
"I suppose so, but let me know any time you wanna take the wife and kid for a weekend or year or whatever!" He flashes a cheesy grin below his Tom Selleck mustache.
"I'm gonna have to pass."
"Well, it's a standing offer, partner." He laughs, putting his hands on his impressive beginner's beer gut.
Ten years my senior, the donuts and therapy beer have caught up to him. Then again, he probably hasn't seen a gym in a few years. He always says it’s elbow tendonitis acting up. Mr. Excuse is what I call him. Like me, he joined the department at an older age than most. I thought getting into this gig at twenty-six was tough; I can't imagine doing it at thirty-two. But he's a funny, hard-working old bastard and a damn good partner.
"I'm gonna go ahead and give you a forever hard pass then." I laugh, running my fingers through my damp hair. My office runs furnace-hot, so I'm in a constant state of sweat. "So we have eight identical murders now with this guy and another three that look awfully similar." I open the file again, jostling through the top few pages. “All arrested for prostitution—"
"And about one or two more disappearing every few months… and that’s just in Asheville," Tommy interjects. “We know he’s operated elsewhere.”
"Exactly. He's precise. He’s smart. Leaves no evidence. Some found dead for mere hours, others for weeks, but no sexual assault with any of the victims. So why keep them?"
"They're his trophies. Maybe he gets off on the power. Who knows, man? You know how these motherfuckers are. There's no rhyme or reason to it."
"But that's where I think you're wrong, my friend," I say, closing the file and stuffing it into my briefcase. "I think there is a pattern to it. It's a game he's playing. And I get the feeling he knows exactly what he's doing." I stand, remove my coat from the rack, and slip it on. "Let's go down to Tenth Street and talk to some of the regulars. See if they've seen anything strange with any of their Johns. We can swing by the crime scene too."
Tommy stands too, rubbing his hands together. "Hooker patrol, let's do it! I'll get the car warmed up."
He turns and heads out the door. I don't move right away. Instead I let the four years I've spent chasing this killer wash over me in a flood of fucked up reminiscence. Four years of torture, mutilation, and death. Four years of missed chances and blown opportunities. I'm still no closer to catching him than the day I started, but it's what drives me.
That—and this motherfucker killed my baby sister. For that, he will be caught. It’s just a matter of when.
“Pretty Monster”—Reckless Serenade
Thirty minutes ago, the taxi pulled off the main highway onto this narrow side road. I always feel so awkward in the back of a cab. Do you attempt to strike up a conversation with the driver or not? It feels rude not to but overly friendly if you do. I decide to keep quiet, resting my forehead against the window as I watch the turning autumn trees whizz past.
Am I excited? Of course. Excited. Nervous—no, I'm terrified. Mr. Mercer chose me out of all the applicants—not fucking Margaret Stanley. But what does that mean anyway?
To say he left me unnerved at the coffee shop is an understatement. There is something about him, something deep-seated within him—in his eyes—that scares me a little. Maybe it's arrogance or intelligence or my own obsession with him, but something about him leaves me utterly mortified to be in his presence, yet here I am on my way to his cabin to write an entire novel alongside him. It makes my stomach kink. I'm worried he'll realize on day one what a shitty writer I am and send me packing. I debated asking if we could do this co-author deal via email or fucking Google docs, but after thinking that over, I figured it would only aggravate him if I asked. For some reason, I think he may have very little patience.
The cab takes a sharp right turn, and begins weaving up a twisting mountain ridge. The farther up we go, the thicker the trees grow, and a slight drizzle begins to fall. The driver flicks a knob on the steering wheel, and the windshield wipers screech over the glass. The noise makes my skin prickle. My phone buzzes, and when I see it's my mother, I press Ignore. The last thing I want her to know is that I'm here. She'll see it as her jackpot.
"Hell, this is out in the middle of nowhere, huh?" the pudgy man crammed into the driver's seat mumbles.
"Yeah…"
He chuckles. "Why'd the hell would somebody want to live this far from town? They killing people or somethin'?"
Chill bumps sweep over my skin, and I laugh to ease the tension. "Maybe." Maybe…
After driving several miles up the mountain in silence, we turn onto a one-lane road. I can barely see the outline of the road from the pile of leaves covering it. Woods. Thick woods surround us for a good five minutes before the taxi rolls to a stop, brakes squeaking. I glance out of the window at a small cabin, my breath fogging over the glass. My brow wrinkles. I’d expected something more… extravagant. Edwin Mercer is a eight-time number-one NYT best-selling author. He's made millions of dollars, and this—I narrow my gaze at the log cabin with smoke billowing from the stone chimney—this is what he lives in? Almost immediately, I chastise myself. Simplicity. That’s respectable.
I pay the driver, grab my luggage from the back, and slam the trunk. The tires crunch over gravel as he pulls away, and once the hum of the engine disappears down the road, I realize how silent it is out here.
I glance at the thick woods lining his property. I can just make out a tiny shed nestled by the tree line. My heart rate kicks up a notch, and I'm not even sure why I have this apprehension—it's only my entire future that hinges upon this project.
The wind picks up, shaking a few leaves from the tree limbs, and I shiver. The late-autumn air has a nasty chill to it. I hate cold like this. It reminds me of being a kid in that scummy apartment without any heat, unable to sleep because I couldn't stop shaking. It reminds me of how much I hate my mother… just thinking about her sends my pulse into overdrive. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and push my shoulders back. A moment later, I slowly walk toward the cabin, struggling to drag my luggage over the uneven ground.
The porch creaks when I step onto it. Even though it's rather cold outside, sweat builds under my hair and slicks my palms as I stare at the worn door, reciting what I’ll say to him. I manage to calm myself and timidly knock.
The doorknob turns, the hinges to the door groaning when Mr. Mercer yanks it open. "Welcome, Ms. Cross. Did the driver have any trouble finding the place?"
"No," I say, stepping into the massive living room. It's much more spacious than the outside makes it appear.
"Well, that's a first. Those fucks can never get it right." He takes the luggage from my hand and sets it to the side, putting a hand up to welcome me in.
This—this is not simplicity. Everything is immaculate and orderly. The tongue-and-groove ceiling meets in a peak. The room is completely open. All of the leather furniture looks unused. The hardwood floors gleam under the midafternoon sun pouring in from the large bay window at the back of the room. Expensive-looking art hangs neatly on the walls. Above the large stone fireplace, with its roaring fire, are several proudly mounted animal heads, their lifeless eyes glaring at me. My gaze drifts around the room again, stopping on that huge window.
Edwin cocks his head, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I see you've spotted the impeccable view. That view is the exact reason I bought the place."
I nod because I don't know what else to do. He makes me nervous. I'm afraid no matter what I say, I'll sound like a bumbling idiot.
"Let's check it out first then. It's where we’ll be spending the majority of our time anyway." He nods toward the opposite side of the room. "After you."
I hesitate before starting toward the large desk positioned in front of the window, Edwin close behind me. Nearly to the desk, my foot catches on the large area rug, and I stumble, my arms flailing gracelessly as I attempt to stop myself. But I don't need to stop myself, because Edwin catches me just before I fall into the desk, his strong hands tightly gripping my hips to steady me.
The heat of embarrassment washes over me as my eyes rise to meet his. "Thank you," I whisper.
His gaze strays to my lips for the briefest moment, then he releases me. He walks to the desk, stopping in front of it, and peers out of the window.
He looks flustered. "So…" He clears his throat. "This is my pride and joy. Every best seller I've ever written has been done right here." He motions toward the window. "Looking out at that."
The view is breathtaking. There's a large lot of flat land, but just beyond that lie miles and miles of thick woods. In the distance, mountains rise against the horizon. The autumn woods are a sea of burnt oranges and deep reds against a bright blue sky. Nothing but nature as far as I can see. No distractions, just natural beauty. I can see why this inspires him.
I glance at Edwin to compliment the view, but he's still staring out of the window, almost in a daze. Following his gaze, I find it aimed at the shed at the edge of the property, just before the thick tree line begins. The construction looks fairly new. Most of it is built from wood. The roof is tin, and the metal door has a visibly large latch on the outside. It reminds me of those bomb shelters paranoid people built in the ‘50s, and I wouldn't doubt that a man like him built it for such an occasion. Writers are a strange breed. After all, we hear voices in our heads all the time, and sometimes, we even talk to them as though they’re real…
Edwin's gaze moves from the window to me, his eyes locking on mine as he runs a thick finger against the mahogany desk. "I had my assistant, Janine, set up your workstation for you. I'm sure you'll find it more than adequate."
On the desk are two computers. Side by side. This man—this New York Times best-selling author—wants me to sit elbow to elbow with him while I write? My stomach knots, and sweat pricks over my forehead. How in the hell am I supposed to write with him glaring over my shoulder?
"Thanks," I say with a fake smile to hide my apprehension. "It looks perfect."
"Good. Speaking of Janine," he says, walking out of the office and back through the living room. He looks over his shoulder. "She stays in the city. If you need anything, I left her number on your pillow. Dietary restrictions, rides to the city, what have you… that's the kind of shit she can take care of."
For some reason, when he swears like that, I find it abrasive. Maybe it's because he’s rather eloquent, or maybe it's my preconceived notion of him—the one where he was without flaw, almost godlike, because idols are rarely human. He's not at all like I imagined, and if I'm honest, I rather like that.
He continues to a hallway to the left of the front door and turns to me. "I write impulsively and at very random times. That’s why it's best that you stay here." He motions down the hall. "Yours will be the room on the left."
I follow him down the narrow corridor, curiously looking into each open doorway. Just across from my room is what I assume is his. The four-poster king-size bed is neatly made. The curtains over the windows on either side of the bed are drawn, leaving the room in a sullen darkness. That’s where he sleeps… and fucks.
I take a quick look at him, my eyes drifting down his body. He writes some messed up shit. The sex is always degrading and rough. Animalistic and raw. I can't help but imagine he must be filthy. He probably ties women up to that bed—why else would you have a bed like that? I bet he binds them, spanks them, calls them all kinds of filthy names before he finally fucks them. I shouldn't wonder it, but I can't help myself—what would it be like to have EA Mercer inside you?
Clearing his throat, he stops in front of his bedroom door. I realize I've just been standing there, peering into his room. I feel like such a whore for having imagined him in such a way. I’m not a pervert. I’m not…
He narrows his eyes at me. I can see him studying me, possibly dissecting me bit by bit. It makes me uncomfortable because I want him to see me as a strong, intelligent woman, and I fear if he looks too hard, he'll see that I'm not.
Without a word, he starts inside his room but stops abruptly. Looking back, he holds up a finger. "Oh, and I'm not sure if you've checked yet, but don't even concern yourself with getting cell service out here. There is none." He points the same finger down the hall where we came from. "The house phone is in the kitchen."
"Oh, sure. Okay," I say.
A short-lived smile flinches over his lips before he turns, walks into his room, and shuts the door. Something in that grin leaves me unsettled. So much so that my hands are shaking when I open the door to my room. I'm miles away from the nearest city, in the middle of fucking nowhere, with a man I feel like I know. I feel like I know him because he’s EA Mercer. He's famous. I've read his words—read article after article about him—but the thing is, I know absolutely nothing about him.
And I am staying in his cabin.
In the woods.
All alone.
I anxiously peer into the hallway as I slowly close my door, the unoiled hinges creaking. I stare at the handle, fighting with myself. Telling myself to stop being such a paranoid freak. To stop buying into all of the shit I read so much—convincing myself everything is fine. As soon as I turn from the door, my gaze strays out of the large window on the back wall, and all I can see is that shed. My heart rate kicks up as I spin back around, palms flat against the bedroom door.
I take a deep breath as I stare at the handle. I can't help it—I impulsively twist the lock and pull back on the door to check that it's secure before I turn toward the bed.
After all, someone who can conjure up the twisted shit he writes… how much can you really trust someone with an imagination like that?
I've been here three days, and we have a total of five thousand words. That's it. It's not easy to write with him next to me. Everything I write is wrong. He huffs and puffs over my "amateur" word choices, and to be honest, I’ve never met anyone quite so rude. He reminds me every chance he gets that I'm still in grad school and without a published book under my belt. Not to mention he likes to throw things when he gets really annoyed. The lamp. The keyboard. Coffee mugs. There’s a nice stain on the wall beside me where he hurled his cup yesterday morning.
My fingers shake as I type out my sentence.
My heart races in my chest as I press my back against the cold, wooden door…
Edwin groans, tossing his head back and dragging his hands down his face. He abruptly stands, his chair crashing to the floor as he backs away from the desk, the sudden movement making me nearly jump out of my seat. He glares at my screen with a snarl of absolute disgust, and without warning, he grabs the pencil holder and hurls it across the room. It hits the wall, and I jump again as the pencils and pens explode in every direction.
"Is this it? Is this the best that bitch could find? Is this what the next generation of best-selling authors will contribute? This mindless drivel?" He looks at me, disdain on his face. "Is it?"
"I… I…" Tears build in my eyes. He makes me feel so stupid and incapable, I'm beginning to actually despise him. "I don't know what else you want. I don’t know what—"
"Is this what I can expect for the next three months?" he goes on as if I haven't said a thing. "Because I'll tell ya, Miranda, I don't know how much more of this I can take." He yanks the desk drawer open, and everything inside jostles. Fuming, he digs around before pulling out a stack of papers stapled together. "Where is the woman who wrote this? Huh?"
He tosses the papers on the desk. I glance at the title page with my name typed across it.
He puts his hands to his head, throwing it back in the process. "Where is the fucking passion?"
My heart bangs against my ribs. He thinks I'm an idiot. He sees I can't do this. "I'
m sorry. I just… you just… uh… I can…" I swallow. "You just make me nervous, and I'm trying really hard to write this the way you want me to. I just, you know, I have to go back and clean stuff up. I'm not a clean writer to begin with. I have to edit things, so it will be better once I go over it. I—" My vision blurs behind tears, my face heating with embarrassment because Edwin Mercer thinks I have no talent. And if he believes that, it must be true. "I… I…"
He looks sharply at me, his eyebrows burrowed, a sick look of pleasure washing over his face. "My dear, if you experienced even a second of my life's worst pain, it would crush you. Take this for what it is. And for the love of fuck, save me your tears." His tone drips with acid. "They’re worthless."
Worthless. That is all I have ever been in my fucking life, and now he sees that. My chest tightens, and I fight the sob working its way up my throat. I quickly stand and run down the hallway to my room before slamming the door and locking it.
Leaning back against the cold wood, I break. I cry. Something that I thought would change my life—coming here to write with my goddam idol—has done nothing but prove to me I will never be anything. I'm useless. I'm worthless. I want to leave. I want out of here and away from his condescending ass. I grab my purse from the nightstand, dig out my cell phone, and pull up Janine's number. I press Call. Nothing. I hold the phone in the air as I walk around the room, pleading for those damn bars to light up. I stand on my tiptoes by the window, glaring out at that shed. But no. No service.
I don't want to go back out there and call her in front of him. I don't want him to see how defeated and dejected I am. I'll just stay in this room until he goes to bed if I must. Just as I’m putting my phone back inside my purse, I hear his boots tromping down the hallway. His door slams shut with such force a picture topples off the wall in my room.
I give it a few minutes, grab my phone, and slowly open the door. It's eerily quiet outside with just the soft tick-tock from the grandfather clock in the living room. The floorboards creak under my weight. I briefly freeze before continuing down the hallway, praying he doesn't come out of his room. I just don't want that conversation. At all.
Wicked Little Words Page 4
