Hunting Gorgeous: A Romantic Suspense

by B. B. Hamel

  “Do you have a lot of memories like that, with your sister?” I asked once we’d taken our first sips. The beer was freezing and fresh, the perfect antidote to the heat blasting from the nearby oven.

  “Plenty,” she said. “We were close and sort of not.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  She glanced away, watching the guy toss dough into the air. “We’d talk a lot, you know? On the phone, a couple times per week. She helped pay for my school, since our parents couldn’t afford it and her business was taking off. We got together as often as we could. But I don’t know, there was something between us that made it so we were never really—friends, you know?”

  “I think I do,” I said. “I have an older brother. We don’t talk.”

  “Really? I can’t imagine that.”

  “We see the world differently. Plus, his wife hates me.”

  She smiled like that brought her pleasure. “How come?”

  I thought of Mark and his pretty, dull wife, her dirty blond hair lying flat, and her pissed-off scowl every time I came into the room. “She’s religious,” I said. “Not that I have any problems with that, but she’s serious about it, and thinks I’m a bad influence on my brother.”

  Rose screwed up her face. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Really? Do I strike you as a good influence?”

  “Good point. You’re sort of a monster.”

  “Monster-adjacent, I like to think.” I took another long sip. I hated talking about Mark and Cathy. I missed my brother, the guy he was before he got into a car accident when he was twenty-four—it changed him a little bit, made him more cautious, scared the shit out of him really—and got married and had kids, although I liked the kids. I wished I saw them more often. Maybe helped them have a little fun.

  “You’d think your job would be a positive though.” She swirled her glass around, staring at the liquid as it sloshed toward the rim. “Trying to save the world from killers.”

  “I think that freaks her out even more. People get weird when it comes to serial murderers.”

  “Can you blame them? It’s really freaky.”

  “You’re right, but we can’t act like they don’t exist. Folks think that just because cellphones and security cameras and DNA exist that serial killers couldn’t possibly get away with it anymore, but you’d be shocked how many murders go unsolved, how many half-decomposed girls get dug up every year mutilated and—”

  The waitress appeared with our meals. She gave me a very strange look and Rose stifled a laugh. “Thank you,” Rose said and the waitress smiled then walked away as fast as she could.

  “Shit,” I said, grinning. “Think she heard that?”

  “Definitely. She thinks you’re terrifying now.”

  “Everyone does eventually.”

  “Ah, don’t be so hard on yourself. I haven’t gotten there yet.” She jabbed her fork in my direction. “But give it time, I guess.”

  She dug into her dinner and I watched her eat for a second. I liked watching people eat—really, I liked watching people in general, but eating in particular was interesting, the way she was fastidious about what she put on her fork, wiping her mouth between bites, never talking with food in her mouth. I always felt like I could learn a lot about a person based on their eating habits, but of course that was dumb.

  I asked her more about her Gramma and her sister. She told me stories: climbing trees, breaking bones, playing tag, getting muddy and wet. It sounded like she had a good childhood, though she didn’t talk much about her parents. From what I knew, the parents weren’t necessarily bad people, but hard-working and very conservative. I got the sense Rose didn’t get along very well with them either.

  “Can I ask you something?” She looked at me from behind her second beer, like peering through glass at an aquarium. I guess that made me the fish.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Did you watch my sister’s videos all the way through?”

  I grimaced and glanced down at my cleared plate. “I had to.”

  “You didn’t have to. I mean, once the sex stuff started—”

  “If there was anything in there, I had to see it.”

  “Did you— you know, did you like it?”

  I coughed once. “No, of course not.”

  “She was pretty though. Really popular. And you’re a man.” Her cheeks turned pink. “This is a weird conversation, right?”

  “Delia wasn’t pretty like you are,” I said, and the words tumbled out before I could stop them. I felt like a damn moron, and covered my mistake by taking a long drink of beer.

  She stared at me and didn’t seem to react either way. I half expected her to leave in a huff. I was an FBI agent on a job, tasked with keeping her alive—I couldn’t say things like that, not without breaking a whole bunch of rules and crossing too many lines to count.

  “You don’t mean that,” she said finally. “You’re just trying to be nice since I’m the alive one.”

  I clenched my jaw and put my drink down. “I mean it,” I said. “Delia was pretty, a little wild, but not my type.”

  She leaned forward, a little smile playing at her lips. “I’m your type then?”

  I decided to fuck the rules and went with honesty.

  “Yes, you are.”

  She laughed like she didn’t believe me and shook her head. “You’re so full of shit.”

  “Usually, but not right now.”

  “Isn’t that against some rule, saying that to me?”

  “Absolutely is.”

  “Then I could get you in trouble.”

  “Absolutely could.”

  “But am I going to?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She arched an eyebrow and tugged at a stray piece of hair. “And why not?”

  “Because I know your profile.” I leaned toward her, taking control of this conversation. I wasn’t going to let her bait me into her trap.

  “And what profile’s that?” she asked, voice soft.

  “Smart girl, but grew up in the shadow of an outgoing, loud, older sibling. Always had to work twice as hard to get attention. Classic younger sister syndrome. But you’re also beautiful in a way your sister never was, except you can’t see that, since all the guys gave her attention—without realizing the true prize was right there all along.”

  “Sounds like bullshit.”

  “That’s because it is.” I leaned back and watched her reaction. Her cheeks were flushed and she was smiling a little, but I couldn’t tell if it was from the two beers she drank, the heat of the oven, or the way I looked at her. “But it’s also a little true, right? You’re a hard worker. You care too damn much. You’re reserved, and quiet, until you get to know someone, then you go nuts. And when bad things happen, you internalize it all, blame yourself, and vow to fix the mistakes of others.” I gestured in the air. “I could go on, if you want.”

  “I think that’s enough,” she said, her voice quiet, and I knew I’d hit the mark. She stood up abruptly. “I need to use the bathroom.”

  She walked off without a word. I sat there staring at her empty chair and cursed silently.

  What a fucking idiot. I couldn’t help myself though. She challenged me, so I had to show her what I could do.

  Not the best thing in the world though, prodding at her deepest insecurities, and lying bare all the psychological trauma she’d taken inside herself over the years.

  Probably even more unprofessional than calling her pretty.

  I settled the bill while she was gone. She had a smile plastered on her lips like she wanted to mask something, and I stood as she approached. “Ready to go?”

  We walked back outside and into the crowd. Foylestown got packed on the weekend, it seemed, and each bar was practically overflowing. The people were mixed, all different ages, and Rose wove her way through them with a practiced walk. I lagged a few steps behind her, cursing myself.

  I couldn’t separate the real wor
k from my job sometimes. I got too deep into it, to the point where profiling a girl to her face seemed like a good idea. I knew I was a bastard, but that didn’t change a thing.

  I grabbed her wrist as she came to a corner and pulled her aside. A bench sat in the middle of a small grassy area next to a parking lot with a few bushes and a memorial plaque: To Christian, my Beloved of Fifty Years.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, looking around like CGK might attack at any second.

  “I wanted to say sorry.”

  She let out a breath and pulled her wrist away. “Jesus, you asshole. You scared the crap out of me.”

  “And sorry for that, too.”

  She gave me a look then sat on the bench. I sat next to her. It was cold against my back, but her leg pressed against mine.

  “It’s fine,” she said, watching people walk past. “You were mostly right, anyway.”

  “Mostly right? What’d I get wrong?”

  “The boys.” She looked at me, a little sparkle in her eyes. “Plenty of them saw me.”

  I laughed, unable to help myself, and moved closer. “Did Del get jealous of that?”

  “Maybe she did.”

  “Or are you saying that to push back at me?”

  “Maybe that, too.”

  “You don’t have to do that.” I reached out and touched her shoulder, hesitant at first. She didn’t pull away as my fingers pressed down, then moved up. She shifted her position, turning her knees toward me, tilting her head as my palm slid along her neck toward her cheek.

  “This is inappropriate,” she said, blinking, but didn’t move.

  “You’re probably right.” I kept my hand there, feeling her warm breath.

  She reached up and touched it, but didn’t move. We stayed like that, two statues on a bench, my fingertips buzzing, before I inched closer. She tilted further, lips parted, and god, I knew she wanted me to kiss her.

  I couldn’t stop myself. I knew I should have, even as I did it. This was wrong, too far, way too far. It was the beer, or the conversation, or the risk, maybe all of it, I couldn’t be sure—but as soon as my lips touched hers, none of that mattered.

  She tasted like wheatgrass as she kissed me back. I bit her lower lip gently and she sucked in a breath, pressing tighter. The kiss lasted for seconds at most before I pulled away, but those seconds seemed to linger longer than they should have, my hands on her cheek, her hand on my hand, and our lips together.

  I met her eyes as I dropped my hand onto her thigh.

  “If CGK were watching right now,” she said, her voice slightly husky, “how would he feel about that?”

  “He’d be livid. Me kissing you, that would be a violation.”

  “Good.” Something like a smile passed her face then she stood. “Let’s get back.”

  I watched her walk off and had to jog to catch up. Her face was set in a strange, forced smile, like she wanted the world to see that she was happy—while inside, she twisted.

  I knew that smile. I used it myself, day in and day out.

  That smile said: I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m going to light this whole damn place on fire. I’m okay.

  6

  Rose

  It was the strangest kiss of my life.

  It was the best kiss of my life.

  Conflicting, weird, completely wrong, there were a million reasons why it shouldn’t have happened.

  But after he seemed to cut into me with that horribly accurate profile, I couldn’t help it when he touched me. As soon as his fingers brushed the skin of my neck, I knew: I had to kiss him, I had to take this charade all the way.

  Except it wasn’t a charade. Not entirely.

  That kiss was for CGK, but it was also for me. A little treasure I could take with me, no matter what happened.

  He went to bed early that night. In the morning, I heard him shower before the sun rose. I avoided him all day, hanging out on the back porch, reading more books, plucking weeds, losing the constant battle with Mother Nature that would soon reclaim the whole yard if I didn’t step up and start mowing.

  Part of me wanted to live in the tangle of weeds.

  I’d lied about the boys. He was right about that too: they’d all ignored me for Del.

  I shouldn’t have asked him about the shows. It was desperate and strange, but I couldn’t help myself. Of course he watched them—of course he said it wasn’t sexual.

  I knew my sister though, and I knew what she did to men.

  Still, I wanted him to want me more than her, even if she was dead. I couldn’t compete with Del, not anymore. She’d passed on from the world, and all our expectations of her, our interpretations, our dreams and misguided ideas, they were all that was left.

  She could be anything now. And I was only me.

  Impossible to compete with that.

  Still I wanted to try. Maybe that was why I kissed him. It was a way to take back something I didn’t know I’d lost along the way.

  He spent the day in the dining room with paper spread out across Gramma’s linen tablecloth. He didn’t know that was her special tablecloth and I didn’t tell him. I checked in once or twice, gave him a cup of tea, looked over his shoulder at his scrawled notes on police reports, caught site of photographs tucked into manila envelopes—crime scenes, corpses, women slashed and brutalized. I didn’t flinch away. Really, I wanted to open them up and run my fingers down their images, just like he ran his fingers along my neck, up to my cheek.

  Maybe I was sick, I didn’t know. I ate lunch, read some more, and night rolled around. We barely spoke ten words to each other. I thought he was avoiding me, but also I knew he was. Hard not to be close together in a small house in the middle of nowhere with a serial killer on the loose, but we managed.

  He started on dinner. “You hungry?”

  “I could eat. What’s on the menu?”

  “Chicken, potatoes, salad.”

  “Sounds good.” I pulled the full garbage bag from the kitchen can. “I’m taking this out.”

  “Be fast. Don’t linger. And leave the damn door open so I can hear.”

  “Fine,” I said, and walked off. I did as he asked, left the damn door open, and the backyard flood lights came on as I walked to the side of the house toward the cans. I took off the lid and tossed the bag in, and as I turned my head back, I caught sight of something.

  It made my blood freeze. A shadow there, in the tree line. It could’ve been a man, or it could’ve been a deer—like the buck on Nick’s chest.

  Heart racing, I walked toward it.

  I knew I shouldn’t have, but it was another thing I couldn’t stop. Like that kiss, like so much of my life the last two years. Gramma gone, Delia gone, nothing I could do about it.

  Leaves crunched underfoot. Tall, prickly fireweed brushed against my jeans and caught in the fabric. I shook it off, forced my way ahead, into the bramble bushes and through, cursing when a low branch scratched my arm.

  Another movement, closer now. I heard it in the underbrush. “Hello?” I walked forward, thinking maybe I should turn and run, but Delia wouldn’t have. “Hello? Are you there?”

  No response, just my ragged breathing and my pounding heart. I felt a bulge in my throat and wondered if I’d get sick. A dumb thought—it didn’t matter. The killer wouldn’t mind getting a little puke on his shoes.

  I took my phone from my pocket, thinking I might call Nick, but turned on the flashlight instead. The beam swept through vines, past ragweed clusters, caught on something shiny. I backtracked: there, pinned to a tree, metal glinting.

  I walked toward it and reached out. There was a knife, long and thin. It looked like a kitchen knife—it was a kitchen knife. The handle was worn and white. It used to be in the right-hand drawer, next to the sink.

  Looped around the blade was a necklace. Fine silver chain, a small intertwined heart. Red specks covered its edge.

  Beneath the blade was a note.

  I felt tears roll down my cheeks as I read it, the
same handwriting from the bathroom mirror. It was a dream, a terrible dream. I should’ve looked around me, made sure he wasn’t near, about to jump out and take me, but I knew he wouldn’t have bothered with the show if that was his intention.

  When he took me, there wouldn’t be a warning.

  I pulled the knife out, necklace and all. I held the note in my other hand, beneath the flashlight, and turned back to the house.

  “Rose!” Nick’s voice, panicked and sharp. “Rose, where are you?” I saw him standing in the backyard with a gun in his hands, pointing slightly down toward the ground.

  “I’m here,” I called back, stomping toward him. “I’m right here, I’m coming.”

  “Rose!” he ran to me as I breached the bushes. “We have to get inside.”

  He must not have noticed my trembling hands or my ghost-pale face, but I felt it as he hustled me to the back porch then inside. He slammed the door and locked it, peering out through the blinds, gun still in his free hand.

  I walked into the kitchen and put the note on the table along with the knife. I held the necklace, looking at the intertwined heart, and the little red splotches. I squinted at them—and realized they were blood.

  It was pretty otherwise. I dropped it down as Nick came to my side.

  “Are you okay?” He touched my shoulder again, but this time it was protective, not tender, not suggesting more. “I got a call.” He must’ve noticed the objects on the table as his voice trailed off.

  “I saw a shadow in the woods,” I said, laughing at my own stupidity. “I went to check it out. Found these stabbed into a tree.”

  He picked up the note first, read it, and cursed. Then he read it out loud. “Hello, Rosey, missed you two, but I found a new playmate. Will you join us soon? Dellie misses you. Love.”

  Chills ran down my spine. Dellie. Love. He was sick, so sick. He thought I could be with him—with them, his other victims. Like we’d all be together in some happy family.

  Instead of corpses in the ground.

  “Cal called a second ago. There was another victim.”

  My head shot up. “What?”