Crash Into Me

by Jill Sorenson

  “It’s written all over your face.”

  “That’s not love, it’s satisfaction,” Ben said. “I just banged the hell out of her.” Never mind that he’d never felt less satisfied. The sex had been phenomenal, but staying there and doing it again, going slow, taking his time…that would have been better.

  “Whatever you say,” Nathan chuckled, logging off.

  “Tell me what happened with James.”

  “You know I can’t.”

  “Nathan,” he warned, doing a conscious imitation of their father, “this is my daughter we’re talking about.”

  “No it isn’t,” Nathan replied, annoyed with Ben’s intimidation tactics. “We’re talking about a teenaged boy, and my client, a person to whom I have a legal and ethical obligation.”

  Ben wanted to press further, but knew his brother well enough not to bother. “Should I be worried?”

  Nathan’s smooth brow wrinkled. “Carly thinks she’s in love with a kid whose father just turned up dead. Her best friend was also murdered, consequently. Yes, you should definitely be worried.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Carly is my niece, Ben. If she were in danger from James, don’t you think I’d tell you?”

  Ben rubbed a hand over his tired face. “What the hell am I supposed to do with him? Adopt him? Kick him out on the street? Send him to his brother’s?”

  “No. Don’t send him there.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s safer here. Trust me.”

  If anyone had ever told Ben that he’d be allowing his sixteen-year-old daughter’s boyfriend to spend the night under his roof, even once, he’d have kicked their ass on principle. “And what about Carly?” he asked. “Where will she be safe?”

  When her dad poked his head in to check on her, Carly pretended to be asleep. She made a little snuffling noise and turned her head to one side, letting her hair cascade across the pillow.

  He shut the door quietly and moved on, walking down the hall to his own room.

  She wanted to get up and sneak downstairs immediately, but she waited in the silent dark of her bedroom, ticking off endless minutes, her heart pounding with anticipation. When the walls seemed like they were closing in on her, threatening to suffocate her, she slipped out from beneath the covers and tiptoed across the hardwood floor.

  At her bedroom door, she hesitated. The hallway was quiet and there was no sliver of light beneath her father’s door. When he was awake, he checked in on her often, but when he wasn’t, he slept like a log. She remembered climbing into her parents’ bed one Christmas morning and jumping on the mattress, having a pillow fight with her mom, and opening several presents while her dad snored on.

  She snuck across the hall and down the carpeted stairway, moving silently in her bare feet, feeling the delicious rush of blood through her veins. In the living room, she peeked over the edge of the couch to make sure James was sleeping. He was on his stomach, face making a dent in the soft feather pillow, one hand shoved down the front of his pants.

  She smiled sadly, resisting the urge to ruffle his hair.

  Earlier, when she’d been afraid James would be arrested for murder, she’d told him she loved him. She’d just blurted it out, right in front of everyone. The look on his face was one of total disbelief, as if he couldn’t fathom why she would say such a thing.

  It brought tears to her eyes, just thinking about it.

  Being with James made her feel better, and hearing him tell her he loved her back warmed her insides, but she’d never been good about handling her emotions. Visions of Lisette’s murder and her mother’s bracelet made her head swim. Worrying about her dad, and James, and everything…

  She just couldn’t take it anymore.

  Moving past the living room couch, she padded into the kitchen and felt her way down the black granite countertop as her eyes adjusted to the dark night. The butcher block was there in the corner, knife handles offering themselves up like saving graces.

  Letting out the breath she’d been holding, she wrapped her hand around one and pulled, hearing it slide from its sheath with a soft snick.

  The blade gleamed in the moonlight.

  Pulse racing, she ducked into the guest bath, pulled the door closed, and turned on the light. In her reflection, her eyes were huge and her hair was wild. She looked like a deranged mental patient, fresh from the asylum.

  Stifling a delirious giggle, she lowered herself to the bathroom floor and pulled her extra-large T-shirt over her head. Clad only in bikini panties, she stared down at her skinny body, looking for the best place to cut.

  Everyone told her she was pretty. Carly didn’t see what they saw. She was too tall and too thin, with flyaway hair and bones sticking out all over the place, her haughty attitude masking a thousand insecurities.

  Her mother had been beautiful. She’d also been curvy and womanly, with an awesome pair of boobs and a butt her dad couldn’t keep his hands off.

  Carly looked down at her naked chest. She had cut herself here because it was one of the only places she had extra flesh. It also felt safer to nick this secret place, where no one would ever look, not even her dad.

  Now that James had touched her breasts, and told her how much he liked them, she felt weird about cutting herself there. He would surely find out.

  Where else could she do it? What places did boys not want to look, or try to touch? She frowned down at herself, experiencing a flurry of indecision. If she didn’t make a cut, she’d have a long night to look forward to, awake and fraught with anxiety.

  Raising the knife, she brought the blade toward her upper arm. It was winter, she rationalized, and she wouldn’t be wearing any tank tops for a while.

  The sharp sting was both shocking and comforting, painful and beautiful. Blood welled from the cut in jewel-bright beads, wet and red and luscious. Tears of relief fell down her cheeks and she closed her eyes, feeling the warm trickle, savoring the sweet release.

  When she opened them again, James was standing over her. Groggily, she brought the T-shirt up to her chest and fumbled for the knife, but he’d already seen it.

  He already had it.

  Saying nothing, he rinsed the blade and set the knife aside, his hair sticking up all over the place, the muscles in his face tense. He sorted through the medicine cabinet, finding antibiotic ointment and bandages.

  He cleaned up her cut and wrapped it carefully while she sat on the cold tile floor, her back against the wall, body shivering, mind numb.

  “I won’t do it again,” she whispered, letting him help her up.

  James didn’t say he believed her, and he didn’t promise everything would be all right. He just put her T-shirt back on and took her in his arms, stroking her hair, holding her close.

  The next morning Sonny woke to the sound of an alarm. Reaching out with one hand, she turned it off with a weary groan.

  She could’ve sworn she’d only just drifted off.

  Assaulted by images of her wanton behavior with Ben last night, she punched the pillow beneath her head, wishing she’d told him to go to hell. How could she have let him use her that way? How could she have enjoyed it?

  She covered her face with her hands and moaned, hating him for making her feel ashamed. Acting on impulse, sexually, was something she hadn’t done since high school.

  The way she’d behaved as a teenager was tragic, but not atypical. After the rape, she’d been removed from her mother’s home. She no longer had Rigo. She’d never had a father. With equal parts self-loathing, self-pity, and self-destruction, she’d sought to fill that void with any boy who showed an interest.

  At New Horizons Group Home, she’d been a very popular girl.

  It wasn’t until she’d gone to college that she’d learned how to respect, and protect, herself. But she’d never learned how to enjoy herself with men, until Ben.

  Pushing aside a dozen painful memories, and even more regrets, she dragged herself out of bed and prepar
ed to face the day. She’d overcome worse than this.

  In time, she’d get over him, too.

  Last night after Ben left, Grant had called and asked her to interview Stephen Matthews. She also had the unenviable task of breaking the news to him about his mother. Gabrielle Matthews’ severely decomposed body had been found between cold layers of concrete in the Matthews’ backyard, wrapped up in garbage bags and secured with duct tape.

  Stephen lived with his girlfriend in a run-down duplex on the seedy edge of town. Sonny parked her rental car on the street and walked to the front door. As she approached, she could hear them arguing, so she paused to listen.

  “I don’t need to get a fucking job, you need to get a fucking job! I take care of the house, asshole! If you don’t come up with some cash soon, I’m going to start throwing your shit out-”

  A man’s muttered retort was lost as the woman continued her shrill tirade.

  Financial troubles, Sonny deduced with a wry smile. Perfect.

  When Stephen’s girlfriend, Rhoda, answered the door, she looked Sonny up and down, crossed her skinny arms over her flat chest, and said, “What do you want?”

  Even if she’d been polite, Sonny would have disliked her on sight.

  Rhoda had a mean, pretty face, ratty blond hair, and no figure to speak of. Her pupils were huge and her pale legs were covered with the kind of bruises Sonny associated with drug users and incredibly clumsy individuals. Dressed in cutoff jean shorts, with a long-sleeved flannel shirt knotted at her scrawny waist, she resembled a homeless anorexic. Someone should have told her the grunge look went out with heroin chic.

  Rhoda Pegrine was trailer trash through and through. It took one to know one. While Sonny considered herself a credit to that dubious heritage, she knew intuitively that Rhoda embodied all of its negative stereotypes.

  “I’m Special Agent Sonny Vasquez,” she said. “I came to ask Stephen a few questions about his father.”

  Rhoda shoved a hand through her bleached hair. “Where’s your credentials?”

  Sonny showed her ID.

  Behind Rhoda, Stephen approached, his air surprisingly protective for a boyfriend who’d just been thoroughly bawled out.

  Rhoda let out an exaggerated sigh and let the door fall open. “Whatever,” she said, pushing at Stephen’s chest rudely before she passed by him, twitching her bony hips like an alley cat on the way to the couch.

  As Sonny stepped inside, she gave Stephen a tight-lipped smile, for he truly discomfited her. With his prominent cheekbones and dark blue eyes, he had the Matthews good looks, although he did his best to hide them. His hair was lanky and overlong, he was too thin for his height, and he hadn’t bothered to shave in a while.

  Was this carbon copy of James more like Arlen on the inside?

  She sank into the deep cushions of an old chenille recliner-the only place to sit besides the couch-that had been reupholstered liberally with duct tape. It was impossible to maintain a professional posture in a chair the consistency of marshmallow, so she gave up and leaned back, letting the cushions envelop her, folding her hands over her stomach.

  She scanned the room, waiting for Stephen and Rhoda to get nervous enough to talk.

  Sonny was no domestic goddess, but even she found Stephen and Rhoda’s habitation offensively cluttered. Video games, DVDs, and CDs littered the floor. The coffee table’s surface was a maze of crushed beer cans and cigarette butts. She couldn’t see the kitchen from her vantage point, but she could smell it. If Rhoda’s sole responsibility was to take care of the house, she was failing miserably.

  Sonny moved her gaze to the strange pair, studying their body language. Stephen was nervous; he kept wiping his palms on the legs of his jeans. Rhoda, on the other hand, didn’t seem the least bit concerned about Sonny’s presence. She propped her skinny foot on the edge of the couch and resumed what Sonny supposed was her idea of a pedicure. She was painting intricate designs on her toenails with a black felt-tipped marker.

  Sonny was familiar with the effects of crystal methamphetamines. Both Stephen and Rhoda were exhibiting classic signs of addiction, but while Rhoda was high as a kite, lost in her own mind, Stephen was sober, focused, and obviously in withdrawal.

  He nudged Rhoda gently, aware that she was giving them away. “Why don’t you offer the lady something to drink?”

  Rhoda stared at him like he was the world’s biggest moron. “We don’t have anything in the fridge. What do you want me to offer her, tap water?”

  Stephen’s eyes darkened at her harsh tone but he didn’t say anything more.

  It wasn’t difficult to understand the dynamic between these two. Like his brother, James, Stephen had probably been beaten and ridiculed his entire life. Children of abusers often chose a domestic partner who took up where the parent left off.

  With her small stature and frail body, Rhoda wasn’t a physical threat. But a person didn’t have to be big to be a bully.

  Sonny dug a twenty out of her pocket. Most struggling neighborhoods had liquor stores on every corner, and this area was no different. “Why don’t you go buy us something, Rhoda? You can keep the change.”

  Rhoda regarded her suspiciously. “What do you want?”

  “Just a bottle of water.”

  Rhoda didn’t bother to ask what Stephen would have. After snatching the crisp bill from Sonny’s hand, she shoved her tweaked-out toes into a pair of chunky-heeled sandals and was out the door in a blink.

  “She’ll be gone for hours,” Stephen explained.

  Sonny smiled. “Good.”

  He stared back at her through guarded eyes, the way a man looked at a woman he was alone with…and afraid of.

  She felt her smile slip. Oh, Stephen, she thought, feeling her heart break for him a little bit. You and I are a lot alike. Grant sent her to do this interview because Stephen had been so sketchy and uncooperative at the police station. He thought Stephen would be more comfortable with a lone female. He wasn’t.

  To put Stephen at ease, she would have to move to another setting, one where he felt less closed in. “Do you have a backyard?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “I could use some fresh air.”

  He hesitated. “It’s kind of cluttered out there. I usually sit on the front stoop.”

  She nodded, standing. “This will only take a few minutes.”

  Stephen led her out front and waited for her to take a seat before he hunkered down beside her, giving her plenty of space. Sonny took out her photographs of the victims. “Do you know any of these women?”

  He looked them over, pausing only on the one of Lisette. “I don’t think so.”

  Sonny pointed at Lisette’s pretty face. “She and your little brother had oral sex in your closet.”

  “Really?” He studied it more closely, seeming impressed.

  “She’s dead now.”

  “Oh.” The photo slipped from his trembling hands. “Is she the one from the net?”

  “Yes. Are you sure you haven’t seen the others?”

  He shrugged. “Rhoda invites a lot of people over. Strangers. I don’t pay that much attention to the girls.”

  Sonny arched a brow. “Are you more interested in the boys?”

  A flush crept over his cheekbones. “No. I keep an eye on anyone who might cause trouble. Girls usually don’t.”

  She believed him. Being wary of the opposite sex and repulsed by them were two separate issues; she was proof of that. She’d only asked because DeGrassi had posed a similar question to James, and it had made her wonder about the killer’s profile. Strangulation was usually sexually motivated.

  She thought of a question DeGrassi hadn’t asked James. “Do you know any surfers? Someone Rhoda invites over, or a friend of your dad’s?”

  He looked doubtful. “My dad didn’t have any friends. And surfers don’t usually hang around with…”

  “Meth addicts?”

  His cheeks darkened further, but he inclined his head.


  She cut to the chase. “James told us that your father sexually abused prostitutes on numerous occasions. Can you confirm that?”

  He snuck a glance at her, his blue eyes swimming in the sun. “Yes.”

  “Do you think he killed these women?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, returning the photos. He was silent for a moment, watching the steady flow of traffic on Harbor Drive. “I hope not, but I really don’t know.”

  “Do you know who killed him?”

  His mouth formed a thin, hard line. “No. I wish I did.”

  “Why?”

  “So I could shake his hand.”

  Sonny took a deep breath, dreading the words she was about to say. Having little choice in the matter, she looked her half-brother in the eye and told him that his mother had been murdered, just like all of the young, vibrant women in the pictures she’d just shown him.

  Ben felt like he hadn’t been surfing in a week. Over the past couple of days, the physical activities he’d engaged in weren’t quite as meditative as time on the water.

  He’d wanted to talk to Carly the night before, but she’d been asleep by the time he finished his discussion with Nathan.

  Now she was still asleep, as was James, snoring softly on the living room couch. Ben wandered around the house aimlessly for a while, checking every window and lock. Then he gave up, abandoned paranoia, and surrendered to the call of the waves.

  JT was already out, standing at the edge of the water with an insulated mug in his hand. When Ben came up beside him, his lackadaisical friend greeted him with a complicated handshake and an engaging grin. JT didn’t keep up with most current events, so he must not have heard about Lisette. Thank God.

  “How is it?” Ben asked, nodding toward the surf.

  “Better than yesterday,” JT replied. “Way less eggy.”

  Ben grunted at the expression, which pretty much meant that the waves didn’t suck.

  “So what’s up with that new wahine of yours?” JT asked. “She wax your stick?”

  “No,” he said, staring out at the ocean.

  “Really? I thought you were in to her.”

  “Maybe she wasn’t in to me.”

  JT laughed, taking another sip from his mug. Knowing him, it was laced with Kahlua. “Too bad. She was hot.”