Kiss Me, Kill Me

by Allison Brennan

  He reached into his pocket and took out the present he’d picked out that night, after they’d taken the pictures in the booth. He had wanted to see Lucy’s face when she opened it, but maybe now it was better that she opened it alone.

  He put it on top of her notes and left.

  Lucy stared at the door. She wanted to be angry at Sean, she tried to make herself angry at him, but she wasn’t. She was too emotionally drained. The only thing she felt was suffocating waves of despair and failure.

  She slowly rose, her limbs stiff from sitting in the chair for hours, and walked to her desk. She picked up the watch-sized box that Sean had left. It was tied with a blue ribbon.

  It figured that he would do something like this. She hadn’t wanted to open presents today. She hadn’t wanted to face anyone and pretend everything was just fine. But she couldn’t resist opening it, not knowing what to expect. With Sean, it could be anything.

  She untied the ribbon and took off the lid. Inside was a necklace. The pendant was a single daisy made of six amethyst gems, a small diamond in the center. The jewels were set in gold.

  She’d never seen anything like it. It was seven stones in a simple design, but the delicacy and complexity of how they were held together was exquisite.

  Inside the box was a small card declaring that the necklace was from a local antiques shop she’d been in many times, though she rarely bought anything for herself. A couple of weeks ago they’d gone shopping at the mall, and while walking to a nearby restaurant they’d passed the store. She hadn’t seen the daisy, but she had commented to him how she enjoyed browsing and bought most of her Christmas presents there.

  Sean had not only remembered, but he’d picked out a piece that she loved, that symbolized his declaration when they first met that he would give her only colorful daisies because they made her smile.

  Putting on the necklace, Lucy wept.

  Lucy was understandably upset over the idiotic panel’s decision, but Sean was downright furious about it and remained so for hours. He continued to work, following up on requests for phone records and ISP information in the Kirsten Benton case. But he couldn’t stop thinking about Lucy’s denied application.

  The FBI had proven to him, yet again, that they had their collective heads up their collective asses. Not so much the investigating agents—he had a grudging respect for them after working a few cases with them in the field—but the mindless bureaucrats who ran the agency. Sean knew there was no other applicant out there better qualified or more dedicated than Lucy.

  Sean almost called FBI agent Noah Armstrong, who’d recently befriended the Kincaids when he and Kate worked on a case together, but he stopped himself. He and Noah didn’t see eye to eye on most things, and Sean didn’t want to ask him for any favors. Instead, he went higher up and called Assistant Director Hans Vigo, whom Sean greatly admired.

  “Hans Vigo,” the agent answered his cell phone.

  “It’s Sean Rogan.” He glanced at the clock and winced. It was after eleven. “I hope it’s not too late to call.”

  “I was awake.”

  Sean sat down at his desk. “The FBI denied Lucy’s application.”

  When Hans didn’t respond, Sean asked, “Did you know?”

  “No, but I thought she might have an uphill battle.”

  “Uphill? It’s done. She’s out.”

  “She can appeal.”

  “Appeal? How?”

  “She gets one shot to request a different panel. But Lucy knows that.”

  Why hadn’t she said anything to Sean about appealing? “She’s really torn up about this. I don’t think she’s considered her options.”

  “Did she tell you anything about the interview? If she felt that someone was unduly biased, or if there were questions that seemed odd to her?”

  “No—she thought it went well. She was jazzed afterward. Can you find out who was on the panel? Find out what their problem with her is?”

  “I don’t know that you, or Lucy, would like the answers.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing you don’t already know. Lucy isn’t a typical recruit. The Bureau looks closely at anyone they think may have a hidden agenda.”

  “They can’t blame her for what happened with WCF! Dammit—”

  “They can look at anything and everything. WCF is only one factor. There is also the fact that she killed two people.”

  Sean’s blood ran cold. “Was she supposed to die instead?”

  “Look at the bigger picture, Sean. They probably assessed that she was too high profile. That’s my guess, not because I know anything specific. I don’t even know who’s on the hiring panel right now, but it’s not secret and I’ll find out.”

  Sean latched on to Hans’s first statement. “What do you mean Lucy’s too ‘high profile.’ Is it because she was raped? That is just fucked.”

  “Sean, that’s not what I meant,” Hans said, his voice calm but firm. “However, it might play a part of the big picture. Not that she was attacked, but everything that happened after that. Any one thing probably wouldn’t have alarmed the panel, but she’s been involved in several police and FBI investigations from the outside, and she has high-ranking connections.”

  “That should help her!”

  “Sometimes it does. And sometimes connections can hurt a candidate’s chances.”

  That Sean understood. His brother Liam was always a wild card, and had caused their brother Duke and RCK plenty of headaches. And Sean wasn’t a Boy Scout, either. He knew he’d cost RCK business in the past, nearly as much as he had gained them.

  But Lucy was different, and becoming an FBI agent meant more to her than anything else. Sean didn’t want to accept defeat, but listening to Hans it sounded like there were no options.

  “Then she’s screwed? Why didn’t you tell her before she spent the last seven years of her life planning for a career in the FBI?”

  “Sean, I understand that you’re upset, and I can just imagine how Lucy is feeling about now. But neither of you are naïve. Lucy would be a controversial hire; that’s the simple truth.”

  “Are you going to help or not?”

  “Sean, there is no one I know more deserving of a commission from the Bureau than Lucy.” Hans sounded irritated. “I personally like and admire her greatly, and know she’d make a top agent. Moreover, we need more people like her. But the FBI is a large government agency, and individuals who stand out before they are recruited are red flags. Give me the weekend to find out what I can about the panel. I need to be discreet, because if someone suspects that I’m trying to manipulate the process then Lucy will have even more problems when she appeals. I’ll call you next week.”

  Sean took a deep breath. “I really appreciate this, Hans.”

  “If it doesn’t work out, a talented woman like Lucy still has many options available to her. Naturally, I’ll help her in any way I can.”

  “Thanks, Hans. We both know that, but Lucy wouldn’t ask.”

  “She doesn’t have to.”

  SIX

  Girls like you …

  Kirsten woke up well before dawn Thursday morning, for the first time in days feeling like she wasn’t going to die. Still, remnants of a nightmare clawed out from her subconscious. She was still shaking from the bad dream, but she willed herself to stop.

  The voice wasn’t real. It was your drug-induced imagination.

  As much as she wanted to, she didn’t believe that.

  Sore and weak from being unable to keep anything solid down for three days, she finally felt like eating something more than chicken broth. It still hurt to walk. Who was she kidding? The pain was unbearable, and she crawled to the bathroom. Sitting on the edge of the small tub, she stared at her sorry reflection in the mirror.

  Her blond hair was filthy, even though she’d made a feeble attempt to wash it yesterday. She suspected that she didn’t get all the shampoo out, because it felt greasy. A faint bruise covered her che
ek, light gray against skin already far too pale. She looked like a corpse, and didn’t feel much livelier than one.

  “You’re lucky you’re not dead,” she whispered. Her mouth was parched and she rose from the tub’s edge to reach for the faucet. Excruciating pain shot from her damaged feet up her legs, and she fell to her knees. One of her scabs broke, leaving a bloodstain on the white bathroom carpet.

  “Great,” she said, then burst into tears.

  She pulled herself up and sat back on the edge of the tub. Through the blur of her tears, she looked at the bottoms of her feet. They were bandaged, but blood had seeped through the gauze. She carefully removed it, wincing at the tenderness. Then she took a long look at the damage. It was as if someone had hit her foot repeatedly with a serrated knife. Some cuts were shallow and healing, others deep and bright red. She had only two more pills left in the antibiotic prescription she’d found in the medicine cabinet.

  What was she going to do?

  She could call her mom. She’d be mad, for sure, but she’d come and get her, and then Kirsten could go home to her own bed.

  But she still wouldn’t be safe.

  What would she tell the police? That Jessie had asked her to come to New York even though it wasn’t Kirsten’s scheduled weekend to play escort? Right, she was going to admit to her mom that she was an online call girl.

  Better to get in trouble for selling sex over the Internet than be dead.

  She bit her lip and thought about calling her dad. She had a love/hate relationship with him. Though her mother was a bitter divorcée, her father had started it by having all those affairs. Maybe she should just call him and say, “Well, you like to sleep around. So do I, but at least I get paid for it.”

  That would go over so well. And Kirsten wasn’t exactly proud of what she did, though it gave her some control over her life. She finally felt as though she had power, for the first time in three years since she became a pawn in her parents’ divorce. When she first joined Party Girl, it had been so freeing and exciting she had jumped in with both feet. A part of her knew she did it to get back at her parents, but another part thrilled at being in full command. The power Kirsten had over her clients was intoxicating.

  If she’d just stuck with the online sex chats she’d have been fine. But then another Party Girl, Jessie, told her about the big blowout bashes in New York, so she started coming up, and was astonished at how invigorating the raves were. Not raves as she’d imagined them, but even more intense.

  Somewhere along the way, Kirsten had lost control. She was offered money to go to parties big and small. When she was high, she lost all sense of time and place. Everything began to fall apart, but she hadn’t wanted to quit because she felt more alive, more real, when she was pretending to be someone else.

  But now Jessie was dead! And Jessie had tried to tell her something. She had called her Friday morning begging her to meet her at the party Saturday. And she’d said something else, but Kirsten had been too distracted. Then Jessie wanted to meet outside.

  But Jessie didn’t send that text. She’d called Kirsten “Ash” instead, her party name.

  If Jessie hadn’t texted her at the party, who did? Someone who knew what she looked like. Someone who had Jessie’s phone. If he had Jessie’s phone, he had her phone number, and he might be able to find out where she really lived. Kirsten could call her mother, but would she be safe even back home?

  Kirsten was increasingly anxious about the arrangement. She was staying in this amazing apartment. She hadn’t left the bedroom and bathroom, but everything was expensive and classy. She’d been so out of it after finding Jessie dead, and then getting sick, she didn’t know what she’d agreed to or why the guy had let her stay here in the first place, especially since he himself didn’t live here. She couldn’t remember what he’d told her about who owned the penthouse or why the owner wasn’t here, but she would find out today. Now that she was thinking straight, she would figure out how to make it all right again.

  She leaned over and locked the bathroom door, turned on the water in the tub, and pulled off the large T-shirt she wore. Her muscles were stiff from lack of use. She stretched her arms, staring in shock at her naked body, as if it were foreign.

  She had small cuts all over her arms and legs, some so deep they would probably scar because they hadn’t been stitched. Bruises of all shapes and sizes and colors dotted her limbs, with one large, sickly yellow bruise covering most of her left hip. She touched it and winced. It was tender and painful. She didn’t think she’d broken any bones, a miracle considering the state of her body.

  She should have gone to the hospital. What must she have looked like when that guy found her running through the parking lot?

  You weren’t running. You’d fallen, remember?

  She didn’t remember much, mostly only her feeling. Disconnected when the blond guy was screwing her against the wall. Cold when she was outside. Shock when she found Jessie dead. Fear as she ran because she heard something, thought she was being chased. Was she? She’d heard a voice, but she didn’t recognize it. She thought it was Jessie’s murderer, but maybe it was help. Or just another partygoer.

  She’d never forget her friend’s dead eyes.

  “What happened to you, Jessie?” she whispered.

  Don’t you dare, bitch …

  Kirsten lowered herself slowly into the water. “Ow, ow, ow!” She kept the water only a little warmer than lukewarm, but whatever the temperature, every cut and scrape on her body screamed in protest. Then the sharp pains subsided to a constant, but bearable, ache.

  She wanted to believe that Jessie’s death had been an accident, but Kirsten knew it wasn’t. Someone had been lurking around Jessie’s body. It was the text message that tipped her off, that someone wanted Jessie and her dead. But why? What had she done? And if Kirsten went to the police, what would she tell them? She didn’t know anything! She didn’t know why Jessie had been scared or even why she had asked Kirsten to come to New York.

  Jessie had been involved in Party Girl a lot longer than Kirsten, but they didn’t talk about their online activities when they met up at the secret parties in New York. They kept an eye out for each other. Kirsten had been thinking of going to Columbia with Jessie next year, had even sent off an application without telling her mother. But her grades had tanked last semester and she didn’t think she’d get in.

  Maybe quitting softball had been a mistake. She had an amazing batting average, and last year was the third-ranked pitcher in the state and twenty-ninth in the nation. She still had two weeks before she had to commit to her final high school season.

  She stared at her feet. How could she run in two weeks when she couldn’t even walk today? How could she think about college when her only true friend was dead? What if they found out about Party Girl?

  Heart racing, she realized that she’d never considered what anyone would think about her online activities. She almost didn’t care if her parents found out, but it wasn’t as if she’d announced to everyone at school that she was “Ashleigh.” Maybe in the back of her mind she thought no one would recognize her, or she could say, Wow, that girl looks a lot like me. Don’t they say everyone has a double?

  For the first time since she joined Party Girl, she considered her future. It looked bleak.

  She washed her hair under the bathtub faucet, which was difficult and cumbersome, but it was too painful to stand in the shower. Her arms shook when she hoisted herself out of the tub. When she’d been conditioning for softball last year, she could bench-press ninety pounds. Now, she didn’t think she could lift a ten-pound weight over her head.

  She rebandaged her feet and put a large Band-Aid on her knee where the scab had split.

  A knock at the door provoked a scream, but she cut it off quickly.

  “It’s me, Dennis,” the voice said.

  Dennis? Who was Dennis? She didn’t remember the name of the guy who’d found her. It could have been Dennis. It sounded righ
t.

  “Kirsten? Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice scratchy. “I’m just cleaning up.”

  “I’m glad you’re feeling better. I brought you some clothes. I’ll wait in the kitchen.”

  He walked away. Kirsten had flashes of a boy, not much older than she, carrying her into an elevator that smelled of mint and lavender. There was something off about him, but she had been so sick she couldn’t figure it out. He’d brought her water and chicken broth, and she thought he might have even cleaned up when she got sick.

  Why was he helping her? Who was he?

  She tried taking a step, but the pain was too great and she wondered if there were still rocks and glass embedded in the cuts. Another flash of Dennis cleaning her feet and pulling out a long, jagged piece of glass had her wondering why he hadn’t taken her to the hospital.

  Kirsten vowed never to take drugs again. She didn’t like these dark holes in her memory.

  She crawled back to the bedroom and pulled herself onto the bed. Her skin was clammy, and she started to feel feverish again. She wanted to sleep. She rested for a minute, then spotted the shopping bag from Abercrombie & Fitch. She stared at the outrageously expensive clothing inside—all her size. Had she told him, or had he guessed?

  The entire chore of bathing and dressing exhausted her and she didn’t want to go to the kitchen. She didn’t want Dennis to see her crawl, but then again, maybe he already had. All she wanted was to sleep.

  Dennis knocked on the bedroom door.

  “Come in,” she said, her voice raw and scratchy.

  Dennis looked sweet, if that was possible for a guy. He was only a few inches taller than Kirsten, but broad-shouldered, as though he worked out. Cute, in a little-kid way, which seemed odd with his build. He looked at her with pale blue eyes through wire-rim glasses.

  “I made some soup.”

  Dennis didn’t scare her, but maybe she should be scared. “Why didn’t you take me to the hospital?” she asked.