by Jonah Paine
Betsy held her arms tight around her knees as she cried. She rocked back and forth and told herself that he wouldn't do it. No one was that evil. He wouldn't do it. God would stop him and deliver her from this evil.
He chuckled. "Do you wonder why I took you, Betsy? I did it because I wanted to set myself against your god and see who came out on top. What do you think, Betsy? Will your god save you before I kill you? Because he better hurry up, Betsy. It won't be long now. Not long at all."
Betsy cried in the dark and prayed to a God she knew was not listening.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The first time Sam saw Celeste's name on his phone's caller ID, he was sitting in bed next to his wife, waiting with her as she tried to go to sleep. He looked at the face of the phone, thumbed "ignore," and hoped that she wouldn't call again.
The second time Celeste called, he was in a meeting with his boss, explaining why they had made so little progress on the Jasmine Martin case, and why they were still following up on the Jesse Rasmussen lead even though no one had seen or heard from him in months. Sam glanced at his phone and put it back in his pocket, unanswered.
The third time Celeste called, Sam was at his desk. He held the phone in his hand and thought about all the reasons why he shouldn't answer—or better yet, why he should answer to thank her for her call and ask her to please stop calling. For starters, there was the fact that he was a married man. Things hadn't been good with Patty for a very long time, but he was still married and Sam thought of himself as a person who would did not cheat. Second, there was his job, and the very clear requirement that he not fraternize with reporters. Celeste hadn't asked for inside information on his investigation, but Sam's superiors wouldn't care if they were seen together. Sam needed to protect two things, his investigation and his professional reputation, and he was putting both at risk every minute that he spent with Celeste. He was still thinking about his responsibilities when the phone stopped ringing.
The fourth time Celeste called, Sam had run out of reasons. "Hello," he said, feeling like a man who had taken one step off the edge of a cliff.
There was a pause on the other end. "Wow,' Celeste finally said. "I was so used to getting your voicemail that I've forgotten what to do when you answer the phone."
"What can I do for you, Celeste?"
"Sam, I just want to talk. I want to make sure that things aren't weird between us."
"Why would they be weird?"
She chuckled. "Now you're just lying to me. You know why."
Sam bowed his head. "Yes. I know," he admitted. "And I'm sorry, I never should have..."
"Don't apologize," she broke in. "I kissed you, too. Whatever happened, we were both responsible."
"Well, I'm still sorry. If nothing else, I owe my wife an apology."
"And have you?" Celeste asked.
"Have I what?"
Have you apologized?"
He paused, looking for an escape, but found only the truth. "No," he admitted. "I haven't apologized to her."
"Good," she said. "It would have hurt her and done no good. Sometimes the truth makes things worse."
Sam sighed. "Again, what can I do for you, Celeste?"
"You can talk to me. Tonight. At my place."
Sam shook his head. "I can't, Celeste."
"You can. I promise, nothing will happen between us. In fact, that's why I want to see you tonight, so that we can talk—and only talk—and get back to where we were before the kiss."
Sam felt at a loss. He didn't know what to say or do. "Why do you care, Celeste?"
"In all the time I've been here, Sam, I feel like you're the only friend I've made. I don't want to lose that because of one stupid kiss."
He paused, searching for a way out.
"Sam, please," Celeste said. "Just for a bit. I'm lonely, Sam, and I need a friend."
Sam closed his eyes in resignation. "I'll be there in 30 minutes," he said.
Celeste's apartment looked like Ikea chic. The furniture was simple and functional, but Sam could tell how carefully it had been selected to fit with the rest of the room.
It was a simple space, without much decoration on the wall and with a simple rug over hardwood floors. It could not have been more different from Sam's house, and he liked it.
Celeste was in the kitchen, pouring them wine that Sam already knew was probably better-quality stuff than he had ever tasted. She had greeted him at the door with a happy smile and a hug. Sam liked the idea of Celeste being his friend. He didn't have enough friends, and she was nothing if not charming. Still, when she hugged him he felt every inch of her body against his, and if they were going to be friends he'd have to do something about that.
He joined her on the couch. She handed him a glass of wine. "To us," she said, holding her glass up in a toast.
"To friends," he said, clicking his glass against hers.
She sipped her wine. "Anything new with your case?" she asked.
"Nothing I can tell you," he said with a smile. He brought his wine glass to his lips and allowed the wine to touch his lips, but he didn't take a sip. Some day he'd explain to Celeste why he couldn't drink, but not today.
"You're no fun," Celeste pouted. "If you're not going to talk about your work, what should we talk about?"
"How about you?" Sam asked.
She sipped at the wine again, eyeing him warily over the top of her glass. "What would you like to know?" she asked.
"For starters, why don't you have friends? You've been here long enough to settle in, get to know some people."
She smiled, looking away. Sam could see her weighing her words, deciding what to say next. "I don't ... I don't trust easily, Sam," she said at last. "And without trust, you don't connect. Not really."
Sam looked at her closely. "Why is that?"
She shrugged. "High school was hard on me. I was a loner. And I've been a bit of a loner ever since."
"I have a hard time believing that."
"Why?" she asked.
He looked her up and down. "Because you're you. Celeste, you're gorgeous. You're smart. You're charming. People must be drawn to you."
She chuckled. "Well, maybe not everyone sees me like you do."
"I don't believe that, either."
She shrugged. "It is what it is. So now it's your turn to answer a tough question."
Sam braced himself. "Shoot."
"What's going on with your marriage?"
He winced. "Wow. You don't beat around the bush, do you?"
"Would that be better? I want to know, I'll find out eventually, so either you can tell me a little bit at a time or you can just answer the question right now."
Sam considered her, deciding what to do. He knew he didn't need to tell Celeste the truth, but he wanted to trust her. "We're going through some hard times. Some really hard times. It's been hard on both of us, but I Patty is really struggling."
"So why aren't you with her now?"
Sam knew he probably should have been hurt by the question, but there was a lot that couldn't touch him anymore. He was like a burn victim who healed by replacing pain with numbness. "I don't make it better for Patty. I think, sometimes, that I make it worse. When she sees me she remembers what our lives used to be like. So she drinks and tries to forget, for one night at least. And when she wakes up the next morning, she starts drinking again."
"That's so sad," Celeste said, reaching out to take his hand in hers. "You must feel so alone."
It was a simple gesture, but something in Sam leapt when she did it, and he laced his fingers with hers. Part of him wanted to cry, to weep and wail and moan, while another part wanted to be done with the crying and the mourning and see what life might still have for him. That was the part that reached out to Celeste, leaned into her, and took her mouth in a kiss.
Soon Sam was lost in the sensation of kissing this incredible woman, kissing this woman who was far too young and far too beautiful to be kissing him back, moaning against him, leading h
im into the bedroom. In a state of wonder he unbuttoned her blouse and felt the softness of her skin. In a state of unbelief he collapsed with her on the bed and compared the softness of her sheets to the softness of her bare skin. In a moment of pure exultation he exploded within her and rested, panting and sweaty, in her arms.
The lights were out and the only sound was Celeste's soft breathing from where she lay, warm and real, along Sam's side. Propped up with a pillow, he lay with a hand on her hip and stared out the window.
What he had done was wrong. Every part of him knew that to be true. Things were bad with Patty, and they'd been bad for a very long time, but in Sam's book there was no circumstance that made cheating OK. If he was a better man, either he'd end it with Patty and get on with his life, or he'd make things better between them no matter the cost. He was not a better man, though. He was merely himself, no better than that, and in the end there was no point in contemplating what the Sam Who Was Not might or might not do. The Sam Who Was lay next to Celeste and felt good about it. He reveled in her soft femininity, in her youth and passion, and in her inexplicable, flattering interest in him.
Celeste was beautiful, that was undeniable. That she was also sexy as hell was something that Sam knew better than most. Those things were good, they were wonderful in fact, but the greatest thing was that she was alive. For years he and Patty had been locked in a tomb together, and they'd been in the dark so long that he had forgotten what light and heat felt like. Celeste had reminded him. She had awakened in him a hunger for those things that he knew would never be extinguished.
It couldn't go on forever, of course. Sam trailed his fingers through Celeste's hair and thought about how short their time together might be. He would have to end it with Patty somehow. He would have to find some way to extract himself from her that would not send her spiraling further down into alcohol and depression. But he also knew that Celeste would tire of him, in time. She found him new and intriguing now, but Sam expected that to last about as long as the bright-colored coating on the candy in a child's mouth. Soon she would see through to who he was on the inside, and then she'd be gone.
For now, though, he was here with her, and he didn't want to sleep. He wanted to stay awake and listen to her breathing. Every moment with her was precious and unexpected. Sam stroked her hair and felt her warmth. He would need to sleep sometime, but for now this was enough.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The alleyway would have been depressing on a good day, but this was not a good day. Sam felt a pit of blackness in his chest as he walked toward the cluster of police personnel that marked the crime scene more effectively than yellow tape ever could.
The center of their attention was a green dumpster that was filled with trash and one more thing that Sam had hoped not to see.
Bud was leaning up against a soot-stained brick wall, giving Sam an appraising look. "Hey, buddy," he said. "I called you at home last night, but you weren't there. Did you have a date?"
Sam's stomach gave a twist. There was no way that his partner could know where he was last night. He was joking, Sam was sure, but he still felt uncomfortable within Bud's gaze. "Nothing you'd be interested in," he lied, and then brought the conversation back to a safer place. "What have we got?"
Bud inclined his head to the dumpster. "We've got a dead teenage girl, and I'll give you three guesses which one."
Of course Sam already knew. He wouldn't be here right now if he didn't know. "Damn it," he muttered.
Betsy Patterson was splayed awkwardly across the trash that filled the dumpster, and as her body began its inexorable breakdown her scent combined with the stink of the garbage in a way that Sam knew would haunt him for a long time to come.
There was blood, but not as much as there would be if the girl had been killed on the scene. Sam's eyes were drawn to the wounds, and he didn't like what he saw.
"Multiple stab wounds," said the forensics examiner at Sam's side. He was removing his latex gloves, his initial examination complete. "Some bruising around the neck, as if she had been choked, though I won't know the cause of death until I can take a closer look. There are signs of a struggle—there's some blood under her nails, probably belongs to the perpetrator. And then the big news: we have mutilation around the abdomen."
Sam barely heard the words. His attention was claimed by Betsy's stomach area, where someone had carved a word with a hasty, sloppy hand. Her killer had one word for her to share with the world: "Slut."
"He's decorating them now," Bud said at his side.
"It's different. Jasmine's body was different," Sam protested.
"Yeah," Bud said. "Maybe he's changing his methods?"
"Serial killers don't do that. They find a method and they stick to it. They find meaning in the patterns."
"Yeah, well, now the pattern is different."
Sam shook his head. "We've got nothing," he said as much to himself as to his partner.
"We've got two bodies, and now we've got the asshole's DNA."
"We've got nothing! We were basing everything on the pattern of mutilation. The only reason we have a suspect is because of the pattern. The DNA is only good once we have someone in custody, and we have nothing. No M.O., no primary suspect, nothing."
Frustrated, he turned on his heel and stalked away from the dumpster. He could feel Bud at his heel.
"You'll find it," Bud said, as if soothing an upset child.
"Find what?"
"The pattern. You'll find it. You always do."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It was a warm day, sunny with the fragrance of grass heavy on the wind, and Patty breathed a sigh of relief. It was already so fucking hard to be here, and to do it without getting a drink first was so hard it almost made her cry.
So Patty took what consolation she could in the warmth of the sun on her cheek as she took a deep breath and crossed the street to the cemetery.
The place was full of headstones, but Patty could only see one of them. She could have walked there with her eyes shut. Missy's grave lay beneath a tree, at the center of a family plot that someday was supposed to hold her parents as well. Today Patty felt like that might not be so far away.
She crouched down at the grave and placed her gift—a teddy bear—next to the plastic flowers she'd brought the last time she was here. She took a seat in the grass and brushed her fingers across the cold stone, spelling out the lettering of her daughter's name.
"Hi, baby. I missed you this week. I saw Peggy's mother in the supermarket and I almost lost it. I had to sneak out the back before she saw me," she said, laughing weakly and brushing a tear from her cheek.
"I've been thinking about what I needed to tell you today. I thought it about it all week. And I need you to know how sorry I am. I'm sorry, baby, for so many things."
Patty choked up for a while. It was a moment before she was able to speak again.
"I'm sorry for not being a better mother. I'm sorry for not getting you that Barbie you wanted. I'm sorry I got you a cheaper doll instead and told myself that it was just as good. It wasn't. You should have had the doll you wanted."
She brushed some dirt from her daughter's headstone, then continued.
"And most of all I'm sorry that I wasn't there when you needed me. I'm sorry that I didn't protect you. And every day it tears me apart to think of what you must have been thinking at the end. Were you wondering where I was? Were you sad? Because I'm sad, baby. I'm sad all the time, and I'm so sorry."
Then there was nothing but the tears, and Patty gave into them. In her heart she knew that the tears were half the reason she came here so often. They felt terrible coming up, but when they were out of her they were replaced by a weary sense of peace that was better than anything else she felt these days.
When she was done and walking back to her car, she caught a sight of the man who was waiting for her and cursed beneath her breath.
"Hey Patty," Bud said. He was leaning up against her car, his arms crossed.
<
br /> "What do you want?" she muttered, pushing past him and walking to the driver's side door.
"Well for one, I'd like to know how you're doing. I haven't seen you in a while."
"I'm fine," she said, fumbling for her keys. This conversation could not be over soon enough to suit her.
"Are you?" Bud asked. "You don't look great, Patty."
She let out a breath and shook her head. "Like you care," she said, finally finding the car key and putting it to the lock.
Bud put his hand on the door frame to prevent her from opening it. "I do care," Patty. "Maybe not as much as you wanted me to, but I do care."
"Don't flatter yourself," she snarled, getting angry. "It was a one-time thing. You were the one who couldn't seem to understand that."
Bud leaned in towards her. "Patty, look at yourself. You look like shit. Your breath could attract flies. You are not fine."
"I'm fine!" Patty near-shouted, jerking at the door.
Bud stepped back, letting her go. "Get your shit together, Patty. If you don't want to see me, that's fine. It's in the past. Over and done. No need for anyone to hear about it, ever."
Patty settled into the driver's seat and laughed bitterly. "Is that what you're afraid of, Bud? That your partner will find out what a piece of shit you are? I wouldn't worry. He probably already knows."
With that she pulled out with a squeal and drove off. Her chest felt tight and she was having trouble catching her breath. She wanted to turn the car around and punch Bud in the face. Instead she took a right and headed toward the bar.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The folder lay open for more than twenty minutes on Sam's desk while he tried to make sense of it.