by Brandi Reeds
A woman, whom I can’t deny is the same I cut down, nude, lying in wait on a bed.
A shadow of a man. I can’t see his face. Only his back.
And several images of them together, entwined, having sex.
I text back, How do you know this is your husband? Can’t see much of him.
But even if it isn’t Mr. Holloway, it’s definitely concerning that the missus stumbled over these pictures.
Kirsten: Infinity tattoo on the back of his right shoulder.
It’s his law firm’s logo.
It’s him.
I’ve known that body my whole life.
I scroll though the pictures, which drip with sex and steam, and enlarge one with a good view of the right shoulder. Sure enough, there’s a tattoo there—a sideways figure eight. The pictures are provocative, to say the least, and although a dead girl is the subject, I’m sort of turned on by what I’m seeing. This sex is close, personal, mouth on mouth. Hot.
But these pictures were taken by someone else, from the outside looking in.
The lighting is terrible, and some of the pictures show more shadow than subject, or glare off the window through which they were taken. Some frames highlight the dirt on the windowsill, while others appear to have been taken from such a distance that I have to zoom in on a human shape.
I imagine some hired PI standing on a rooftop across the way, aiming and clicking away.
There’s usually one reason that happens.
Pieces of a theory fall into place:
Kirsten’s husband and Margaux were having an affair. Someone could have been using these photographs for blackmail. It’s logical to assume Margaux wouldn’t want the pictures leaked, even though she was single and free to do whatever she pleased with whomever she chose. Alderman Richard Akers and ultra-Christian Helen certainly could have been hurt by a scandal like this.
Still, it would stand to reason Kirsten’s husband would have been the target. But of whom?
Who would dare to use this information against him? Who would threaten to go to Kirsten and his family, or even his clients, with these pictures?
If someone were blackmailing him, however, he could have tried to end it with Margaux.
And if she didn’t take it well, the breakup could have been bad and could have gotten physical. Probably did, given the slice on her cheek. Maybe a physical altercation resulted in her death. Or maybe the cutting thing was erotic, too. I conduct another search, this time for erotic cutting. Bingo. People do that to get off, too, which might explain the letters carved into her breast.
None of this makes Mr. Holloway a killer, of course, but if he were paying someone off . . .
I text Kirsten:
First
I’m sorry.
Second
Is there any money missing from your accounts?
She replies:
I wouldn’t know.
I don’t have access.
He recently changed the password.
Jeez, this isn’t looking good.
Kirsten: Why?
I reply: Someone sent these pictures to your husband for a reason.
And if you suddenly can’t access the account, he could be hiding something.
Large withdrawals
Hush money
She texts: Can you meet me tomorrow? For lunch?
I text: Probably.
Then I text Decker: Have something that might interest you.
BTW, research erotic asphyxiation and erotic cutting.
I attach links.
The buzz of my doorbell startles me for a moment. I’m not expecting anyone.
I settle back against the pillows on my sofa, toss a piece of popcorn into my mouth, and turn up the volume on the movie I’m streaming.
About thirty seconds later, I hear the doorbell across the hall, followed by the long, annoying hum of the buzzer that tells whomever is on the doorstep to come on in. This happens a lot in the city. Someone forgets a key and leans on any old button until one of us lets him in. It defeats the purpose of a security buzzer, which is why I never let the doorbell disturb me.
I divide my attention between my movie and the erotic play I’m researching. I imagine what it must have felt like: the fear of a blade touching her skin, hands closing around her throat, maybe slowly, as if with intent to catch her off guard, as if to toy with her until airflow is constricted . . . and she starts to panic.
When did Margaux realize, I wonder, that her night was about to ignite with a passion more intimate than sex? Because that’s what murder is. The ultimate stealing of another’s freedom—personal and invasive. Could anything be more intimate than wiping out someone’s existence?
I pick up my phone to text one last message to Decker: Talk soon.
Knock, knock, knock.
I fumble my phone when I hear the three quick raps on my door, then quickly recover it. There’s no denying I’m home. I’m sure the sound of my movie is filtering into the hallway. I look toward the door, willing whomever is on the other side of it to just go away. I don’t want whatever they’re selling, and it’s too late for unannounced visitors, besides.
But when the knocker persists and pounds this time, I tiptoe toward the door and peek through the peephole.
“Jessica?”
Jack!
And, God, he looks good.
He’s standing there in khakis and an untucked button-down, one hand slipping into his pocket after the knock, and the other grasping a bundle of fresh roses.
I gasp.
“Jessica?”
Oh no. I look around at my cluttered apartment. I’m going to have to let him in.
The place boasts unwashed dishes, a basket of dirty laundry waiting by the door for the day I’m motivated to hike to the basement facilities—and then I glance at what I’m wearing.
One of Decker’s old flannels.
Thick, mismatched socks.
And, God . . . granny panties. Tonight could be the night Jack expects to finally take things to the next level—I don’t know why else he’d surprise me with flowers—and I’m wearing undergarments that might double as something that covers the infield during a rain delay.
I could ignore the knock and tell him later I was in the shower, sorry I missed him, yada yada yada. I’m not ready for him to see the real way I live.
But . . . the roses.
He went to the effort to surprise me.
That doesn’t mean I’m in any condition to accept visitors tonight. The last time I saw him I distinctly got the impression he suspected—correctly—I was seeing someone else.
If I don’t answer the door now, it might lend more to his suspicions, and he might decide to disappear.
He knocks again. “Jessica?”
“Just a minute.” I pull the band from my hair, releasing the snarled ponytail, and step out of my cotton briefs and kick them into my laundry basket. I check my reflection in the tiny square mirror hanging near my door.
Do I look all right?
Eh. But it’s the best I can do on a moment’s notice.
I open the door.
“I had to see you.” Jack crosses over the threshold and tosses his arms around me. “I would have called, but my phone died, and I was halfway here anyway—”
“I’m glad you’re here.”
His lips land on mine, and for the first time since we met, I don’t feel as if Decker is in the room with us.
Jack’s hand lands on my ass, and he practically groans as he discovers I’m not wearing panties.
Next I know, he’s furiously working the buttons on my shirt and walking me to the sofa, where he leans over me and coaxes me onto my back.
And suddenly, what’s been at bay for weeks feels more than urgent.
Despite the element of safety I usually feel around him, the way I feel about him is almost dangerous right now. Because he ignited me with only a look. And I suddenly need him. All of him.
I’m working at his belt and
then the zipper on his khakis. I rip at his buttons, but there’s no time to undress him, and the next I know, we’re making out like teenagers. His shirt is only half off, his pants are at his ankles, and my arms are still imprisoned in flannel sleeves, but I feel him against me. A pair of flimsy cotton boxer shorts are the only thing standing between us.
He burns a stare into my eyes as he bruises my lips with kisses.
He caresses my neck with his fingers, drawing slow circles with his thumb, and I have to wonder if this is how it started for Margaux Stritch, if her killer caught her off guard, wooing her with caresses, and suddenly squeezed the life out of her.
Jack holds me tight to his body, and I register details—his rhythm, his demeanor, his expression. None of it is indicative of any violent intentions, but I can’t stop imagining things taking a turn, his hands tightening at my neck.
Jesus, this case is really getting to me.
“God,” he whispers into my ear. “You know when you just can’t stop thinking about something?”
“Yeah.” Recently, I’ve been borderline obsessed with Miss Margaux Stritch.
“It’s you. I just can’t stop thinking about you.” He rakes a few fingers against my neck, then lowers his lips to breathe a kiss there. “Where’ve you been, Jess? Where the hell have you been all my life?”
He palms my cheek, his thumb brushing against my chin, then pressing lower, lower, lower, until his hand is at my neck—squeezing.
The look in his eyes . . . pure determination, focus.
His grip on my neck tightens.
“Wait,” I manage.
He only constricts his fingers around my neck.
His lips part to reveal clenched teeth.
He’s going to kill me.
Is this what Margaux felt in her last moments? In her last breath?
I’d scream if I could catch breath enough.
The ringing in my ears—
I pull back and punch.
My fist lands square on his cheekbone.
“Jessica.”
I gasp and cough and scramble out from under him. “What the hell was that?”
“What you wanted, I thought.”
“Why would I—”
“All that talk about the Aquasphere. And . . .” He indicates toward my laptop, which has two windows open:
The Underground Online chat room.
And images of erotic asphyxiation.
“Oh.” I straighten my clothing. “Jesus, ask a girl next time.”
“Okay, I’m asking. You’re not wearing underwear, you’ve been chatting on a sex site, and you’ve got pictures of people choking each other on your laptop screen.”
I almost laugh, but he’s so upset that I quickly contain myself. “I’m just doing some research for a friend.”
He rubs his cheek where I hit him.
“You okay?”
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“Yeah.” My phone starts to ring. “Me too.”
“I thought . . . ,” he says. “Damn it.”
I reach for my mobile phone. It’s the station.
I hold up a finger and answer the call: “Yeah, what’s up?”
It’s the battalion chief: Froman has the flu. I have to go in to cover his shift.
Jack’s dressing by the time I hang up. “I understand if I screwed this up. I don’t know what came over me, but I saw the pictures and saw that you’d been online, and I thought we were finally going to make a commitment to each other, and . . .” He sighs. “Sorry.”
“I want to talk about this,” I say. “I really do. But I have to go in.”
“Okay.”
“Really. I’ll call you, okay? We’ll set something up.”
He leans to me, cups my chin in a hand, and drops a soft kiss onto my lips. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Good night.” I watch him walk out the door.
My phone is ringing again.
Decker’s name appears on the caller ID screen.
I answer: “What’s up?”
“You had company tonight.”
“What, are you spying on me?”
“You texted me a hundred times.”
“So you text back, you don’t stake out my apartment.”
“I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d stop by until I saw two silhouettes in your window.”
I glance down at the street below my window and spy Decker’s nondescript tan sedan, the beater he uses for work, parked in a tow zone. “You saw—”
“Is he gone? Was that him I just saw walking out?”
“Yeah, but I have to go into the station.”
“Great. We’ll talk on the way. I’ll give you a lift.”
“Oh.” So this is a business call. “Okay. Give me a minute.”
“Sweetheart? Shake a tail feather. What I’ve got? It’s good.”
THEN
MARGAUX
Margaux straddled Arlon’s back and treated him to a rubdown. “Do you want kids?”
At this, he shifted and looked at her over his shoulder. “I think we’d make beautiful children together.”
“Me too.”
“Babe, you’d make gorgeous kids with anyone.”
“How many kids would you want?”
“Four, I think. Nice round number.”
“That’s a lot of kids.”
“Would you do that for me?”
“Of course I would. And since it seems law school’s on the back burner—”
“Why?”
She sighed. “The man who adopted me . . . Richard—he’s an alderman, Everyone’s Granddad Akers . . . ever hear of him?—he has power of attorney over my trust, which is supposed to come to me on my twenty-fifth birthday, or upon completion of a postgraduate degree, whichever is first.”
“Ah, so you can be my sugar mama.”
“It’s not that much money. Just enough, you know, to be comfortable. But Granddad’s got a problem. With gambling.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes. He gambled most of my trust away, and I have to wait now for him to replenish it.”
“Maggie, I . . . God, babe, that’s awful.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“Why? What else happened?”
“I don’t need to talk about it. Can’t talk about it, actually because . . . well, the media. He could . . .” She nibbled on her lip. “Never mind. It’s just family business.”
“Tell me.”
“Suffice it to say there are consequences to talking. I once slipped and told someone outside the family something I shouldn’t have told, and we had to pay people off to keep it out of the news, and then there’s his depression . . . And when he down-spirals, there’s the drinking, and he’s an angry drunk . . .”
“Toxic. You need to cut him out.”
“What do you mean . . . cut him out? I have sort of—”
“You go see them every Sunday.”
“That’s to pick up an installment of what Granddad has to put back into my account. It’s not for the pleasure of the company, believe me. But I have no one else. I mean, they took me in. They didn’t have to do that. I owe them—”
“Listen.” He rolled her over. “You’re not alone anymore. What have we just been talking about? A family. Kids.”
A smile slowly crept onto her face. “Do you think we’re there?”
“Don’t you?”
She wrapped her limbs around him. “Maybe, from now on, you can come to Sunday dinners to collect.”
“I wish I could. Sunday is usually a travel day, and I should get going. I still have a sales report to file.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“But maybe I can send you on your way with a little extra spring in your step.”
“Did you know you’re the first person I’ve met since my parents died who puts me first? I’d do anything for you.”
“Anything?”
“Mm-hmm.”
His slow smile morphe
d to an expression of determination.
“Listen,” he said. “It’s been hot, what we’ve been doing . . . the choking.”
“Tell me about it.”
“But I could kill you, baby.”
“You’re not going to kill me, Arlon.”
“If anything happened to you, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself.”
“I think I can deal with bringing in a tutor. If it’ll help you feel better about it.”
For a moment, he appeared to be deep in thought. “I’m going to run an errand.”
“What? Now?”
“I’m going to let you go,” he said. “But only if you promise not to move a muscle until I get back.”
She nodded.
He kissed her lips. “Promise?”
“Yes.”
His weight now lifted from her body, but as agreed, she lay perfectly still, even when he ripped her tank top to expose her breasts, even when he tore the panties from her body. He positioned her legs uncomfortably wide, but she remained still.
When he was satisfied with her positioning, he stood above her, his erection bulging in his boxers. “Open your mouth.”
Her lips parted.
“Wider.”
She obeyed.
He took one pass around her body splayed on the thin area rug.
Already her back began to ache against the hard floor.
“Not a muscle.” He stepped into jeans and pulled on his sweater.
Where was he going?
But she didn’t dare ask.
He pulled his keys from his pocket. “Don’t move.”
She didn’t.
Not even when he exited the apartment.
He didn’t lock the door, and she was lying there, uncomfortable, spread-eagle, and naked as the day she was born, ready for anyone to pounce.
Surely, he wouldn’t be gone long.
But the numbers on the clock ticked off minute by minute until nearly twenty had gone by.
What was he doing? And why? Was this some sort of test? If so, she’d pass. She’d prove her loyalty, her dedication, her obedience to him.
She wasn’t about to ruin this. She’d given a great deal of herself to Arlon, and he’d given back just as much. Finally, someone made a priority of her, someone saw something special in her, and she wasn’t about to risk it for the sake of being comfortable.
So she stared up at the exposed rafters in the loft above the kitchen, at the raw beam that ran over the length of her living room, at the tiny scuttle hole that led to her rooftop patio.