My mother did give me something that day—forewarning. I watch Snacks every day now, hoping that she’ll not fall under the same curse as I did, as my mother did. But the only drawings she shares with me are of scribbly trees and stars and the sun and the moon. And on occasion, a cow jumping too.
Who knows how many other women from our line were murderers? Vampires are real—I remind myself of that constantly. There are some days when I don’t have to remember. There are some days I’m no longer the mother and wife I want to be. A hunger pang will come, followed by another, and soon my dreams are filled with new designs.
Water rushed beneath me, spouting white foam over jutting boulders, sinking others beneath a heavy flow. Once a year the tranquility of Neshaminy Creek is disturbed by the flood of feeder steams during the spring thaw that rises over the banks and makes rapids run. I searched the stony bank and the sandy mounds, looking for any hint of my trophies. By now, my evidence had surely been washed out to a bigger river and then caught up by currents that joined other rivers, deeper, faster. And eventually to the ocean, disappearing forever.
When I made it to town, I decided to park in front of the alley—my alley. My fears, my reservations had been lessened by Steve taking the case. I brought out Nerd’s gift to me. A huge ring, I could only fit Needle on my thumb, and it was there that I put it. I kept the poison reservoir empty, deciding to pretend I was an assassin, keeping the dreamy thought of filling it as a new fantasy.
“But that doesn’t mean I can’t be someone else for a while?” I asked no one in particular. Then I spied an open chair at a new hairdresser a street over from Romeo’s. I pushed Needle back on my thumb and made my way to the salon. Mr. C’s the window announced in bold gold-and-silver lettering that glinted in the light. A bell jingled, bouncing back and forth as the door closed behind me.
“Well, don’t you look ready for a change?” a short man said, his Latin accent sounding effeminate, his grin leading me to grin back.
“You’re open?” I asked, feeling insecure while he eyed me from head to toe.
“We are. I’m Carlos—the C in Mr. C,” he said proudly as he rocked on the balls of his feet. “What can I do for you, baby?”
I pointed to the sample hairdo pictures on the wall, and he began to go through each one, talking up which would work with my bone structure. Between his lisp and the way he stood—one foot perpendicular to the other—he was a living stereotype. I could never have made his mannerisms up.
“I like number seventeen,” I told him. He cupped his chin and shifted to his other foot, sending one pointed shoe out. He tilted his head.
“That won’t work for you, baby,” he exclaimed. I wasn’t sure if I should be embarrassed or ashamed. He came over to me, reaching his hands up, pausing to ask for my permission. I nodded, and he dove his fingers into my hair. He smelled strongly of a cologne that tickled my nose.
“What you want, baby?” he asked, stepping back.
Had he given up on me already?
My eyes wandered up to the sexy hairdos again, avoiding number seventeen, but I couldn’t find anything I liked.
“Oh, don’t bore yourself with those, honey,” he instructed, waving them off. “Those pictures are for the tittiest girly girls who only want what their man wants, anyway. Girl, tell me: what do you want?”
His words were inviting. His tone warm. I liked him, and wished Katie was with me. She would have liked him too. No. She would have loved him. I fixed him a smile, trying to show some confidence. Then I joked, “I want you to give me back eight years.”
“Ahhh,” he said and nodded his head, circling me, studying me. “You want your sexy back.” He motioned me toward his chair and winked when he brought out a pair of scissors.
“I do!” I answered excitedly. “I want my sexy back.”
“And baby, your man is gonna love this.”
I nodded eagerly, plopping down to get comfortable. I sat in his hairdressing chair for the next hour and stared back at us in an oval mirror. I watched him use his comb and scissors like an artist, trimming, combing, and shaping, taking away who I was one hair at a time. He brought out someone I had never seen before, but had known my entire life.
I spun Needle on my thumb as I left, liking the feel of the thick metal against my skin, the feel of death touching me. I was growing more comfortable wearing it, having put my friendship ring where it belonged—in the ground with Katie so it could stay together with hers forever. A breeze rushed over the skin of my bare neck, giving me a chill. I hurried inside the library, not remembering when I had last worn my hair so short. The skirt I was wearing didn’t help, but I had wanted to go for leggy and beautiful today, uncertain of where my free afternoon was going to take me. And now I had the hairdo to match.
I waved to the older librarian as her eyes appeared above her glasses. She did a double take and then smiled, recognizing me. When she stretched to get up from her chair, I stopped her and gave a short wave, telling her to stay.
“I’m just here for a few minutes.”
“Good to see you again,” she said and motioned to her hair. “Love what you’ve done.” Hearing her compliment warmed me.
“Thank you.”
The library smelled the same, looked the same, felt the same—but was completely different somehow. I found Nerd at the computers and, like the librarian, he did a double take when he saw me. I circled around the tables, keeping some space between us, unsure of what I wanted to say or do.
Nerd saw the ring on my thumb and gave an approving nod. I moved around the table toward him. He slowly leaned in the opposite direction, his gaze wandering with me, staying cautious of my moves like an abused child forever afraid of what’s behind them.
“I was sorry to hear about your husband,” he said, breaking the silence. “Is he . . ?”
“He’s fine,” I answered, lifting the corner of my mouth, hoping to see him do the same. He pitched his head and thinned his lips, happy to hear the news.
Nerd raised his hands then, showing me his palms. “Just so you know, I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“I know,” I told him as I motioned to a chair for permission to sit down. He lowered his hands and pointed to the chair with a shrug. My hand wandered over the keyboard. I brushed my fingers between the keys, pressing one and then another, teasing them as if I had something to say. “Anything good come up lately?”
His ears perked up but he furrowed his brow cautiously. “Amy . . .” he began flatly. “What do you want?”
“I thought maybe we could just look,” I answered. I waited to see his reaction.
He stayed calm, eyes cautious and fixed on me, but then they wandered back to what had begun to scroll by on his screen. Bright green text flew upward, rising until he clicked his mouse, stopping it long enough to read a few lines. His lips moved without making any noise.
“Just look?” he finally said, asking while he studied his screen.
“Maybe do more than look. But no promises,” I said. “Just wanted to see what you thought of the idea. Finish what we started?”
He considered what I proposed and then answered, “Maybe I’ve found someone else already.”
I sat up, suddenly feeling both surprised and hurt at the same time. I’d never considered that he would have found someone else to work with. I never considered that he’d even look for someone else.
“Oh. Good for you!” I tried to sound as if it didn’t matter to me, to sound as though it wasn’t a big deal.
“Amy! Seriously, are you interested?”
“I’m interested!” I nearly shouted, showing my enthusiasm, deciding it didn’t matter.
“By the way, I love the new look. It’s you. It’s very you.”
The hours of the day ticked by. I ate alone at Romeo’s, all the while imaging Katie sitting across from me.
No more sadness, I told myself, forcing back a memory of when we were young.
The sun had dipped out of the sk
y and the crisp moonlight made me realize how late it was.
A drink. I was going to celebrate the end of this fine day with a drink. Katie would have approved. A shot of White Bear would have been my first choice, but from what I’d seen during my last drive out there, I thought it likely that the Feds would still have that place closed up.
I got in the car and started driving, crossing a bridge into a part of town I hadn’t visited since Steve and I were first dating. I passed our old movie theater, liking that it was still open, still had a line of teens waiting to buy popcorn and see the latest flicks. Their faces were filled with the nervousness of first dates and the eagerness of first kisses, and on some, I saw the hope of a little more.
I found the bar Steve and his friends frequented, the sports bar that nearly ended who we were, who we’d eventually become. The name had changed, and the outside wore a younger look, catering to a dance crowd more than to a sports scene. I parked my car and colored my lips and cheeks using the makeup I’d applied for my visit to the White Bear.
Just a shot, I told myself, hoping they might carry a bottle of White Bear Whiskey. Maybe two.
In place of sports commentators came the jarring thump of hard dance music, which thrummed against my body as sharp lights bounced off the walls and ceiling, skating over the tops of dancers jumping up and down. I made my way through a sea of sweaty faces, naked shoulders, and hard abs. Long hair whipped around as hands pawed at my arms and back, the dance crowd absorbing me into their pulsing, amorphic beat. Eager fingers pulled on my hands, inviting me to join them. I rocked my head and motioned that I’d be back, thankful that I had enough of a look to be accepted, to pass the test.
“Shot of White Bear?” I asked, dropping twenty dollars on the bar. I sat down on a round stool, catching my partial reflection in the mirror behind the bottles of liquor. I looked hot. I looked hotter than expected. “Well, Mr. C., you put ten years back. Congratulations.”
“What was that?” the bartender asked, bending over to hear me better. Tall and cute, sandy blond hair swept to one side, high cheek bones ridged above dimples. “Whiskey, got it. Rocks or neat?”
“White Bear, neat. If you’ve got it.”
He dipped below the bar, glass bottles tolling like bells as he searched. “You’re in luck. Last bottle,” he answered, reappearing. “And from the sounds of it, last bottle for a long time. With all the news coverage, we’ve been going through this stuff.”
He cracked the cap of the round bottle, set the glass in front of me, and poured my drink. The smell came next, rising to my nose, strong enough that I could taste it. I reached for the glass, but just then another hand touched mine. Slender fingers, painted nails—and three tattooed hearts between the thumb and forefinger.
“Can I try?” I heard in my ear, the smell of perfume reaching my nose.
“Aren’t you a bit . . . forward?” I asked, then turned to face a woman who was chasing youth, just like me. Beautiful. Her wavy red hair revealed to me a truth only fantasies are made of. I couldn’t believe my luck. But then again, maybe somewhere in the deepest recesses of my murderous mind I thought there was a chance that I’d run into Little Miss Three Hearts here. “Skank,” I believe my old friend had called her. Even after a decade and a change from a sports bar into a disco, she was still hanging out in the same sad spot. Here she was, within reach of my lips, touching my hand, clearly wanting to do more with me than drink my whiskey.
“I’ve never gotten anywhere without being a little forward,” she answered, lifting my drink and sipping it with her tongue on the glass. “Anyone ever tell you how hot you are? Your husband say that to you, lately?” I wanted to laugh when she asked me that, wondering if she’d even remember straddling my husband’s lap.
“He has,” I answered, calmly. And then I quickly added, “But we have an understanding.”
“Nice,” she said, raising her brow. “Bring him around next time.”
Her hand moved to mine again, soft and tender. It touched Needle, touched death.
I thought back to how we were going to pay for law school. I thought back to Nerd and the open offer I had made him.
“Things must be different this time,” I had said softly. “Careful this time. No mistakes.”
“Right, no mistakes,” she answered, thinking I was talking to her. “I love your ring.”
I watched as she played with the large stone, waiting to see if she would twist the gem, rotate it, release Needle’s syringe. For law school and for Steve, I decided that I needed to become who I was supposed to be. But first, I just needed a little practice.
Sometimes you have to kill a few to save a life.
THANK YOU
Thank you for reading the first book in my series, Affair with Murder. Want to read more? Pick up book two, Painful Truths, and don’t forget to tell me what you think about it!
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Brian
ALSO BY BRIAN SPANGLER
Crime Thriller Series
Affair with Murder—Having an affair with murder is easy. It’s what happens afterward that’s deadly.
Deadly Tide—The exciting adventures of Jericho Quinn. An officer with the Marine Patrol on the beautiful coast of North Carolina. A missing child. A serial killer on the loose, and a murder mystery.
A Cozy Mystery
An Order of Coffee and Tears—Friendships, romance, secrets, and forgiveness come together in this cozy mystery.
Supernatural Suspense
Superman’s Cape—A grim tale of a boy lost in a forest that holds all of his fears.
Short Stories
Naked Moon—For one young traveler, a naked moon may mean the difference between life and death.
Some Sci-Fi and Dystopian Thrillers
From the Caustic Series—An Apocalyptic and Dystopian series:
Fallen—Book One
Endure—Book Two
Deceit—Book Three
Reveal—Book Four
From Hugh Howey’s World of Wool
Silo Saga: Lottery—What happens when you have one too many mouths to feed?
For more, visit my site and subscribe to my newsletter, WrittenByBrian.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU?
I’M A WALRUS!
Brian Johnson—The Breakfast Club
Who am I?
I’m a resident of Virginia. I live there with my wife and children, along with four cats—sometimes more—a mouse, a parrot, a lizard, and the funniest chinchilla on the East Coast.
Although I live in Virginia, my heart is still in Philadelphia, Pennsyl
vania, where I was raised. And I hope that, one day, I’ll be able to call Philadelphia home again.
Growing up, I liked to read short stories, but struggled with the words. You see, I had a secret, a sad little secret. Ashamed and embarrassed, I was the little kid in the back row of the schoolroom quietly moving my lips along with the class while everyone read aloud. I couldn’t read. I couldn’t write. I hoped nobody would notice, but they did. They always did.
By the time I reached the fourth grade, my secret wasn’t a secret anymore. The teachers knew something was wrong. Dyslexia. Maybe that’s why I liked science fiction so much? All those crazy-looking glyphs on the screen, glowing, flashing.
The fix? Back to the third grade for me, and then special classes three days a week. But it worked. Once I started reading, I never stopped. Stephen King, Piers Anthony, Dean Koontz, and even the Judy Blume books my sisters discarded.
I’m still one of the slowest readers I know, but school was never a problem again. I finally graduated from the third grade, and then kept on going until I finished my master’s.
These days, I work as an engineer and spend my nights writing, editing, and thinking up the next great story.
Happy reading,
Brian
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