coffee shop, he’d thrown up, right in his car—the car in which he’d hidden Betsy MacGregor in the trunk. She’d choked on her own vomit and died, alone in there, while he was evading them, evading
her
, and he’d beaten her anyway, but it wasn’t any good because she wasn’t afraid anymore and he’d howled his rage.
She
had robbed him of his pleasure and her pain.
So he took Betsy’s teeth—all of them—but it wasn’t the same. And in that moment, in the shower of his grimy motel room, as he’d scrubbed himself clean, he knew that it would never again be the same. And the despair was so heavy upon him that he’d gotten dressed, his hair still wet, and climbed into his car, to turn himself in to the police.
It was just by chance, by luck, by fate that he saw
her
, in the parking lot of that Starbucks.
She was going into the coffee shop, taking a break from their relentless but now faltering search for Betsy, so he’d parked, and then he’d puked, and then he’d followed her.
He’d stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness after coming inside from the bright, cold morning light.
She
was standing with a man—dark-haired and short of stature—and she was nodding at something he said.
She was beautiful. As he stared at her, the despair shifted, making room for his awe. She was perfect in every way. She dressed like a man, but it didn’t disguise the fact that she was slender, yet curved. Soft yet strong. And her face …
Sometimes, up close, women who were beautiful from a distance didn’t hold up, but she was breathtaking. Magnificent. With even features that could grace magazine covers had she chosen that path, and flawless, smooth brown skin that he imagined would be soft to his touch.
Her companion leaned close to speak into her ear, and she laughed, and his despair again moved, and beneath it, like the single toll of a bell from a distant church tower came the solidness of certainty.
Kill
.
Not
her
, not yet, not here, not now.
But rather
him
.
Kill him
.
He was this perfect woman’s lover—he had to be. The intimacy of their relationship echoed in the way they stood and moved, the way they talked to each other.
Or didn’t talk. Whoever the man was, he’d noticed him standing here, just inside the door, staring at them, and he somehow told
her
that, with just one look, even as his cell phone rang.
“Hey, sweetie,” the dead man said into his phone as he turned away, but then the rest of his words were lost, as
she
turned and looked directly at him, catching and holding his gaze.
Her eyes weren’t a deep, soft brown, as he’d expected. Instead they were startlingly pale—sunlit ocean green—and he knew he shouldn’t stand here like this staring, but he couldn’t look away.
And he knew that it was time to surrender—or not.
Not
tolled the certainty within him, and he knew just as absolutelywhat he needed to do. He let himself stare even longer. And then he pulled his gaze away and turned and stared, too, at the bland, boring, vanilla girl taking orders behind the counter. He made himself shuffle toward the clerk, his movement labored and jerky, and he placed his order in a voice that suggested his mental challenges were many—because no one faulted a retard who stared.
And sure enough,
she
looked away, no longer suspicious.
His reward was her name
—Alyssa
—called by the barista who then handed over her coffee.
Her dead lover was
Jules
, which was a stupid name for a man, but after he took his coffee, Alyssa spoke, her voice musical and rich. “Tell Robin to break a leg tonight,” she said. And Jules nodded and said as much into his cell phone, ending the call with “See you tonight. I love you, too.”
His relief that they were only friends, not lovers, made him magnanimous. He would not kill this man now, not here, not yet.
As he shambled to the place where he was to wait for his coffee,
she
slipped past him, and he smelled her.
And it was
her
, and he’d beaten her anyway, but it wasn’t any good because she wasn’t afraid anymore and he’d howled his rage.
She
had robbed him of his pleasure and her pain.
So he took Betsy’s teeth—all of them—but it wasn’t the same. And in that moment, in the shower of his grimy motel room, as he’d scrubbed himself clean, he knew that it would never again be the same. And the despair was so heavy upon him that he’d gotten dressed, his hair still wet, and climbed into his car, to turn himself in to the police.
It was just by chance, by luck, by fate that he saw
her
, in the parking lot of that Starbucks.
She was going into the coffee shop, taking a break from their relentless but now faltering search for Betsy, so he’d parked, and then he’d puked, and then he’d followed her.
He’d stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness after coming inside from the bright, cold morning light.
She
was standing with a man—dark-haired and short of stature—and she was nodding at something he said.
She was beautiful. As he stared at her, the despair shifted, making room for his awe. She was perfect in every way. She dressed like a man, but it didn’t disguise the fact that she was slender, yet curved. Soft yet strong. And her face …
Sometimes, up close, women who were beautiful from a distance didn’t hold up, but she was breathtaking. Magnificent. With even features that could grace magazine covers had she chosen that path, and flawless, smooth brown skin that he imagined would be soft to his touch.
Her companion leaned close to speak into her ear, and she laughed, and his despair again moved, and beneath it, like the single toll of a bell from a distant church tower came the solidness of certainty.
Kill
.
Not
her
, not yet, not here, not now.
But rather
him
.
Kill him
.
He was this perfect woman’s lover—he had to be. The intimacy of their relationship echoed in the way they stood and moved, the way they talked to each other.
Or didn’t talk. Whoever the man was, he’d noticed him standing here, just inside the door, staring at them, and he somehow told
her
that, with just one look, even as his cell phone rang.
“Hey, sweetie,” the dead man said into his phone as he turned away, but then the rest of his words were lost, as
she
turned and looked directly at him, catching and holding his gaze.
Her eyes weren’t a deep, soft brown, as he’d expected. Instead they were startlingly pale—sunlit ocean green—and he knew he shouldn’t stand here like this staring, but he couldn’t look away.
And he knew that it was time to surrender—or not.
Not
tolled the certainty within him, and he knew just as absolutelywhat he needed to do. He let himself stare even longer. And then he pulled his gaze away and turned and stared, too, at the bland, boring, vanilla girl taking orders behind the counter. He made himself shuffle toward the clerk, his movement labored and jerky, and he placed his order in a voice that suggested his mental challenges were many—because no one faulted a retard who stared.
And sure enough,
she
looked away, no longer suspicious.
His reward was her name
—Alyssa
—called by the barista who then handed over her coffee.
Her dead lover was
Jules
, which was a stupid name for a man, but after he took his coffee, Alyssa spoke, her voice musical and rich. “Tell Robin to break a leg tonight,” she said. And Jules nodded and said as much into his cell phone, ending the call with “See you tonight. I love you, too.”
His relief that they were only friends, not lovers, made him magnanimous. He would not kill this man now, not here, not yet.
As he shambled to the place where he was to wait for his coffee,
she
slipped past him, and he smelled her.
And it was
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