voice. It was Michael’s voice, and she wanted to cry or laugh—she wasn’t sure which—with relief. She had the feeling he was kneeling in front of her.
“Spread your legs,” he repeated, sternly now.
She opened them a little. He placed his hands on the insides of her knees and he spread them further. She knew, even with a blindfold on, what she looked like without pubic hair: completely open and vulnerable, her labia pulled apart, as gaping as any wound.
He took her right ankle and placed it on the outside of the chair leg. She felt him lashing her leg to the chair, the rope tight against her flesh. Then he tied her left leg. Her heart beat faster, she could feel the pounding in her chest, and her breathing came in short, anxious gasps. She tried to close her legs, just a little, but couldn’t. He had tied her too securely.
Michael put his hand on the inside of her thigh, gripping her flesh firmly, making her wince. “You’re very naughty,” he said. “I told you not to wear the robe.”
Franny got a sinking feeling low in her stomach. She had forgotten about the robe.
“Someday you’ll learn to pay more attention to my requests,” he told her. “I’m going to discipline you. You need to learn to follow my orders.”
Franny felt the ropes around her legs, holding her open. A wave of panic rushed through her.
“Please, Michael,” she said. “Don’t—” but then he stuffed a gag in her mouth, and her words came out as a muffled slur.
PART TWO
NORA
BEFORE I CONTINUE …
At this point, I feel I must meet M. I’ve learned all I can from Franny’s diary, and now it’s time to deal directly with the man himself. I wish I could quit now, but an indefinable force pushes me forward. Franny wrote of an instinctive pull toward her natural surroundings. I also feel drawn, not to nature but to her—her secret life, her death, the mystery surrounding her death. I have a tropism for revelations, it turns out. Like people chasing down fire trucks, like passersby craning to see the accident victim, I have a powerful need to know. It’s involuntary, it’s inexorable. I must find out what happens next; I must, at any cost, know how and why Franny died, and bring her killer—whoever he is—to justice.
Yes, my trepidations are great, but still, deep down, I feel I will prevail. I am not the shy, timid girl that Franny was, and in me M. will find his equal. Surrendering meekly is not my style: I do not, nor shall I ever, give in without a fight.
I have been watching M. for months now. I follow him around town, I know his routine. He shops at Nugget Market, usually on Saturday afternoons, he eats out frequently, spends a lot of time at home, jogs three days a week in the early mornings with his dog, a full-grown Great Dane. This quarter he’s teaching classes four days a week, and before he drives on campus he stops at Fluffy Do-nuts in the University Mall. Occasionally, he’ll have a glazed doughnut, but normally he only has coffee, two cups, black, and sits at a booth to read the newspaper. He subscribes to two papers, The Sacramento Bee and The Davis Enterprise . He reads the Bee at Fluffy’s in the mornings and the Enterprise , presumably, at home.
I’ve seen him on campus many times, and Franny was right—he is a popular teacher. I’ve followed him around, overheard his conversations, and both the faculty and students seem to like him. He has several friends, men, whom he sees regularly. They play golf on the municipal course, eighteen holes, once a week; occasionally they drive up to Tahoe to gamble. M. plays only blackjack. His relationship with women is more difficult to describe. As far as I can tell, he stays away from female students, which I’m sure has more to do with practical concerns than moral ones. He’s been with various women since I’ve been observing him—some middle-aged, some young, all of them attractive—but he never stays with any of them for very long.
“Spread your legs,” he repeated, sternly now.
She opened them a little. He placed his hands on the insides of her knees and he spread them further. She knew, even with a blindfold on, what she looked like without pubic hair: completely open and vulnerable, her labia pulled apart, as gaping as any wound.
He took her right ankle and placed it on the outside of the chair leg. She felt him lashing her leg to the chair, the rope tight against her flesh. Then he tied her left leg. Her heart beat faster, she could feel the pounding in her chest, and her breathing came in short, anxious gasps. She tried to close her legs, just a little, but couldn’t. He had tied her too securely.
Michael put his hand on the inside of her thigh, gripping her flesh firmly, making her wince. “You’re very naughty,” he said. “I told you not to wear the robe.”
Franny got a sinking feeling low in her stomach. She had forgotten about the robe.
“Someday you’ll learn to pay more attention to my requests,” he told her. “I’m going to discipline you. You need to learn to follow my orders.”
Franny felt the ropes around her legs, holding her open. A wave of panic rushed through her.
“Please, Michael,” she said. “Don’t—” but then he stuffed a gag in her mouth, and her words came out as a muffled slur.
PART TWO
NORA
BEFORE I CONTINUE …
At this point, I feel I must meet M. I’ve learned all I can from Franny’s diary, and now it’s time to deal directly with the man himself. I wish I could quit now, but an indefinable force pushes me forward. Franny wrote of an instinctive pull toward her natural surroundings. I also feel drawn, not to nature but to her—her secret life, her death, the mystery surrounding her death. I have a tropism for revelations, it turns out. Like people chasing down fire trucks, like passersby craning to see the accident victim, I have a powerful need to know. It’s involuntary, it’s inexorable. I must find out what happens next; I must, at any cost, know how and why Franny died, and bring her killer—whoever he is—to justice.
Yes, my trepidations are great, but still, deep down, I feel I will prevail. I am not the shy, timid girl that Franny was, and in me M. will find his equal. Surrendering meekly is not my style: I do not, nor shall I ever, give in without a fight.
I have been watching M. for months now. I follow him around town, I know his routine. He shops at Nugget Market, usually on Saturday afternoons, he eats out frequently, spends a lot of time at home, jogs three days a week in the early mornings with his dog, a full-grown Great Dane. This quarter he’s teaching classes four days a week, and before he drives on campus he stops at Fluffy Do-nuts in the University Mall. Occasionally, he’ll have a glazed doughnut, but normally he only has coffee, two cups, black, and sits at a booth to read the newspaper. He subscribes to two papers, The Sacramento Bee and The Davis Enterprise . He reads the Bee at Fluffy’s in the mornings and the Enterprise , presumably, at home.
I’ve seen him on campus many times, and Franny was right—he is a popular teacher. I’ve followed him around, overheard his conversations, and both the faculty and students seem to like him. He has several friends, men, whom he sees regularly. They play golf on the municipal course, eighteen holes, once a week; occasionally they drive up to Tahoe to gamble. M. plays only blackjack. His relationship with women is more difficult to describe. As far as I can tell, he stays away from female students, which I’m sure has more to do with practical concerns than moral ones. He’s been with various women since I’ve been observing him—some middle-aged, some young, all of them attractive—but he never stays with any of them for very long.
Similar Books
