You think Sedge was coming here with stuff on his mind? Like going through an unlocked gate and getting to someone’s place?”
“That’s what I think. I sure don’t have anything else.”
“This is your case?”
“Right on, Mr. Holmes. You can do what I can’t, not without half the town finding out there was a stranger creeping about. But you can wander along Parish Lane and figure out where this might be. You’re part of the scenery. You won’t get a second look.” He took back the card.
Guy stared at the dog. The dog stared back. “Just about all kitchens are in the backs of houses.” Goldilocks heaved to her feet and settled again—with her head on his left boot. “There’s a wall down both sides of Parish Lane. All the way down. And a lot of gates.”
5
Losers only have themselves to blame.
Sometimes you can’t help sliding toward the gutter, but if you don’t dig your heels in before you reach it, you deserve what you get. And if you once win your way into a place where you want to be, you never let down your guard because someone is always waiting to take away what you have.
And if someone stands in the way of you getting everything you’ve set your sights on and you can’t take it anymore, the answer is simple. Get rid of the obstacle.
Tonight is the perfect night. Too hot, too breathless, too still. The kind of night that woman can’t stand.
Nothing has been forgotten, and nothing will be forgotten when it’s over. No one will cry for her—they all hate her guts—only most are afraid to do anything about it.
This is going to be so easy, like drowning a paralyzed rat in its own blood.
She’ll come soon. Stupid fool. All blubber and sniffle, then the hysterical laugh and fluttering touch. She might as well say, “Kill me, I’m so lonely I want to die,” only she never would because she’s invented her own rosy lie of a life.
Good thing she’s got a someone who reads her mind and gives her what she’s begging for.
This closet smells like her, like bruised camellias and used skin no man wants to touch anymore.
Makes me want to puke.
But the closet is the perfect hiding place.
Footsteps on the carpeted stairs. Unsteady footsteps and a thud each time she falls against the wall. She’s stopped. Don’t let her pass out down there.
Glory, glory, she’s moving again.
There’s a soft pink light, turned down real low, by the bed. Of course the silly bitch won’t have anything but all white on that bed. What do you call that old-fashioned stuff where they cut holes and embroider around them? Cutwork. That’s it. And she has the coverlets made for her. They cost a fortune. She’s a drain, a waste, a user of what she’s got no right to—and she is in the way.
Not for long now.
Come right on in, whore. Look at you, you’re too drunk to stay on your feet, but you’re still drinking. Just make it to the bathroom, sweetie, that’s it. Shit!
Great. Flat on your face. Gin all over the rug. Makes me want to laugh. That’s right, up you get, hold on to the bed—that’s it. Now, into the bathroom with you.
You can’t clean up the rug. That’s right, you pick up that glass and see if there’s a drop left.
Hurry up.
More than a drop, huh. But you don’t want anything in the drawer. Just go in that bathroom. We’ll get you all clean and white.
What the hell is she taking? Lordy, Lordy, it could be the painkiller from when she broke some ribs. The stuff that sent her to la-la land. Quite a story about that. Got a headache, baby? Drinking doesn’t pay, not when you can’t hold it. You made that gin go a long way. Forget the pills. Mixture like that could kill you….
Everything’s ready. The box of razor blades. They’ll say you bought them for the job. Unwrap a blade. Careful.
It’s getting hotter. I hate it like this—unless I’m in a pool—or skin to skin and getting it off.
Don’t just stand there, crying. You’re even uglier when you cry.
Move, damn it, move!
That’s…shit, shit, shit. Why’d you have to pass out on the bed?
I’m going to walk right up and see just how out of it you are. Lock the door and go look at her.
Out cold. And she’s sweating like a pig. Let’s get this done, piggy. Wake up too soon, and I’ll tell you I’m saving you from yourself.
I’ve got to make sure she doesn’t bleed on me. Push her arm above her head.
She’s out of it.
I’ll keep down and make one tidy slit. No, not too tidy, it ought to jerk around a bit like she’s having trouble aiming.
My hands are shaking, dammit. Chill out. Nobody’s going to interrupt you.
See how easy the blade slides. The blood wells, then pours. All over the white coverlet—such a shame. Whoa, good job I got myself out of the way.
Now the other one, Miss Piggy.
Damn, she’s heavy. No falling off the bed. That’s it. Cool. I wish this had been in the bathroom.
If she cut one wrist here and got to the bathroom for the second, would it look strange?
Stay there, baby doll, while I take a look and decide. Oh, yeah, the shiny white bathroom. You’d bleed everywhere on the way. Best finish it where you are.
What was that? She’s fallen off the bed. Just like her to mess things up. Nobody else to have heard her bump onto the floor like that, but I’ve got to get out of here. Hurry.
She looks dead already.
Used razor in left pocket. Can’t risk leaving it. Could have marked it somehow. Quick, got to leave the weapon. Another razor. Rip paper off one side. Finger and thumb, and squeeze. There you go, Miss Piggy. Now, stick it in the wound. Hah, it’s going to stay there, like an ax in wood.
It’s perfect. It feels like sex. The rush. Ride it, go with it.
I’m outta here. Next stop, a great fuck.
6
Father Cyrus Payne sat on the stairs inside the rectory. Using an old, broken-bladed but extremely sharp knife, he peeled an apple, the skin falling in one long, unbroken strip. He glanced repeatedly at the front door. From his right came the muted click of Madge’s keyboard as she worked late in her office. Madge always worked late. He gave a satisfied sigh at the thought. She was his assistant, the best he’d ever had, but
