Chapter 1 #2
“You know, I find it odd.” Her gaze fixes on mine. “He was found dead, naked, in bed. Like he was waiting for a woman.”
“That is odd.” I arrange the bottles on the back shelf, each label facing forward. “And tragic.”
“Tragic,” she repeats, her voice flat. “What’s more tragic is that he had multiple sexual assault allegations that never stuck.”
My hand pauses on a bottle of St. Germain. “Is that right?”
“Some might call it karma.”
I turn to face her, leaning against the shelf. “And what do you call it, Detective?”
“Murder.” She slides the photo back into her folder. “Premeditated, methodical murder.”
Jake passes behind me. He gives the detective a curious glance but knows better than to interrupt.
“Sounds like you’re building quite a case.” I wipe down a spot on the bar that’s already clean. “Though I’m not sure what it has to do with me or Penumbra Bar.”
She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a business card, placing it next to her half-finished drink. The embossed letters catch the bar’s low light: Detective Sofia Ramirez, Homicide Division.
“I still have the one you gave me from the last time.”
Ramirez’s lips thin into a smile that holds no warmth.
“Consider it a replacement. I wasn’t sure you’d kept the first.” She places the card on the bar between us.
“If you remember anything, or notice anyone suspicious taking an unhealthy interest in your customers, I’d appreciate a call.
” She taps the card with her index finger. “Anytime, day or night.”
I pick up the card, making a show of examining it. “Of course, Detective. I’m always happy to help the police.”
“I’m sure you are, Ms. Kline.” She drains the rest of her drink and slides the glass toward me. “Though I wonder if your definition of ‘help’ aligns with mine.”
“Is there something specific you’re trying to say?” I keep my voice light, my expression open.
She stands, straightening her jacket. “Just that bartenders see a lot. Hear a lot. I’m curious about what your observant eyes might have witnessed.”
“If I see anything relevant to your case, you’ll be my first call.” I slide her card into the pocket of my apron.
Detective Ramirez nods, gathering her folder. “I’ll hold you to that.” She turns to leave, then pauses. “By the way, I like the new hair. Looks good.”
My pulse skips as she walks away, and I follow her with my gaze until the front door swings shut behind her.
I pour myself another shot, grateful the bar manager overlooks our occasional “stress relief” pours. Right now, I need it.
The liquid burns less this time, settling into a warm glow that does nothing to extinguish the ice in my stomach. Ramirez knows something. Her eyes tracked me like a sniper’s laser sight.
The short walk to the employee bathroom is like a mile-long trek across a battlefield. Every eye in the place seems to be on me, every whisper a commentary on my guilt. I keep my chin up, a tight, meaningless smile plastered on my face for Jake’s benefit, for anyone who might be watching.
The bathroom door is a godsend as I reach it. I slip inside, the lock clicking shut like a gunshot in the sudden, humming silence of the small room.
My back hits the door, and the facade crumbles.
My breath comes in ragged, shallow gasps.
My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of my own making.
The ice in my stomach isn’t a glow anymore; it’s a glacier, threatening to shatter me from the inside out.
For one terrifying second, I am not the hunter. I am the prey.
I grip the edges of the porcelain sink until my knuckles turn white, and force myself to look up. My reflection stares back from the cheap, streaked mirror—wild-eyed, face pale beneath the makeup, the vibrant pink of my hair a mocking splash of color against my fear.
Get it together, Jiya.
I press my forehead against the cool, grimy tile of the wall, the chill of it a welcome shock.
“She has nothing,” I whisper, the words a desperate mantra against the panic. “Nothing but suspicion.”
My crime scenes are immaculate. No DNA. No prints. No witnesses. Just dead rapists arranged in their beds like they died mid-orgasm. She can suspect all she wants. Suspicion isn’t evidence.
I splash cold water on my face, careful not to smudge my makeup. My hands no longer shake. Control returns with each deep breath.
When I return to the bar, Jake has already covered my section. He winks at me over the head of a businessman ordering an Old Fashioned. I sync back into the rhythm of the bar, muscle memory taking over as my mind drifts.
Calloway Frost. The devastatingly attractive serial killer who said no.
Would his eyes stay that striking, transparent blue as the life drained from them?
My hand tightens around the cocktail shaker. I’ve never had a target refuse me before.
A customer waves me over, and I slide back into my role. Charming bartender. Creator of perfect concoctions. The pink-haired beauty who remembers your drink and makes you feel special enough to leave extravagant tips.
Not a killer of killers.
If the seduction won’t work, I’ll have to adapt. Break into his apartment. Darkroom chemicals. A faulty shower. Poison in his food. I’ll find a way.
The hunt is far from over.