4.3
I wake up late, and it probably would have been later if not for my pounding head, like someone driving a knife into my temple. I stumble out to the kitchen and dry-swallow the first two painkillers I find. Then, like a critically hungover person, I rest my head in my hands, my elbows propped on the edge of the kitchen counter.
"Fuck."
That’s how Olivia finds me. "Hell! Girl, what happened to you?"
I squint up at her. "Disgruntled witness." She's dressed and ready to go to work, much more put together than I am right now in a singlet and panties. I probably should have gone to hospital, claimed to have been mugged or something. My eyes pop open again. Dirk. He's went to the hospital. God, I should… and that woman. Sharna. Everything. My head throbs.
"Jesus, taking the day off, huh? You got a real shiner there." Olivia lifts a lock of hair off my temple.
"Yeah, I think I'm gonna stay home for the rest of the week." Not least to avoid explaining that bruise to anyone. There's only so much that makeup can cover, after all. And, to avoid looking anyone in the eye until I fully comprehend what I agreed to last night. Jesus, how could I… and with him ? He must be just toying with me, he can’t actually think…
Olivia is stepping past me, starting the coffee machine. "There's leftovers in the fridge. You want me to stay home and take care of you?"
"No, but thank you. I just need to make a call, then I'm going back to sleep."
"Okay, call if you need anything. And put some ice on that!"
By the time the front door taps closed, I’ve grabbed the phone off the wall and dialled Dirk, but now I wait with my thumb on the call button. His arm… he would have been in hospital when… but it was only a graze. No , I tell myself, stop that.
But I can’t, the thoughts out of the bottle now. Was Needler favouring one arm? Vaguely, I recall him tossing the mad woman at the window with only one arm. But remembering anything else elicits remembering everything else, his mouth, his words, the deal. Collecting. What’s the price of a deal with the devil?
I press the receiver against my forehead. It’s quite cool. Apparently fucking Dirk was the second to last thing I should be doing. Supposing he's not… I pull the phone back.
He's not.
There must be a special circle of hell for widows who make nondescript deals with their husband's killer to get out of being connected to a crime scene. And another circle, just for me, for the ones who are detectives and should know better.
Dirk answers on the second ring. “El, are you alright?”
“I, uh… yeah. I was calling to check on you.”
“They found a body, fallen from Cadden’s office. You didn’t go there, did you? I haven’t mentioned it to Tawill.”
“No, I went straight home.” I wince. And a whole deeper circle for the killer-fucking detectives who lie to their partners. “Who… who was it?”
“Sharna Wells,” he says, confirming what Needler knew. “Nurse, suspected accomplice of Greg Talisof. But when he didn’t rat anybody out, we assumed he’d been working alone after all. We don’t know what the connection between her and the politician was, though. Except…”
“Needler.”
“Yeah.”
“Shit. Listen…” I start.
“Hey, stay home today.”
“Uh.” I blink, having just been about to make an excuse to do that very thing. “Why?”
“The reporters are out in force. And they’ve got blood on their minds. This Sharna Wells, she’d have stayed out free if not for her nose-dive out of the office window. There’s a bit of hate, well, a bit more hate around for time and resources being spent on the Needler while the granny-killer’s sugar-mom was on the loose.”
“You mean hate for me,” I assert.
Dirk hesitates. “It’ll pass.”
“Alright, fine, I’ll stay in. I have a headache anyway. How’s the arm?”
“Just a nick, like I said. Barely even got to the hospital before they let me go home.”
“Interesting.”
“Waste of time, more like.”
That makes me chuckle. “That’s not how most people react to being shot.”
“Eh, done it once, done it a million times. Alright El, gotta go. Watch some trash TV for me.”
Trash TV and falling asleep on the couch turns out to be a much better alternative to sitting and staring at a wall, not to mention thinking too much. But by midday, numbed on headache pills, I’m antsy.
Seb must have the results of the sample by now. Who the Needler is could be right there in the lab. The answer to so many questions. He never admitted to killing my husband. Maybe it wasn’t him. Why would he kill a cop and then go on to make a career of targeting the opposite? The reality that recent events will suit me much more ethically to believe he isn't my husband’s murderer doesn't escape me, but the fact is that it doesn't make sense, it’s never made sense.
I make myself wait until five pm, then throw a hoodie on, leaving my hair loose to cover the angry bruise blooming on my temple. Sunglasses go some way to hiding the bloodshot that’s come out in that eye too. Not willing to risk taking my car, in case the reporters recognise it, I catch the subway.
There's only a skeleton crew left in the station by the time I arrive, and no one has the alertness to question seeing me. I don't really expect anyone to be in the lab either, and indeed, as I round the corner, Rosie steps out, turning the other way. I back up a little, not quite up to facing her overly perceptive gaze.
She disappears without locking the door. Maybe I can go in and see the results for myself if I can find them. But when I slip through the door and close it behind me, I jump.
Seb is here, and he looks as surprised to see me as I am him. I leave my hand over my heart. "Sorry, I thought… er."
"That no one was-s here?" he asks with a light smile, shrugging his lab coat back on. He's bigger than I thought, broad-shouldered when he's not hunching forward like someone who wants to be smaller.
I give a sheepish smile. "I'm not supposed to be in today. I wanted to know about that sample I gave you, that’s all."
"Oh, yeah h-had the results for a couple of days."
I step further into the lab. The lights are dimmed as the offices close for the weekend.
Perching on one of those spinny stools now, Seb pulls a paper out from a stack of them. What hope had been rising in my chest crash-lands as he says, "Couldn't match it to anyone. Either too corrupted or belonging to someone not on file."
Glancing over the file he hands me—inconclusive—I sigh, "Damn."
"W-where did you get it?" he asks.
"It’s complicated."
"Must be."
I catch his eye and laugh at myself. "I'm being very mysterious, aren't I?"
He shrugs in an affirmative way. Then squints. "What happened to your eye?"
I touch my cheek. "I fell, that’s all."
Figuring that story sounds as thin as it felt to say it, I change the subject. "How are you finding it here? Working under Rosie?"
"She's nice. I like it h-here."
I nod slowly, my mind sliding back to that non-match, not helped by the handful of painkillers I've taken today.
"Sorry about the sample. If you c-can get another one, maybe…"
Laughing, I wave a hand. "Oh, I don't think that’s a good idea." I should be avoiding any more encounters like that. God, imagine if I bring him semen. Flushing, I smile at Seb. "Sorry, you must be wanting to lock up and get home. I'll…" I start to turn away, and he gets up too, following me out.
We're standing outside the closed door after he's locked it, and I point out, "Oh, you didn't take your lab coat off."
He glances down at himself, little tufts of hair sticking out of his beanie against his freckled forehead. "Ah well, I'll take it h-home and clean it, how did you get here?"
We start to walk side-by-side down the corridor. "I caught the subway."
"M-my car is around the corner, I can drop you home? It’s dark out now. Not safe."
Sure, would beat the subway. Besides, I'm enjoying his company. Maybe this is what I need. Someone uncomplicated, sweet and a little simple. Someone who isn't right at my elbow every day. And most importantly, someone who isn't a serial killer.
"That’d be nice, thanks."
As we reach the doors out and go down the steps, his slight lumbering gait, favouring one leg, is even more pronounced. I wait for him on the bottom steps, then ask, "What happened? If you don't mind?"
“When I w-was a k-kid, accident. Fell off a truck from up h-high." Seb tells me, and we fall into step again towards his car.
"That’s sad. You were out in the country?"
"Yeah, b-but it turned out okay. I like the city better."
I slide into the passenger seat, and Seb turns the ignition, switching the heater up. "You're very glass half-full," I comment.
As he pulls out onto the street, turned quiet now the rush hour has passed, Seb shrugs. "I was in a wheelchair for a year, then crutches and b-back and forth. That’s when I got the s-stutter. They say stress did it. So now I d-don't stress."
Laughing, I watch the city pass by. "Very logical. I like it."
When we reach my building, he pulls up right out front. "Thanks," I say, reaching for my bag. I have the door open when I turn back, taking the impulse to ask, "Would you want to get lunch sometime?”, before I can think about it too much.
He grins. He doesn't wear the thick glasses while he drives, just normal ones now. “Yeah, I’d l-like that.”
I smile. That felt nice. “Okay, I’ll see you.”
***
Olivia lends me some kind of balm to heal the bruise faster. I don’t expect it to work, but by Sunday the swelling and bruising have gone down enough that makeup will cover everything that’s left well enough. I’ll be able to go in tomorrow like nothing happened.
The music is blaring through Olivia's closed door now. She's got a guy in there, and won't be coming out for much, so I feel pretty confident crossing the dining room in my singlet and panties to get a midnight snack from the kitchen. I leave the lights off just in case I need to dash back to the room.
To say I don't linger next to the fridge, under the high cupboard where my stash is, would be a lie. Then I imagine Dirk, smelling it on me tomorrow, the look on his face as he recalls what an alcoholic mess his partner is. It’s not annoyance on him in those times exactly, it’s almost… hurt. I force myself to grab a bag of chips, opening them right there. They're salty. But still, a sip of something strong calls. Someone did try to kill me a handful of days ago, I reason with myself. Maybe I've earned… I cut the thought off. This is how the addiction gets me. I'll go well for days, even weeks, and then it strikes with an intensity that makes up for it. From not even on my mind to all I can think about, from one moment to the next. I feel the jitters in my limbs, the urge to be doing something. But it's midnight and the only easy thing to do is waiting in the cupboard.
The last time Dirk picked me up while I was still a little drunk and trying vainly to hide it, he hadn't said anything, just shook his head. It hadn't felt good, that was for sure. I really should make things easier on him. I remember the easy smile on his face, the lights of the club flashing blue and red over him. He looked so sure, so comfortable—and when he found me in the wastewater plant and carried me… I stop.
This is too much thinking of your partner.
Maybe I should masturbate instead. That'll take my mind off drinking, and off other things. Yes, that seems like a good idea. But no Dirk. Safer that way. Needler, then? A traitorous voice in my head suggests. Him in the office, him in my room, behind me… I eat another chip, not tasting it. Maybe porn is the answer. Yes, that seems smartest. Plan in mind, I grab a bottle of juice out of the fridge. Before I've even stood back up, letting the door of the fridge tap closed, I know I'm no longer alone. I hesitate for a beat, like I'm just looking for something else. The music from Olivia's room hasn't changed; the door hasn't opened. Not her or her friend, then. Which leaves…
I spin around, still holding the juice, as though it’s a shield.
Needler tilts his head at the bottle, making me feel more than a bit ridiculous. I listen again, knowing if Olivia comes out and sees this… there will be problems. "Get out!” I hiss. “My housemate is home."
A pause, he listens. And probably picks up on the noises filtering through the music. She's very much preoccupied.
Without turning my back on him, I slide my snack back onto the counter. When he takes a step towards me, I eye the door out to the dining room where it connects the open-plan to the living room, but he's too close to that side. So I back into the corner instead. I feel his eyes move to my body now, the singlet old and thin enough to the point of being see-through, the panties with their little blue bow. "I said I'd come to collect, didn't I?" he asks softly. My skin tightens to gooseflesh, pushing my nipples against the fabric.
Suddenly he's within reach, but I slide out of his grip, only to come up against the other corner. God, why does this kitchen have so many damned corners? And why didn’t I turn the light on? Needler closes the distance and catches me against this one, the bench edge cold on my lower back. My breath catches as his leather gloves graze my bare skin.
"About what you owe me, my Little Shadow…" he hums, lips brushing my jaw as I turn my face away. The blinking light of the microwave, telling us to set the time, glows off him—soft orange, then gone, black.
"I don't owe you anything," I hiss, even as a little thrill goes down my neck from where his warm breath caresses my jaw. "You're a madman."
"Ah." I feel him smile against my skin. "And your madness was temporary, was it?"
My teeth push together. "Yes. I had a head injury."
A laugh. "I'm afraid that’s not how it works. A deal's a deal."
My breath catches as he nips my earlobe. I make myself soften on a deep breath, tilting my chin up. It works. He presses closer, and kisses me, his hands sliding up to my throat, fingertips on my jaw. I grip his shoulder with one hand, but my other creeps back across the bench. Focussing elsewhere as his tongue slides against mine and threatens to dizzy me, I doubt my memory, my questing hand finding nothing. Where is that damned knife block?
My shoulder protests the unnatural angle, my mind losing track of the purpose. Then I find it. I'm touching the hilt of a kitchen knife. I can only hope it’s a good one. With my record lately, it’s probably the bread knife.
I don't find out. His eyes pop open, the white stark inside the mask, yellow in the flash as the microwave light blinks, a beat before his hand closes on my wrist. Holding me there, my shoulder at an awkward angle, he doesn't break the kiss, keeping me in it, lingering and slow. "Behave now," he whispers when he draws an inch away.
"I'll behave when you…" I start some kind of threat, not knowing how I can reasonably end it.
"Not too loud…" his lips dip towards my ear. "If your roommate comes out, I'll kill her."
That stills me. "You wouldn't."
He doesn't say anything, but is that a chance I can take? His thumb pushes my bottom lip. "I like kissing you, especially when you don't try to make me bleed for it."
And he does it again. He feels so solid through my thin singlet, his hands warm, low on my waist so that the leather of his glove grazes the bare skin of my hip. I'm hot, my body switched on by the attention, so long denied to it. I can feel him, hard through his pants, pressing to the front of my hip. A small noise escapes my lips, moaning into his mouth, as he shifts and pushes that hardness against my centre.
I would hope he didn't hear, didn't feel the way my back arched, but I know he did, can feel his smugness. "This is wrong," I say, hating how breathless I sound.
His hand slides up on my ribs, stopping against the underside of my breast. His thumb presses to my nipple, and I feel the sharp sensation right between my legs. "Isn't it you lot saying crime doesn't pay? You had me tamper with a crime scene. Wasn't that wrong?"
"Everyone involved is dead, thanks to you. I'm not keeping anyone else out of prison who should be there with what I did."
"Ah, you are righteous, then?"
"More so than you." His thumb is still resting on my nipple. Not moving, but just the warmth, the idea, is distracting. He towers over me here, and against his usual dark clothes cast in shadow, I feel small and vulnerable in what little covers me. And yet not afraid. No, I’ve come to believe he won’t hurt me, just everyone else.
"Mm, how long since you've let a man touch any part of you?"
Closing my eyes, I turn my face away. “None of your business.” He slides his thumb, a slow flick off my hardened nipple through the thin fabric, and my breath catches.
"Ah, playing the loyal abstinent widow, were you?"
"You're disgusting. And a killer."
"How about this… if when I slide my hand inside your pretty panties in just a moment, you’re not wet… I’ll leave. Our deal is done."
I hesitate, which is probably telling on its own. I know what I've been feeling. Hell, even what I was thinking about before he showed up. "And if I am?"
"Well, since you asked," he murmurs, and I have barely the time to brace as his hand slides down the front of my belly, flicking under the top of my underwear, going lower. It’s sudden, the warm cover of his hand. I don't even know when he took his glove off, but I feel his skin, callused slightly, fingers sliding. My breath catches, hips pressing back against the bench, hands gripping his upper arms, digging into muscle. I'm dizzy off the sensations, scared of more as one finger slides between my labia, slick and questing.
My mouth falls open, breath panting out as he presses once on my apex. My legs want to widen, to let him more access, but I stop them, biting my lip, head swaying back.
"Looks like our deal is still on, then," he breathes against the top of my ear as my head tips forward again. With the heel of his hand, he encourages me back, lifting so the bottom of my butt hitches on the edge of the bench. My knees lift around him, opening, and he doesn't waste any time making the most of it. Fingers sliding inside me, he presses deep and fast, finding wetness to draw back out and circle me with.
"Fuck," I gasp out. Twining his other hand in my hair, he tilts my face back. My breath pants against his chin as he teases my lips with his.
"That’s good,” he whispers, the alteration making his voice staticky at low volumes. “I can feel you getting hotter."
I try to shake my head, to deny, and fail. I'm on a precipice already, taken there so fast it’s dizzying.
"Yes, you need this. Forget who I am. Just give in."
My back arches. I close my eyes, trying to do the opposite of what he says. But his fingers keep up their torture, sliding and pulsing, and just when I think it can't get any harder to keep the orgasm at bay, he lets go of my hair to slide down and cup my breast, softly pinching my nipple through the singlet.
Suddenly with no choice but to do as he says, all thought and sensation that isn't his hands on me falls away. I'm gasping through the abrupt climax, trying to stifle my own sounds. I taste leather as the side of his hand presses between my teeth, obscuring my moans. My body sways, wanting to close and curl around his fingers on me, knees tightening around his hips. It all crashes like a tidal wave, upwards through my stomach and chest, pushing everything ahead of it; care or shame washed away.
When his hand slides away, I try to tense myself, to push him away, unsuccessfully. Holding me upright as my muscles fail to obey me, Needler murmurs against my cheek, "This isn't done."
I sway on my feet as he steps back, and in the sudden wash of delicious exhaustion, I barely protest as he picks me up and carries me to my room, my bed. He's just a dark shape in the doorway then, the light from the kitchen glinting off his dark smile. "I'll see you next time. Be ready, Little Shadow."