twenty #2
His mouth twists up in a ghost of a smile. “You’d still be mine, little monster. Your corpse would be my puppet, and when your flesh rotted away, you’d be my bones.”
He smashes his mouth down on mine again, this time with hunger, passion.
I pull away, knowing if I let him get worked up, he’ll want sex, and then I’ll be bloody and need a shower, and I don’t know how long Dahlia will wait.
I’m not even sure she’ll be there when I reach the treehouse if I leave now.
“I have to go.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Baron growls against my lips, and it sounds more like a threat than a sexy promise. I shiver and pull away, and he chuckles at my discomfort.
But he lets me go.
It’s more than I expected. I didn’t think he’d leave me alone with her, and the fact that he did lets me know exactly how much she impressed him.
Maybe he even wants her to come after him.
Then, he can finally prove himself if he outsmarts her and lives.
There’s nothing that makes Baron Dolce feel more alive than a challenge, so a challenge that could end in death would be the highpoint of his existence.
What would be the low point?
I think about that as I hurry through the woods until I find the old stone boundary and step over it onto Delacroix property.
Losing a contest of wills and intelligence against Dahlia wouldn’t be Baron’s nightmare.
He considers her a worthy opponent, so to die at her hands would be honorable in his mind.
He would fight his hardest to live, of course.
Unlike Duke, he doesn’t entertain notions of right and wrong, of self-sacrifice or atonement.
But if she won, he would still be proud to have given her a good fight.
When I reach the tree, I still haven’t figured it out completely, but I don’t think death is the worst outcome for Baron. If it is, a death at the hands of someone he considers far beneath him, or a random accident, would be the ultimate insult. Someone like Jane, or back in high school, Dixie.
I climb, hand over hand, up the broken rungs nailed to the tree, tossing the snack bag up before I scramble over the lip and onto the platform. Dahlia is perched in a branch like a cat ready to descend on her prey.
“Did you bring the boy?” she asks.
“He stayed home to clean up.”
“You’ve trained him well.” She drops down onto the platform next to me.
I laugh quietly. If she’s following me online, she definitely hasn’t been spying with cameras in my apartment like Baron did. Otherwise, she would know it’s the opposite.
But I don’t correct her because I want her to think well of me. Her compliment gives me the same feeling of success that Baron’s do, like I’ve earned something special.
“Sorry, but I gotta ask. Are you wearing a wire?”
“No,” I say, pulling up my shirt, then unzipping and letting her see my waistband.
She pulls out a device and scans it over me before she steps back. “I know, that’s rude,” she says. “Can’t be too careful, though. Anyone can double cross you.”
“I get it,” I assure her as she scans my picnic bag before putting up her equipment.
She sits cross-legged and begins tugging off her gloves one finger at a time. “No men, so I guess we don’t get to feast preying mantis style,” she says. “What have you got?”
“Sweet tea,” I say, handing her the thermos while I spread the picnic blanket and lay out our haul. “Honey buns, cupcakes, strawberry shortcakes, crackers, cream cheese, strawberry preserves…”
When I’m done setting up, she smiles. “No sparkling grape juice?”
“Oh—no,” I say. “We didn’t have any. I’m sorry. Should I have gone to get some? I still can, if you’ll wait here…”
“I’m kidding,” she says, cracking a smile.
“Oh,” I say faintly. I’m not usually one to get flustered, but I’m not usually one to care. This is Dahlia, though.
“You don’t remember?” she asks. “We used to pretend it was champagne.”
“I remember.”
“Oh,” she says, picking up a sleeve of crackers and tearing it open. “Cool. So, you really didn’t know it was me?”
“No,” I admit. “I thought it was Baron for a long time. He’s the type, you know. Possessive. Doesn’t like other men touching me.”
“Ah,” she says. “Explains the mess. Crimes of passion will do that.”
“I’m not sure I’d call them that,” I say. “Baron’s not the passionate type.”
“What type is he?” she asks, popping a cracker into her mouth.
“He’s smart,” I say. “Brilliant, even. And methodical. He’s careful. I know you wouldn’t think that after the motel, but he would have scrubbed every inch of it so clean no one would ever suspect a thing. I guess he’s a monster. But he’s my monster.”
She nods. “Sounds like a good one to have on your side.”
“I’m not sure he’s on anyone’s side but his own,” I say. “But we’ll see.”
“He treats you okay?” she asks. “Because you said he’s a monster, and I told you I kill monsters. Do you need me to take him out?”
“No,” I say. “I’ve got it handled.”
“And the other one?” she asks, like she’s already forgotten his name. “The drug addict?”
“Don’t call him that,” I say, bristling. “He’s mine too.”
“Yikes,” she says. “Do either of them suspect?”
“They both know,” I say. “We’re a family.”
“Ah, okay,” she says, nodding. “Look at you, being all trendy and progressive with your relationships. Wouldn’t have predicted that.”
“Why?” I ask, not sure if that was an insult.
She shrugs and tears open a honey bun with her teeth. “Oh, I just figured you’d grow up to be more… Traditional. But hey, I’m not judging. Good for you. You deserve as many partners as you want.”
I’m still not sure if I should be offended, but I know she can’t be monitoring any cameras, if she thinks all that. I’m not sure how she knows about Duke’s drug habit, but the rest of it makes sense—why the killing stopped, why she didn’t go after the twins.
“So, you found me online,” I say slowly, picking at the food while she plows through it like she hasn’t eaten in days. “You knew about my dates, and you got rid of them?”
“I thought you must have figured out it was me,” she says. “But I guess I didn’t know it was you until I saw you go in to meet one of them. Then you led me to more, so I thought you were working with me, leading me to them on purpose. You really weren’t?”
“I was leading someone to them,” I say, pleased that I could surprise her in some way. “I just thought it was someone else.”
“Ah,” she says, nodding. “I wondered why the Maine killing was so different. I thought you must have finally snapped and done one in before I got there. I didn’t know about the boyfriend.”
“Boyfriends.”
“Are they both serial killers?”
“I wouldn’t call either of them that.”
“I don’t know,” she says. “The body count says otherwise.”
“I mean… Don’t serial killers have to have a technique? An M.O. that makes it a pattern?”
She shrugs. “I’m not sure, really. I can’t say I’m an expert. I do have a favorite style. Even got a tattoo to prove it.”
“That seems risky,” I say. “Couldn’t they use that as evidence?”
“I don’t plan on being caught again.”
“You were caught?” I ask, my heart lurching at the thought of what they’d do to her.
“Once,” she says, opening a package of cheese. “Once was all it took. But you know that.”
I don’t know what to make of her. She’s exactly the same, but she’s a serial killer.
In some way, I think she always was, even before she had the body count to prove it.
There’s something in her that’s different from even Baron.
He may have killed a few men, but the title doesn’t seem to fit him like it does her.
I don’t know what it says about me, that the one person I chose to befriend as a child turned out to be a mass murderer.
It probably explains why I was so drawn to Baron.
It also explains why my parents tried so hard to distance me from Dahlia once she was sent away, to cut me off from her. They were probably scared I’d turn out exactly the same.
In a way, I did.
I may not have dealt the killing blow to any of the victims, but I’m no less responsible for their deaths than she or Baron is.
Maybe even more so. I put a mark on every single one of those men, chose them for execution.
After the first few times, at least, I knew what I was doing, that I was sentencing them to death.
I found the target and aimed the gun. All she did was pull the trigger.
“Your snack game has improved, by the way,” she says. “This is dope.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking a cracker and nibbling the edge.
“You can keep working with us, you know,” she says. “Even if we’re not in the same place anymore.”
“Who is us?” I ask. “You and your cleaning crew?”
“Like I said, I’m not the Black Widow Killer. We’re the Black Widow Killer. There’s a network, a system. You’re the bait, I’m the venom, we’ve got a cleaner…”
“Wait, so I am the Black Widow Killer?” I ask, turning the information over. “At least… One of the legs of the spider.”
She laughs quietly. “I like that. There are other legs. Other jobs. I don’t even know all the members. But I know you, and you know me, so if you wanted to keep working together… I think we make a good team.”
“Me too,” I admit, feeling shy all of a sudden.
I can’t help but smile though. She wouldn’t have asked me if she didn’t trust me, despite the scan when we arrived.
In truth, I wouldn’t trust her as much if she hadn’t done that.
I like that she’s careful, not sloppy. I like that she knows I never tell, and she let me in on all of this.
And most of all, I like feeling like part of something important.
“So, what do you say?” she asks. “Want to help make the guilty pay?”
“I can’t sleep with the men anymore,” I tell her. “Baron would never allow it.”
“And judging from the messes he’s left, that would be a lot more work for us. I’ve already had to get an apprentice for my cleaner.”
“You still want me?” I ask, peeking at her from under my lashes as I pick up the thermos.
“You’re the best at what you do,” she says. “We could definitely use you. And we can have your job end online. You never have to meet them in person. It’ll make it easier, and safer for us, if we don’t take all the men from one area.”
“Okay,” I say, smiling at her. “I’m in.”
“Swear a blood oath?”
I swallow hard. “I mean… If we have to…”
She laughs. “I’m joking.”
“No,” I say. “I think we should. To show that we trust each other.”
“You’re serious?”
“We did it before.”
“I know, but we were kids.”
I hold out my hand. “Got a knife?”
She hesitates, then pulls a hunting knife from her pocket and hands it over. I pull it out of its sheath, then stare at it, wondering if she’s killed with this knife.
“It’s clean,” she says, reading my hesitation.
“I guess it’s no more risky than sex with a stranger,” I say, putting the blade to my palm. I haven’t cut in a long time, not since the last time my grandfather touched me.
One cut for each time.
I brush the thought away and press my lips together, take a breath, and slice open my skin for the first time in seven years.
“Damn,” Dahlia says, looking impressed when I hand the knife back. “I didn’t think you’d really do it.”
I nod at her. “Your turn.”
She makes a small cut in her hand, and my mind loops back on itself, to the day so long ago when we did this the first time.
Knee to knee we sat, dappled sunlight dancing around us, the insects louder than the wind tossing the branches.
Neither of us wanted to go first, so we both hesitated.
That time, she was braver. I remember the sickness that swam up when I saw the scarlet beads rising in her palm.
But I knew I couldn’t back down once she’d already made the first cut.
Now she holds out her hand, and I take it.
Her fingers are calloused, but her palm is warm and soft, and it strikes me how delicate her hand feels, almost dainty, not the hand of a killer at all, but a lady who belongs in the big house at the end of the trail that winds a mile through the woods, over the stream and past the low bluffs.
“Let the guilty pay,” she says.
“Let the guilty pay,” I agree.
Still gripping my hand, she leans forward and presses her lips to my cheek. Then she releases my hand and stands. “See you in another ten, Black Widow.”
“You’re leaving?” I ask, my anguish undisguised.
“We’ll meet again,” she says. “Our paths will cross when the time is right.”
“In a decade?”
“I didn’t mean that literally,” she says.
“How do I contact you?”
“You don’t,” she says. “But if you need me, I’ll be here.” Then she gives me a conspiratorial smile, like we’re in on this together. “And you never know. You might see me tomorrow.”
She crouches, grips the side of the platform with both hands, and kicks off, dropping over the edge and into the darkness. I wait to hear her hit the ground, but I never do.