Six
An influencer who mocked a disabled participant in the Special Olympics became the Canceled Killer’s second victim. The killer ran her over, and she was found lying in a handicapped parking space.
—Crime Hive podcast
I didn’t know how I felt about being a worm on a hook, but I guess it would be better than sitting around wondering when the Canceled Killer was going to strike.
“You okay, kid?” Russo asked as he walked me home after dinner.
He’d insisted, and I’d gladly taken him up on the offer.
We crossed over to Main Street, where the empty sidewalk, lit by the adorable old-fashioned streetlamps decorated with fall wreaths and decorative felt banners, led us to Koi. “You’re kind of quiet.”
We walked up to the bamboo gate and I unhooked the latch, triggering the motion light at the top of the stone lantern near the sand garden.
“It’s a lot, I guess.”
Russo nodded. “You know that you’ve got at least three days,” he told me.
Russo meant that since the killer posted the skull emojis, I’d have three days before he struck.
The Canceled Killer was nothing if not a servant to his routine.
One day for each skull. Russo told me his best guess was that the killer liked the idea of letting people twist in the wind, counting down each hour until the final day.
“I know,” I said. “I’ve already set a countdown clock.” I showed Russo my phone. “But what if he decides to break his pattern?”
“He could, but I don’t think he will,” Russo said. “This guy is more anal than my father, and he sweeps the garage floor three times a day.”
I laughed a little at that.
“This is me,” I said, nodding to the far Airstream.
“Nice,” Russo said, appraising; then he turned his attention back to me. “You going to be okay tonight?”
Normally, I hated men who fussed over me, but Russo’s concern felt different.
“It’s not every day a homicidal maniac wants to kill me, but, yeah, I guess I’ll be okay,” I said, looking up at the round festive lights hung on the Airstream glowing a warm white in the night.
Normally, they seemed bright and inviting, but now, when I looked at them, all I could think was that I’d be sleeping in a tin can tonight with a flimsy lock that would definitely not keep the Canceled Killer out.
I never minded being on my own. Until now.
“Hey.” Russo grabbed my wrist. He turned me to face him, lifting my chin with one strong finger. “The killer has to get through me first.”
I blinked up at him, his steel-blue eyes serious as he met my gaze.
“You can’t be with me twenty-four seven,” I pointed out.
“Why not?” he asked.
And right then, the atmosphere shifted. I felt a surge of warmth in the air, snapping like static electricity, Russo’s meaning clear. He looked at my mouth like a dessert he’d been dying to try. He took a step closer to me, closing the space between us. I got a whiff of pepper and sandalwood.
“All you have to do is invite me in,” he said. His eyes glittered with a promise. Russo had me close to his chest now, and I had to crane my neck to meet his gaze. His lips hovered just inches from mine.
My stomach seized with nerves and anticipation—or was it panic?—as he drew me to him. He was going to kiss me. I went still for a second, frozen in surprise.
Heat bloomed in my lower belly as his mouth claimed mine, his hunger lighting a need.
He recognized it, too, deepening the kiss, his big hand on the small of my back, pressing me against him.
Russo’s hands seemed to touch me everywhere, running down the curve of my butt, where he cupped me through my dress’s thin fabric.
I felt dazed, as Russo devoured my mouth with a hunger that almost felt dangerous.
“Ahem.” Mom loudly cleared her throat from the porch. I sprang away from Russo as if he were lava.
“Mom!” I cried, guiltily wiping my mouth. Mom made her way down the wooden steps toward us. Her sleek, shiny black hair was perfect, her red lipstick always in place. Never smudged.
“Ophelia,” Mom said in her most formal tone, gaze cool as she eyed Russo.
I kind of wished I could whisk him away—back to wherever he was staying, away from the watchful eye of my mother.
My mistake had been letting him walk me home in the first place.
I wondered if Mom had been watching us from the kitchen window this whole time. I hoped not.
“Jenny Leong,” Russo said, without being prompted. I hadn’t realized until that moment that Russo even knew who my mom was. I studied his chiseled profile, surprised. But then I realized that of course he knew who my mother was. He always did his homework.
“It’s Mrs. Takeda now,” my mother gently corrected, a curious eyebrow raised.
“I’m Aaron Russo. Pleasure to meet you.” He paused for a beat. “I have to apologize. I just… I never thought I’d meet you in person.”
My mom’s frosty reserve instantly melted. “Oh?” she asked, flattered. “You know my work?”
“Everyone knows your work! Your billboard was right outside the police academy, back when I was a cadet.”
I didn’t ask which billboard he meant, because Mom once did a stint for a swimsuit company when I was a kid where she lounged on a white leather settee in a glittering bikini, eating a bright red cherry.
Mom flashed Russo a genuine smile. “I like you,” she said. “Please, call me Jenny,” Mom said.
“Jenny,” Russo said, letting her hand go. “I was just making sure your daughter got home safely.”
“I appreciate that,” Mom said, nodding.
Dad came out then, wearing his faded Bon Jovi T-shirt, circa Slippery When Wet Tour, 1987.
“Hi, Mr. Takeda,” Russo said, as if he were the most polite prom date on planet Earth. “I’m Aaron Russo. Nice to meet you.” He offered Dad a handshake, and Dad took it warily. “Great shirt.”
Dad, always a man of few words, gave a single nod.
“I’m in from Chicago,” Russo continued. “Actually going to stay longer than I planned. Do you have any vacancies here at Koi?” Russo asked.
“Yes, we do,” Dad said, brightening, because the fastest way to my dad’s heart was through his wallet.
“Good. I’d love to stay…” He glanced at me. “Close by.”
“Come by first thing tomorrow,” Mom said. “We’ll have a room ready for you.”
I slept poorly that night, tossing and turning on the stiff Airstream bed, unsettling dreams popping up in the night of shadowy figures pursuing me down narrow alleyways.
I woke to sunlight filtering in through the shades of the Airstream, a foot hanging off the stiff, thin mattress.
I sat up in bed and stretched. Then I remembered Russo.
I wondered if he planned to stay in his own room, or just move himself into my trailer.
I remembered the kiss and touched my lips.
It had been a long time since I’d been so overwhelmed by a kiss.
Mateo was younger than me, and his boyish enthusiasm was contagious, but it never felt like he was the one taking charge.
Russo was another animal altogether: serious and deliberate with the confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.
The two weren’t even in the same league.
My phone pinged with an incoming text, and I reached over to the other side of the bed, where I’d left it somewhere in the covers. I dug it out to see Oscar had texted.
Did you assault the mayor last night?
Dammit.
Maybe.
I could practically hear Oscar’s sigh all the way across town.
He started it, I felt the need to add. Not my fault he’s a glutton for punishment.
Seconds later, a knock came on my trailer door. I reluctantly pulled myself from bed and padded down the short hallway in bare feet to the door.
“Morning, sleepyhead!” Olivia sang as she swept in with her small basket of laundry. “I got the stain out. You’re welcome.”
She nodded to Russo’s freshly cleaned Chicago PD hoodie folded on top of the pile.
“You actually did my laundry?” I glanced around the Airstream, at my mostly empty duffel on the ground, and realized that at some point, Olivia had snuck in here and kidnapped all my dirty clothes.
Maybe I never needed to find a mate. Maybe I could just live with Olivia and she could do my laundry and make my bed every day of my life.
“You were never going to do it,” Olivia said. “You’d still be wearing the stained sweatshirt if I hadn’t intervened.”
“True. Thank you,” I said. “And since he’s here, he’ll be wanting it back.”
“Will he?” Olivia challenged. “I saw you two from my upstairs window. I don’t think it’s the sweatshirt he wants.”
I felt my face flush hot.
“Next subject, please,” I said. Talking about Russo felt like biting into cold ice cream.
“Are we talking about the hot detective?” Mom asked as she also swept into my trailer, with full makeup on and wearing stilettos at seven in the morning—because she’s Mom. “If you hadn’t already called dibs, I might want to take that hunk for a spin.”
“Mom! You’re married!” Olivia exclaimed. “To Dad.”
“I’m married, not dead,” Mom said, straight-faced. “But he’s smitten with you, Ophelia. Really smitten. I’ll bet you twenty dollars that man is here with his luggage before noon, asking to move into your Airstream.”
“Wait—he’s going to stay here?” Olivia asked.
“I’m pretty sure your father could charge him the high season rate and he’d pay it,” Mom offered.
“Don’t give Dad any ideas,” I chided.
I agreed to help Olivia clean a few of the rooms inside Koi so that Russo would have his pick when he came by.
Olivia insisted on washing sheets that were already clean, because she said they smelled “musty”—whatever that meant.
I took out a heavy bag of trash from the kitchen and noticed that a chill had settled into the October morning air, a hint of the snow and ice to come.
I went back into my own trailer to get a heavier fleece, blowing on my hands that felt raw and trying not to think of the fact that my days could be numbered.
What would I do if the Canceled Killer came for me? He was sneaky. He was diabolical. He made sure you never saw him coming.