Sixteen #3
“Wait,” I said, snapping my fingers. “I found something in the dirt there.” I remembered I’d sent a picture to Olivia. I scrolled through the phone to show Ted and Jude. “A necklace. That O.” I tapped the screen. “Could it be for Olga?”
“Send me a picture, would you? And I’ll check with Olga’s family.”
Jude glanced at his watch.
“You need to go?”
“No,” he said. “I’ll cancel the meeting.”
“Don’t cancel your meeting.” I glanced up at Ted Anderson. “Ted’s with me. And I’ve got your alarm system. I’ll be fine.”
Jude hesitated. “You’re sure?”
“Positive. The cheese lab needs you.”
Ted left shortly after Jude, thank goodness. Tammy called him to grab something she needed for her hot dish at the grocery store. He was apologetic as he left, but I was glad to see him go. I had a lot on my mind, and I needed to think.
I was left alone with my dying cell phone while I rummaged around for a charger at Jude’s place.
The man was as neat as a button, but I couldn’t figure out his filing system at all.
Utensils in one kitchen drawer and aluminum foil in another?
I didn’t understand “organizing” in such a way.
I pulled out the drawer near the fridge and found the take-out menus sorted by color.
Who kept these anymore? Jude, apparently.
I pulled the drawer out farther and found a roll of duct tape and a brand-new package of zip ties. What on earth did he need those for? He probably zip-tied his garbage bags to make sure they didn’t accidentally open in his trash can.
I shook my head. I opened another drawer and found a plethora of charging cords, tightly folded, wrapped up in neat coils.
I fished one out and plugged it into the wall near the fridge, and hooked up my phone.
After just half an hour, the whooping sirens coming in and out of the sheriff’s station were annoying me.
I wanted to walk over and see what was happening, but at the same time, I knew that would just make Oscar furious.
I felt restless in Jude’s pristine kitchen, and eventually I decided to take a stroll.
I couldn’t think when I was staring at Jude’s pretty kitchen wallpaper, and I just needed to get some air.
It was an unusually warm October day, and the sun was so warm, I found myself undoing the buttons of Jude’s flannel shirt and rolling up the sleeves.
I stopped at the lakeshore, plopping down on a park bench to watch some kids tossing a Frisbee on the sandy shores of the lake.
I’d missed something. I pulled out my phone and dug into HotSpidey’s social media.
Russo was right: He had been busy tagging and commenting on victims’ accounts, though he never left any lemon emojis or skulls, so there was that.
Not that the real killer would be that obvious.
Still. His family lived in Milwaukee, and he stayed in Chicago.
He could take a detour to Lake Sanguis anytime he wanted.
Still. If the first murder at the old cabin was connected, then he’d have to have done it at age fifteen, given the age he put on his profile.
I couldn’t imagine that. Hardly seemed like that would make sense. Would it? Then again… I dug far, far back into Spidey’s earliest posts.
Dammit.
He’d come here with his family in high school. They’d vacationed here together that summer. I peered at the picture of them on a speedboat, towing a teenage Mateo behind on water skis.
Also—he did have a brother. Older, by the looks of him.
Opportunity. He had opportunity. But at fifteen?
Then again, didn’t most serial killers start early? Usually with small animals. Maybe Mateo was just ambitious at a young age.
I felt so foolish. Why hadn’t I investigated him before now? I’d been blinded by his abs and that he taught me how to do donuts in parking lots. Not to mention, he was pretty fun to spar with. Of course, sparring with your casual hookup probably should’ve been the first red flag.
It raises the question though: How well do we really know anyone?
There were wives of serial killers who had no idea they were married to monsters. My stomach growled, and I realized I’d completely lost track of time. The sun was beginning to set. Of course, that didn’t mean much this time of year, when it got dark at five.
My phone pinged.
Russo: I’m back. Ready for dinner? I’m at a nice place.
From the map location he dropped in the chat, he wanted to meet at a steak and seafood place a half mile away. I could walk there.
I glanced down at the flannel shirt I’d borrowed from Jude. It was far too big on me. Beneath it, I had on a form-fitting black cropped tank and my leggings.
I’m not wearing anything fancy, I warned him.
Come as you are, he replied.
I hesitated and smoothed my hair with one hand.
I’d thrown my wet hair into a messy bun and just let it dry there.
Mom would be appalled I planned to meet a man looking like this.
Was dinner with Russo really a good idea?
But I needed to know more about what he found about Mateo, and while he’d been gone, he’d missed a lot.
I sent Jude a text. Just to let him know I was meeting with Russo.
I watched my phone. Dots appeared, then disappeared.
Then, nothing.
I didn’t know what that meant, and I didn’t have time to dwell on it, either.
I left the park bench and made my way down to Lake Sanguis’s semi-fancy seafood restaurant with its wraparound porch and gorgeous views of the lake. The sun had dipped down past the horizon, and the air had turned cool. The old-fashioned streetlamps flickered on.
I got the feeling I was being watched.
I wrapped Jude’s flannel a little tighter around me, noting that it smelled like him. Sweet and savory, all at once. A cold breeze kicked up, and I shivered. I glanced once behind me, just to be sure no one was following me. The street was deserted. No tourists were out.
Many restaurants were shifting to off-season hours, and the darkened shop windows told me many were closed until the morning.
There’d be a short break between now and the holiday season, when the town would be decorated with holly and twinkling white lights, and ice fishermen would head here for winter weekend getaways.
I swept into the restaurant, expecting to see Russo waiting for me.
Instead, I found a mostly empty restaurant filled with leather booths and small two-person tables with white tablecloths.
The hostess stand was empty. In here, it was much warmer than outside, and I let Jude’s shirt fall loose and open.
I glanced around but saw only a single older couple dining and nobody manning the bar, either. I felt a little uneasy, and I didn’t know why. I glanced around again, looking for Russo. No hostess. No Russo. Odd.
I’m here, I texted him.
Back corner. Right.
Relief shot through me. I walked into the dining room, realizing it curved around a bit to the right.
There, sitting in the corner, was Russo.
He looked a little bit less put together than usual, his hair slightly ruffled, as if he’d run his hand through it in frustration.
He also wasn’t wearing his usual blazer.
Instead, he wore just his crisp Oxford button-down, rolled up on his muscular forearms.
As I approached, still worried my leggings and flannel were not fancy enough for the leather-bound booths and real linen napkins on the table, Russo’s eyes widened in appreciation as he saw me. He stood, dumping his napkin on the table.
“I’m not fancy,” I said by way of apology.
“You look great,” Russo said as his cool blue eyes swept down my body, lingering at the scoop neck of my tank top.
When his gaze rose up again to meet mine, it burned with want.
I suddenly felt sweat break out on my lower back.
Maybe I didn’t want this much attention from Russo.
I wanted to go back to Jude’s house and cuddle or play foosball.
Russo moved slowly to me, gently putting his hand on my waist and dropping a kiss on both of my cheeks. My face felt warm, the imprint of Russo’s lips lingering there.
“You look good enough to eat,” he told me, voice low in my ear.
I glanced up at his serious blue gaze, wondering if we were going to get naked later, and just how I felt about that. Good? Nervous? Petrified? I wasn’t entirely sure.
Jude was comfortable and easy—like a favorite meal.
Russo was strange and new—like a complicated new recipe I’d been too scared to try.
I guess I’d have until the end of dinner to decide whether I wanted to take a bite of him or not.
What would it be like to get under Russo’s pristinely starched shirts?
I’d bet everything in my Paymo account he’d be the one in control, his hands directing me at every step, even as now, they grabbed the back of the wooden chair and pulled it out for me.
Then he guided me to the chair with a possessive hand on my lower back.
I dropped down in the seat and he pushed it forward for me, his eyes still lingering on my chest.
“Were you going to tell me they found another body or…?” Russo began as he sank back into his own chair.
“I tried. You sent me to voicemail,” I pointed out.
“Never heard the phone ring. You should’ve called back.”
I sat, glancing at the empty plate and wineglass in front of me.
Russo had already ordered a bottle of wine and filled my glass.
I wasn’t a huge red wine drinker. Red wine tended to give me headaches, which is why I typically preferred fruity cocktails or beer, but he’d already poured it, so I guessed I’d drink some.
I felt suddenly nervous, for no good reason, and glanced around my place setting for a menu, something—anything—to look at besides Russo’s intense blue stare. Russo picked up his wineglass for a toast.
“To you, kid. For being a pain in my ass. Cheers.”