Chapter 3
Guy
Because our grocery store visit was a bust, I order pizza. Not knowing what serial killers like, I order one vegetarian and one packed with meat, and busy myself cleaning an already tidy kitchen.
What the hell was I thinking earlier? Even if Monty wasn’t a killer, I’m twenty years older than her. And she’s a family friend. Though Ella refers to her as more of a frenemy.
I don’t want to complicate this living situation, regardless of how temporary it is. The last thing I need is for it to be awkward.
Monty doesn’t appear, and I watch the stairs, chewing my lip.
Maybe I crossed a line when I went through her stuff.
The photograph clearly means a lot to her, and it’s a small insight into who she is.
Gable told me no one knows a thing about Monty, her real name, her age, or if she’s even actually English, so maybe me stumbling upon a real fragment of her life has unnerved her.
Then she appears, and I wish she hadn’t.
She’s in an ankle-length, figure-hugging nightgown. It’s midnight black with white lace around the square neck, thin straps holding it up. She looks like a fucking dream, especially now her hair is blow-dried and set in waves over her shoulders.
I swallow and tell my dick to calm the fuck down. “I ordered pizza.”
“Perfect.” She saunters into the kitchen as if she’s always been here. “What do you have to drink?”
“Beer. Want one?” She nods, and I go to the fridge. After uncapping us each a bottle, I say, “You were up there a while.”
“This doesn’t take five minutes.” She gestures at herself.
“And I was masturbating.” I choke on my beer, suds spitting across the kitchen.
I cough into my fist, my eyes watering, and she laughs at me.
“A good-looking man like yourself can’t cuff me and rub up on me and expect me not to finish what he started. ”
“I didn’t … I did not rub on you; you rubbed on me.”
“Potato, po-tah-to. I enjoyed the rubbing. A lot.” She grins and swigs more beer. “I didn’t even have to use a toy.” I gape at her, and the doorbell rings. “Ooh, pizza!”
As Monty answers the door and flirts with the delivery guy, I adjust my dick. This is day one. Day fucking one.
We sit on the couch and eat pizza. Monty devours the vegetarian one, eyes glued to the television, while I watch her.
It’s unnerving how little I know, or anyone knows, about this woman.
When I first met her, it was to interview her after Asher had died, and she’d been more than happy to provide prints and DNA for us to check her records. Nothing came up. Not a damn thing.
How can a person wear such a convincing mask?
Wanting justice is only a small part of why I became a cop. My first wife called me the most curious man she knew, and I’m still that way. I want to solve things, solve people, and right now, Monty is a puzzle with the pieces scattered at my feet.
“You ever been married?” I ask, taking another bite of my pizza.
She gestures at the television. “This is wild. You Americans call this football, but when does your foot touch the ball? And then you have the audacity to call actual football ‘soccer’! Make it make sense.” She shakes her head and bites into her pizza, chewing as she continues watching.
I hum in response. “Got any kids?”
“I mean, this is just rugby with a hell of a lot of kit. Back home, we—”
“Monty.”
She looks at me. “What?”
“What’s your real name?”
“Madison.”
I blanch. “Really?”
“No. Can we watch something else?”
I frown. “Can we talk?”
She rolls her eyes and closes her pizza box, placing it on the coffee table. “Why do people always want to talk about me? I’m not interesting, really. And whatever I say will be a lie, so give it up.”
I move aside my own empty box. “Okay, then answer me this. Why do you lie?”
For once, she considers my question instead of giving me quickfire bullshit, and I hold onto pathetic hope that I’ll get an honest answer.
She crawls over to me, and I let out an exasperated sigh, turning my face away as she straddles me. She looks delighted, however, and plays with the collar of my T-shirt.
“You want to know why I lie?” she asks, and I exhale deeply as I face her. “Because then I can be whoever I want to be.”
Her tone sounds sincere, but still, I narrow my eyes. I never know what’s real with her; even my cop senses are way off, so I tread lightly.
“Does that mean you don’t want to be yourself?”
She shrugs, focused on my T-shirt. “Haven’t you ever wanted to start fresh?
Shed your skin, be someone new? I can do that whenever I like.
I can be Monty today, Sara tomorrow, Joanna the next day, Hilary after that.
I can be hundreds of different women with a thousand different interests and pasts. It’s like playing dress-up.”
That makes sense. I have, at times, been tempted to drive until I find somewhere new, especially since losing Ella. The temptation to leave Guy Gibson behind can be almost overwhelming, so maybe it isn’t caution I feel around Monty, it’s envy.
“Will you teach me that handcuffing trick from before?” She asks.
The sharp change of subject isn’t surprising. I wish we could keep talking about her, but baby steps, I guess. “Okay, but we’re using my cuffs.”
She hops up, and I find my old handcuffs. For the next thirty minutes, I show her, step by step, how to handcuff someone. It’s probably not the best thing to be teaching the serial killer staying at my house, but I’m fairly sure I can overpower her if she becomes murderous.
And it’s fun. She’s eager to learn, and it’s nice to spend an evening doing something other than working out or waiting for Ella to call.
“My turn.” She claps excitedly.
I face her, the handcuffs dangling from my fingertips. “Okay, but remember to—”
She moves so quickly it’s like a rush of blonde. She darts behind me, kicking the back of my knee so I hit the ground—hard. Shoving me forward so my chest meets the rug, she snaps the cuffs behind my back and cheers.
What in the ever-loving fuck just happened?
I twist onto my back and stare up at her. “You didn’t need my help at all, did you?”
“Nope.” She sits on my stomach, her knees either side of me, my arms cuffed uncomfortably behind my back. “But I like you teaching me stuff. Your eyes light up.”
I watch her, a little unnerved at how attentive she is. “They do?”
She nods. “Wanna make out?”
“Fucking hell, Monty, you’re relentless.”
She groans. “Aren’t you even curious what it would be like? You got hard before, so I know you fancy me.”
I drop my head back against the rug. “It isn’t that you’re unattractive.”
“Then what?”
“Your Ella’s friend.”
“And?”
“You’re twenty years younger than me!”
“And?”
She smiles at me, the picture of beauty, of innocence, golden hair and the face of a damn angel.
“You’re a murderer.”
Monty rests her hands on either side of my head, her hair curtaining us. “Only on weekdays. I have a strict policy about working weekends.”
Despite myself, I huff a laugh. “Funny.”
She grins. “Okay, I won’t ask again. I’ll settle for that smile. Friends, though?” She lets out a loud, excitable squeak as I flip her onto her back and show her the handcuffs that are no longer around my wrists. “How did you—”
“Magic,” I say, grinning.
Her smile is oddly endearing. It’s like we’re sharing a secret, a dangerous one, but fuck if it doesn’t light me on fire for the first time in years.
“Should we go to bed?” Monty asks, biting her bottom lip and failing to hide a mischievous smile. “Separately, of course.”
Getting to my feet, I hold out my hand, and Monty takes it. I pull her up, and she uses the opportunity to push herself onto her tiptoes and kiss my cheek.
“Thank you for letting me stay, Chief.”
I angle my face away and clear my throat.
“It’s fine. You go to bed; I’ll clean up these boxes.”
She leaves, and I spend a little longer cleaning than necessary, determined not to bump into her in the hallway.
It’s close to midnight by the time I go up.
Usually, I’d have already been in bed for an hour, but I’m surprisingly alert after showering and getting under the covers.
The wind rattles the windows, and I make a note to get them replaced when it gets a little warmer.
I should also paint the house at some point; it’s looking a little dated.
I guess I’ll have a lot of time for that soon enough.
Running my hand down my face, I wonder if I’m making the right decision. Everything will change, but maybe that’s exactly what I need.
A thump has me sitting up. I remain still, listening, and although no sound follows the initial one, I get out of bed. Typing in the code into the small safe under my bed, I take out my firearm and eke open my bedroom door to darkness. Stepping into the hall, I listen.
Another noise. The creak of a floorboard from downstairs.
Then behind me.
I whirl, pressing the person to the wall, and Monty stares at me, wide-eyed, our bodies flush. Luckily, I didn’t move her too fast or hard.
“What are you doing?” she whispers.
Another creak.
Slowly, I place my finger against my lips and release her.
Stay, I mouth.
She folds her arms. No, she mouths back.
Of course, she’d argue with me over this.
Taking her hand, I lead her into my bedroom and close the door. Before she can protest, I have her against the wall again, my hand over her mouth. Green eyes filled with fire glare up at me.
“You listen to me,” I whisper. “This is my home, which means you do as I say. You don’t argue with me, you listen to me, you obey. I tell you to stay, you stay. I tell you to get on your knees, you get on your goddamn knees. Am I making myself clear?”
She blinks quickly, and even in the dim light of the bedroom, I note the blush in her cheeks. I remove my hand.
“Yes, Chief.”
“And enough with the Chief shit,” I hiss. “Sit your ass down and wait.”
“Yes, Chief.”
If I had time to argue, I would.
Leaving her alone, I head into the hall and close the bedroom door behind me softly. With careful steps, I approach the stairs and listen.
Whispers.
My heart rate picks up, but I keep my movements slow, deliberate, calm. I have a weapon, but I don’t want to use it, not if I can help it.
As I reach the bottom of the stairs, there’s movement on the far side of the open-plan bottom floor. I flick on the light.
“Police,” I say, and they face me. He’s dressed in dark clothing, a fabric mask covering his face. “I will shoot if you don’t follow my instructions. On your knees, hands behind your head.”
He doesn’t raise a weapon, speak, or move. That’s never good. He’s considering his options as if he has any, which means this is about to turn nasty.
“I am the chief of SFPD. Believe me when I say if you’re considering rushing me, it won’t end well for you. If you’re going to run, go for the door, otherwise I will shoot you.” I’d rather be looking for a prowler than have a dead body in my living room. “Choose. Wisely.”
He doesn’t.
There’s a rush of footsteps as he goes for me, and the distinct flash of a knife.
I stand my ground and fire once into his shoulder. The bang is loud, but my practiced ears mean I don’t flinch.
The fool pauses but then roars and keeps coming for me.
I fire again.
He goes down, and as I lower the weapon, blinding pain hits me from behind. The crack against my skull sounds similar to the gunshots, but my size and frame mean the most it does is piss me the fuck off.
The second intruder gapes up at me, Ella’s old baseball bat in his hand, clearly having expected me to go down. “What the fuck?”
I seize the bat and growl, “You broke into the wrong fucking house and pissed off the wrong fucking man.”
I chuck the weapon on the floor, the wood rattling against the flooring, and seize the intruder’s neck. I toss him aside and he rolls over the coffee table, hitting the ground hard.
And then the fucker pepper-sprays me.
He fucking pepper-sprays me.
“Jesus fucking—” I shout, and through the blur of the spray, he goes for me. His shoulder meets my stomach and we both tumble, my back hitting the ground. He’s on top of me and lands a weak-ass punch before I seize his fist.
“Need a hand, Chief?” Monty’s sweet voice comes from the direction of the stairs.
I grunt, trying to blink through the stinging in my eyes. “I told you to wait in my room!”
“With all this commotion, I had to come take a look.” She sounds bored, almost amused as I wrestle with this fucker.
“Pass …” I grunt, and he punches me again. “Monty, pass me the—”
“The what, Chief?” she asks.
“The fucking handcuffs!”
“Oh, so I’m allowed to move now?”
I manage to rub my eyes with the back of my forearm. “Yes, now get me the—” A gunshot rings out, and the struggling intruder goes limp above me. Silence falls, and I pant. “What did you do?”
“I shot an intruder, Chief.”
“No fucking shit!” I shove his body off me and sit up. “I told you to get the handcuffs!”
The blurred Monty shrugs, examining the weapon in her hand. “My life felt threatened, and I was protecting my boyfriend.”
My fucking God.
Somehow, I find my way to the refrigerator and take out the milk. Leaning over the sink, I pour it into my eyes to try and neutralize the stinging.
“Check the other guy,” I say. “He might be—” Another gunshot. I stand up straight. “Monty, stop fucking shooting people!”
“He scared me!” she says, and giggles. The woman actually giggles.
After pressing a kitchen towel to my face, my vision starts to clear.
I almost wish it hadn’t.
The house is a mess.
Two bodies are in the living room, a puddle of blood around them.
Red spatters the kitchen island and the walls, and all I can smell is gunpowder and iron.
The scream of sirens in the distance tells me one of my neighbors has called the police, so I kneel by the first guy and search through his pockets.
Monty stands beside me, resting her hand on my shoulder as she leans over. “Good idea, they might have cash.”
I tut. “I’m trying to figure out who they are, not rob them.”
Their pockets are pretty much empty—except for a folded piece of paper.
A photograph of Monty.
In it, she’s striding across the street, clearly in San Francisco. It was taken from a distance, and she’s wearing the same coat she has since she arrived, which means it’s recent.
“Wow, I look pretty.”
“Monty, these men were here for you,” I say, brandishing the paper at her. “Why would someone—” I pause. “Actually, don’t answer that question.” The sirens are getting closer, and I glance at Monty’s hand. “Is that gun legal?”
She purses her lips in thought. “And by legal, you mean …”
I snatch it off her and wipe it down with the kitchen towel, tossing it on top of one of the bodies.
Monty smiles innocently. “You’re being all illegal for me.”
“Hush up.”
“It’s romantic!”
This woman will be the death of me.