The Tease (The Darling Killer Trilogy) (14 page)

He had white matte dishes, bamboo placemats, and chopsticks set out with the knives and forks. The food was from a nearby Asian fusion restaurant that prided itself on local and organic ingredients. We had a wonderfully spicy dish of flat noodles with crispy pork belly, and a succulent shrimp with rice and broccoli.

“This is really nice,” I said. “I’m glad we’re doing this.”

“Me, too,” he said, and grinned.

Aslan twined around my ankles and then headbutted my leg. His purr filled the kitchen.

I thought of what I wanted to say, and changed my mind as my heart started pounding.
Sometimes you need to do the thing that scares you
, I thought, and changed my mind again. “I feel like I should tell you something,” I said.

“That sounds a little ominous,” he said.

“It isn’t,” I assured him. “At least, I hope not. I just… I feel like I should be honest about what you’re getting into.”

“You’re not married, are you?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Hell, no.”

“Gun-smuggling for a neo-fascist regime?”

“No.”

“Nine hundred years old with two hearts?”

“No,” I said, amusement and impatience struggling in my smile.

“Sorry,” he said. “My feeble attempts to lighten the mood.”

“We can talk another time,” I said.

“Nuh-uh,” he said, deftly wrapping the noodles around his chopsticks. “You brought it up.”

“I did,” I agreed, and stared at my plate for a minute. “I believe in practice. I have a dance practice. Yours is the art of carving – or I should say, one of yours is the art of carving. It’s something you did consistently over time.”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“Relating to others is a practice too,” I said. “I don’t have a girlfriend practice right now.”

“Neither do I,” he said.

I chuckled. “I’m being serious,” I said. “I don’t want to make excuses. But I should tell you about… some of the damage I’m carrying.”

He set his chopsticks down. “I’m listening.” When he focused in on me, it was as if he was staring at the base of my skull. It was more than a little unsettling.

That’s no excuse.

“I haven’t dated for about three years,” I said. “I was with someone for two years, and I thought he was the one. The One. You know?”

He nodded.

“I, um.” I inhaled shakily. “I didn’t use the word
abuse
out loud until about a year ago,” I said. “I thought – I don’t know, I thought that abuse was when someone hit you or called you a bitch or something. Emotional abuse is invisible. Lots of people say it without knowing what it actually means – and I was really ashamed because I had an undergrad degree in psychology so I thought I should know better. I thought that abusers didn’t spend years in therapy, and talk openly about the work they’re doing on their depression or fears or whatever, and they didn’t apologize or have moments of insight. I thought he was working on things and someday we’d… I don’t know. Have the relationship he kept telling me we could have someday. The one he wanted and I kept ruining.

“It didn’t happen overnight. I loved him. He wasn’t all bad – he was funny, and caring, and… a lot of other great things. But he was also really sick, and I didn’t see it. I found myself agreeing to little things because some stuff… bothered him, and he felt hurt and threatened, and I kept giving up more, and then I had made all these contracts that cornered me so I couldn’t do anything right, and every conversation brought up new pieces of evidence about what an overbearing and demanding bully I am.”

His eyes widened fractionally for a split second, and then returned to their steady gaze.

“The thing is,” I said, “he believed it. It’s actually very sad. He was paranoid. I mean that in a clinical sense. He didn’t have the obvious kind of paranoia like a room full of photos with red strings or long rants about the evil government. It was this pervasive suspicion about other people’s motives. Especially mine. He believed all those accusations he made. Every single one of them. And I started believing them. I started wondering if I actually am this horrible person. I didn’t get that it was abuse because none of it was yelling. It was always tearful accusations about how badly I’d hurt him, so I started to feel like I was crazy. I lost faith in my ability to interpret interactions. Everything I said got twisted around and thrown back in my face, so it was safer to just not say anything. Or even do anything. I stopped dancing for a while. It was a control thing, he withheld affection, so I felt hideous… He said it was no better than dancing on a table, and I always felt so ugly anyway, so I –oh.”

The change coming over Kevin’s face was so gradual I didn’t notice while it was happening. I glanced at my fork, and when I looked back, I was startled. His face had gone pale, his pupils dilating to the point that they almost devoured his dark eyes. His mouth was a grim bloodless line. I thought for a wild, panicked moment that I’d said the wrong thing.
He’s going to tell me Josh was right, I should’ve kept my mouth shut, he’s going to tell me I’m awful and I should leave and—

“I’m glad I don’t know who he is,” Kevin said quietly.

“Me, too.”

“The thought that someone would crush your spirit like that…”

He’s angry that someone treated me that way.
That thought made it harder for me to go on without crying. He actually cared about me. He had faith in me being a decent person. It was endearing and terrifying.

I shrugged. “That’s the awful thing. He didn’t do it on purpose. We have this idea of abuse as someone who’s just a sadist and hates women or something, and ultimately, he was just scared. He was scared all the time. And he tore off shreds of everyone around him to cover that gaping wound. I just happened to be standing closest. So… It’s like, ‘physician, heal thyself,’ right? I’m a trained therapist, and I help people relate to others all the time, but I’m totally out of practice. Or truthfully… I had a
bad
practice. It involved a lot of withdrawing, of shutting up, and of self-loathing. So I’m noticing with you that I have a panic-and-clam-up reaction. I don’t want you to repair me. It doesn’t work that way. I just… Like with the text message. I was nervous to say more than a few words to you, because the more I say, the more exposed I am, so I just said ‘Thank you’ and it lead to a misunderstanding that I just feel horrible about. I’m sorry.”

He reached over and squeezed my hand. “I’m glad you told me,” he said.

“It’s not too intense for a second date?” I said, forcing a smile.

He gave me another piercing look. “I’d be an idiot,” he said finally, “if I expected you to be conventional and average.”

My heart thawed a little more.
Easy
, I thought.
Take it slow. Don’t rush this.

“I feel kind of like I should tell you something now,” he said. He gave my hand one last squeeze and resumed eating. I followed suit. The pork belly was crispy and spicy, and had a lightness that surprised me.

“Please do,” I said. Reminders of that misunderstanding resurrected the stabbing guilt in my gut, which redoubled when I realized how much I wanted to ask him about the crime scene photos.

“There’s not much to tell,” he said. “I just moved back a few months ago after two years in England.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You lived in England and there’s not much to talk about?”

He chuckled. I was growing to love his chuckle. “There’s plenty about the country,” he said. “It’s gorgeous. But I was in Nottingham, and I thought there’d be a nice goth scene over there, and there really wasn’t.”

“What brought you back here?” I asked.

“I always wanted to come back,” he said. “It was about gaining enough clout with the company to move back here and carve from home. I needed to let them get to know me for a few years. And how could I turn that opportunity down?”

“That would be pretty great,” I said.

“I was going to stay another year,” he said. “But the girl I was with cheated on me, and I found out, so I took the first opportunity to get the hell out of there.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

“Don’t be,” he said. “She cheated on me with her ex. I was almost more offended by the banality of it than heartbroken. I’m just glad I found out before we got married or something.”

We talked more about art and life and food, and after dinner, he made the coffee I’d brought over. The two mugs of coffee grew cold, though, as we wound up sitting on his futon and kissing for a deliciously long time. I had to fight my impulse to panic and go limp. I had never really thought about how every action, no matter how small – touching his hair, his jaw, his back – was a chance to do something wrong, a chance for him to shove me away in disgust.

He didn’t seem at all disgusted, though, and I finally stopped thinking.

I felt paws on my leg and opened my eyes as a purring Aslan made his way onto my lap. Kevin and I must have nodded off during a drowsy, nonsensical conversation. I sat up slowly. Kevin opened his eyes.

“I should go,” I said.

He touched my hand. “You could stay here,” he said. “We could just sleep.”

Vanity, practicality, and desire tumbled over each other. I didn’t have clothes or makeup for the morning, and I wasn’t sure I was ready, even to just sleep.

I wasn’t sure I
could
just sleep if I was next to him.

“Next time,” I said, and kissed him again.

“Next time,” he agreed, pulling me closer against him. “Would you like me to follow you home? To make sure you’re safe?”

“You’re so sweet,” I said. “I’m okay.”

“If you’re sure,” he said.

I half-lay there for a moment, my cheek against the front of his shoulder, his fingertips skimming my arm. I knew I couldn’t resist asking about the photos, and my heart started pounding in a much less pleasant way than before.
This is not something you learn in charm school,
I thought wryly.

Finally I sat up and looked him in the eyes. I wasn’t going to take the easy way out by avoiding eye contact.

“I’m sorry if this ruins the mood,” I said, “but I need to ask you something.”

His eyes widened. “Uh-oh.”

I placed my hand on his and drew in a shaky breath. “You said the police showed you horrible photos?” I asked.

He exhaled as if I’d sucker punched him in the stomach, sitting up and forward. He had an almost aristocratic profile, the sort of thing you expect to see in the frontispiece of Romantic era poetry books. “Yes,” he finally said. “They did.”

I moved my hand to his upper arm. He didn’t knock it away, but he didn’t look at me. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

“It was pretty awful,” he said. “It was the worst day of my life.”

“I know,” I said gently. I didn’t bring up the worst days of mine. He knew. “He’s still out there. I need to make sense of this.”

He looked at me, his face drawn and pale. “What if there isn’t any sense to it?” he asked.

“Something makes sense to this guy,” I said. “And he’s killing people who matter to me. If I can spot a connection that helps the police find him – if I can do anything before this guy hurts you or Monica or my dad—”

“Or you,” he said quietly.

“Yeah. Or me.”

“All right,” he said. “What do you want to know?”

“As much as you can remember about the photos.”

He shuddered. “The female detective shoved them across the table at me,” he said. “I tried to look away, but she kept — shoving more. I don’t think I can ever forget them.”

Of course. He was an artist; he had to have an incredible visual memory to capture the anatomical details he did in his miniatures.

“Did she show you photos of a woman with dark blond hair?”

“Yes,” he said, and my heart leaped.
Katie.
“There were two blondes. One was…” his voice trailed off. “Hang on a sec.”

He got up and walked away, and I was worried I’d pushed him too far until he came back with a sketch pad. “It’s all… messy in my head,” he said. “So I need to sketch it out.”

“It gets chaotic in my head too,” I assured him.

He flipped the sketchpad open and sketched a few lines and shapes, then started to add details. I felt, once again, awed. I couldn’t even draw a stick figure. “She was lying on the floor, like this,” he said. It matched the awkward posture Lisa had been in. “She was next to a bed or something.” He added a few lines to indicate the corner of a bed with rumpled sheets. “She was in a white bra and slip, and sort of tan heels. Her clothes were folded here, by her hip. There was something in her mouth, like balled-up fabric. And there was a scar on her stomach, here.” He wrote the word “DARLING” along the scar.

Tears stung my eyes. “Dammit,” I whispered.

He looked up from his sketch.

“He ruptured her spleen,” I said. “Her ex hit her, and it ruptured her spleen. That scar is from emergency surgery.”

Kevin’s pupils dilated again, the color draining from his lips.

“It was written in pen,” he continued. “Blue ink, I think.” He paused and tore out the page. “I can’t draw her eyes,” he said. “I just can’t make myself do it.”

I accepted the drawing, putting my free hand on his arm.

“The next one,” he continued, “was a blonde woman.”

I set the picture down on his coffee table as he continued sketching. Aslan nuzzled me for attention, so I rubbed his ears as Kevin drew.

“She was posed differently,” he said. “She was in a loose fetal position, like this. There were furniture legs near her. They looked old-fashioned. Some black clothing was folded next to her tailbone. Her head rested on one arm, like this, almost like someone asleep.”

I frowned. The purring cat continued kneading his paws into my leg.

“There was more fabric in her mouth. I think pantyhose.” He sketched her mouth, and then a line for her eyes. “And here, her left arm draped over her body. Her left hand was in front of her heart, and a necklace was in it.”

I sat bolt upright. Aslan protested drowsily and continued kneading.

“What did it look like?” I asked.

“Blue beads,” he said, adding them in. “And then there was another pendant on a chain – gold – next to her hand. I couldn’t tell what color the stone was. And a ring, too, but it was small. I couldn’t see it.”