The Tease (The Darling Killer Trilogy) (20 page)

“And what sort of help did you provide, exactly?” she asked.

I struggled not to glare at her. “Talk therapy,” I said. “Mindfulness therapy. I generally don’t start loading a client up with interventions when I’ve only seen them two or three times.”

“So let me get this straight,” she said. “This guy comes to you for therapy shortly after Darcy Berger was murdered. Then he sees you naked, and one of the girls in your strip club dies the same night.”

“I wasn’t naked,” I snapped.

“Then one of your patients gets killed after you talk about terminating therapy,” she continued. “He leaves trophies for you. And then, the same night you have an argument with another dancer, he murders her too. That seems like a pattern to me.”

Tears stung my eyes. “That’s not fair,” I said lamely. “Two data points isn’t a trend.”

“Then what is?” she demanded. “You’re in a very precarious position right now.”

I shuddered. “Should I get a lawyer?” I asked.

“You’re not under arrest,” she said. “But if you bring in a lawyer, there’s not a lot I can do to help you.”

I passed on commenting about her help thus far. “I don’t know what you want from me,” I said. “I did the best thing I could in my professional judgment.”

“Your professional judgment?” she said. “How can you expect me to take you seriously when you’re playing stripper at night?”

“It’s not like that,” I said. “It’s art. It’s the radical notion that I’m in charge of my own sexuality, that—”

“Oh, please,” she said. “You cannot expect me to buy that you’re a feminist when you take your clothes off to get attention.”

“No,” I said, and slammed my hand on the table. She wasn’t expecting that. Her eyes widened a little, and then the corners of her mouth turning up slightly.
She’s savoring the reaction
, I thought, even as my mouth charged ahead.
She wants a reaction out of me because she thinks I’ll slip. OK. Here it is.
“You
have
to take your clothes off to be a feminist! It’s defiant. It’s empowered. It’s saying I get to be sexy without being raped. It’s saying that sex appeal is not limited to one body type or sexual orientation. It’s reclaiming sex and femininity without using violence. It’s reclaiming it through art and irony, through the art of regular people, not locking it away in some ivory tower for a bunch of tweedy old coots to feel superior about. It’s saying that you can look the way you fucking want to and
they cannot take that away from you
. So yes, I’m doing it for attention, but not the way you think.
You’re
the one who’s fucking up women’s lib by agreeing that the only way to be powerful is to mimic a man.” My voice turned quiet and venomous. “And I feel sorry for you.”

Her eyes hardened.

“Let’s start at the beginning of your first session,” she said. “And I’m going to check everything against the file.”

After we reviewed every session twice, her affect flat and cold the entire time, she directed me out to the waiting room. I felt strangely defeated.

I signed for my belongings, and my phone had half a dozen frantic text messages from Monica. I texted her back to let her know I was okay and she should sleep if she could. As I put the phone back in my purse, I noticed Grant slumped in one of the uncomfortable plastic waiting room chairs.

“Grant?” I said.

He jerked upright, eyes wide, and sighed. “Vel,” he said, and rubbed his eyes.

“What are you still doing here?”

“I didn’t want you to go home alone at this hour,” he said.

A lump formed in my throat.

A commotion caught my attention. A few uniformed officers were struggling to calm someone down.

“Anna!” he shouted. It was Max. “Anna! It wasn’t – Anna! Did you tell them I did this? Anna?”

They wrestled him out of sight. I couldn’t look away, despite the sting of the fluorescent lights in my eyes.

“Vel,” Grant said. “You’re shaking.”

“I… I suppose I am,” I said. My face was wet. I wondered if I had a nosebleed. I touched my cheeks and my fingertips came away grey.
Mascara,
I realized.
I’m crying.

Detective Santiago approached me and handed me a box of Kleenex, his dark eyes kind. I thanked him and blotted my eyes.

“Do you want someone to take you home?” he asked. “Or to your car?”

“Wasn’t I supposed to stay away from home?” I asked. “Since he knows where I live.”

He looked after the door through which Max had disappeared, his lip curling.
That’s disgust
, I noted.

“You think he did it,” I said.

He leaned close to me. “I shouldn’t tell you this,” he said, “so please don’t mention it to anyone else.”

I nodded.

“There was a stocking in his jacket pocket,” Santiago said. “It looked just like the one we found in Lisa’s mouth.”

My knees buckled. Grant caught me.
That’s why Tish’s mouth looked different. She had two stockings in her mouth. Lisa only had one.
Something about that nagged at me.

“I think you can rest easy,” Santiago said.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” I asked him. “I thought I was the scum of the earth around here.”

He contemplated his shoes for half a second, but his face was still open and kind when he looked at me again. “She’s gone through a lot to get where she is,” he said. “It’s not personal.”

“It felt pretty personal to me,” I said.

“She’s a good detective,” he said. “The best, actually. I’d better go. Do you want a squad car to take you home?”

It all seemed so bright and noisy, and my head was thick and swollen. “No,” I said. “I just… I want my cat. I want to go home.”

“I’ll get her home safe,” Grant told Santiago. “If someone could take us to the theater, my car is there.”

“I’ll call for someone,” Santiago said.

“Could we not use one of the cars with the lights?” I said. I couldn’t think of the right word. “I just don’t want more attention right now.”

Santiago looked from Grant to me.

“I think she’s overwhelmed,” Grant said.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Santiago said.

While we waited, Grant said, “You’re staying with Monica, right?”

“Yeah.” I glanced at the clock. 2:30 am. “I just want to go home.”

An officer whose face I will never remember brought us to his car. It was a black and white squad car, but I was too tired to object. I sat in back with Grant as we drove through the silent streets to the theater. The surreal tension between exhaustion and anxiety thrummed through my body, as though I were wide awake underwater. I was surprised when we arrived after ten minutes. Chicago traffic is nothing at that hour.

I started walking to my car. Grant stopped me. “Hey,” he said. “You’re stumbling. Let me drive you.”

“I’m fine,” I said.

“You’re going to fall asleep at the wheel,” he said. “My car’s right over there. Let me make sure you’re okay.”

I started to protest and realized he was probably right.

“Do you need anything from the theater?”

I glanced at the dark building. My go bag and clothes from the day were in there, but it seemed such a hassle to get them. Some of my things were at Monica’s. I had no idea what was anywhere. “No,” I said.

I gave him directions to my apartment, and then I fell asleep in the car. I blinked and he said, “Vel. Velvet, you’re home.”

“Mm?” I opened my eyes and my apartment building was in front of us.

He got out of the car, opened the passenger door, and held his hand out for me. I took it, and he walked me in. An alarm bell rang in the back of my head; something about bringing a guy in on the first date. It seemed so far away, incongruous, almost funny.

I unlocked my apartment door, flicked the light on, and froze. It felt silent and empty.

“Vel?” Grant said.

“I forgot,” I said, a terrible hollowness filling my chest. “Caprice is at Monica’s.”

“Do you want me to go get her?”

“No,” I sighed. “I’ll be fine. You should go, you must be exhausted.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

I looked at him and noticed the battered duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

“Grant, I—” I stopped, my brows drawing together. I had no idea what to say next. I was so damnably stupid. Something about feelings, or being fine, or not being in the right place for this. It was all too complicated.

“If you have a sofa, I’ll stay on your sofa,” he said. “If not, I’ll sleep on the floor. I’ll sleep in this hallway if I have to. There’s no way in hell I am leaving you by yourself right now.”

Despite the force of his words, his voice was so gentle that I almost dissolved – and hesitated.
I don’t need anyone to take care of me. I’ll be damned if I depend on a man—

I searched his face carefully. I saw genuine concern, weariness, a faint map of lines at the corners of his eyes. Determination in the way he set his jaw.

Maybe he doesn’t want to be alone
, I thought.
He found Tish’s body. It was a trauma. Maybe feeling like he can take care of me makes him feel like he’s—

I exhaled sharply in irritation, rubbing my eyes. My fingertips came away stained with more eye makeup. I must have looked a fright.

His face turned a deep scarlet. “Vel, I’m not—”

“That’s not it,” I said. “I’m irritated with myself.”
Kevin isn’t his fault. Your ex isn’t his fault. Stop searching for a motive. Just let him be nice to you for one damn minute.
I would have burst into tears if I’d had any energy left. The tears at the police station were spectacularly non-cathartic. “Come in.”

I stepped aside to let him in, and then bolted the door and locked the doorknob. I kicked off my heels and pointed out the kitchen and bathroom to Grant, texted Jeff that I was calling in sick for the day, then stumbled to get ready for bed. It posed a strange dilemma. My sleepwear collection was mostly sexy negligees, but if I wandered around my apartment in skimpy satin and lace creations, that sent a certain message.

I hurried to change while Grant was in the bathroom. I left on my yoga pants and put on a knee-length, pink sleep tee I’d almost forgotten about. It was a free gift that came with a lingerie catalogue order some years ago. I pulled a pillow off my bed and opened the linen closet in the hallway. I was pulling out a soft blanket when Grant appeared, clad in sweatpants and a dark blue t-shirt.

“Here,” I said, offering them to him. “Thank you for staying here.”

“Thank you,” he said, accepting them.

“There are more blankets in here if you need them.”

“OK,” he said. He hesitated for a moment, and then gave me a one armed-hug. “Good night.”

“Good night,” I replied.

Normally, I would’ve been frustrated getting ready for bed with half my cosmetics somewhere else. I thought they were probably still at Monica’s, but even going to check my purse in the hall seemed like too much work. I was just glad I wasn’t wearing fake eyelashes, which would have itched terribly at that point. I used some gentle lotion to wipe off my eye makeup, then washed my face and scrubbed it dry with a towel. I felt like a layer of grime had settled in at the police station, and I wanted it gone. I took out my contacts, which felt almost as good as had kicking my heels off.

Going to sleep was strange when I was so conscious of someone else in the living room. I missed Caprice’s purring body curled up against my stomach. I fretted about Max, about Luke and Angela and Marion, about Tish, about Detective Brack, and about Max again. I listened for Grant’s breath, wondering if the sofa was too short for him, wondering if he was ok.

He’s a grown man
, I thought to myself.
He’s been putting himself to bed for decades. Stop taking care of everyone on the planet.

• • •

“Vel.
Vel!”

I gasped and sat up, my heart racing. Shreds of the nightmare settled around me. The waking nightmare wasn’t much better, just less immediate. I looked up to see a wild-eyed Grant in the doorway.

“You were shouting,” he said. “You were shouting
please let me go
.”

I focused on lengthening my inhalation and exhalation to slow my panicked pulse. “I dreamed I got bitten by a snake,” I said, “and it gave me cancer. So I had to go tell my mother I was going to die. And she was too weak to get up off the bed, and someone carjacked me on my way to her, and I was begging him to let me go so I could go see her before—” I stopped myself as the story jumbled into dusty images and panic.

“What can I do?” he asked. He looked as haggard as I felt, lights from the street leaching the color out of his face. I felt a pang of guilt. He’d been through hell, too.

“I don’t know,” I said. “You must be exhausted. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“It’s fine,” he said and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Try to sleep. I’ll be right here.”

I started to argue, but I was too tired to form a coherent objection. Something about boundaries and what was appropriate, but for God’s sake, we were in a burlesque troupe together. He unhooked my bra with one hand. Could I really object to him seeing me without makeup?

I lay back down and settled into the pillow. He took my hand in his, gently, and started singing a soft song in a language I didn’t know.
I’m not a child
, part of me rebelled against the lullaby.
Just let him be nice to you
, I reminded myself, and followed his soft voice into sleep.

P
anic rose in my chest. His arm around my waist
what does that mean when he’s so angry
and the two hundred pounds of resentment smoldering on the other side of the bed
one day he’ll squeeze too tight
and his other hand under my pillow creeping creeping toward my throat his arm was too heavy around my waist and it was going to hurt hurt hurt when he left ripping his roots out of me—

I jerked awake in grey early morning light. 5:30, said the red lights on my alarm clock. It dawned on me that I felt Grant’s arm around my waist, his body curled protectively around mine, about a split second before he yanked his hand away.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sitting up. “I was asleep, I didn’t – I’ll go—”