A Twisted Love Story(47)

Eventually, he leans in to kiss her. She kisses him back, hard, and pulls him in closer.

Right before she pushes him away.

“Sorry,” she says. “I mean . . . we just met.”

Ah. Okay. “You’re right. We did.”

“I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression by inviting you over. I was just having such a good time talking to you,” she says.

“I like talking to you, too.”

She smiles. He takes another sip of wine and wonders what time it is. Must be getting late, and he has to work in the morning. But if he leaves right now, he’s the bad guy. Can’t even risk a glance at his watch.

Farrah starts talking about hiking, a subject he is genuinely interested in, but right now he’s counting down the minutes until he can leave. He isn’t looking for someone to date, and he’s definitely not looking for a new relationship. Just a hookup, someone to distract him from everything else.

Farrah is not it.

That doesn’t stop him from getting her number on the way out, or from giving his number to her, only because he would be a dick if he didn’t.

On the ride home, he plans the morning in his head. Every choice has consequences, including the ones he made tonight. Now he’ll have to take an Uber to pick up his car and then drive to work. He thinks about seeing Abigail in the office. She certainly saw him and Marcus leave the bar with all those girls. Not that she would care, but still. Her opinion matters.

And he thinks of Ivy. Always Ivy.

He checks his phone for messages. Nothing from her. But she has posted a photo from Liver on IG. The guy with the beard.





40




Karen hesitates before knocking on the door. Her nerves flare up, along with the alarm bell in her head. The one that says you’re doing something wrong. She pushes through it, forcing herself to raise her hand. Sometimes, the result is the most important thing. Not how you got there.

She knocks three times and waits, listening for movement from inside. A bit of shuffling, the creak of the floor. Thin doors and walls can be an occasional benefit of cheap construction.

When the door doesn’t open, Karen knocks again.

“I don’t have anything to say.” Bianca’s voice comes through loud and clear.

Karen takes out her police ID and holds it up to the peephole. “Miss Mercado, I’m a detective with the Fair Valley Police Department.”

Another creak from inside the apartment, followed by a sharp click. The door opens. Bianca stands before her, dressed in leggings and a T-shirt, no makeup, her hair in a messy ponytail. She looks about sixteen.

“I remember you,” Bianca says. “You’re the one who came to see Wes.”

“That’s right,” Karen says, holding up a plain shopping bag. “And I have something to return to you.”

“You have to contact my lawyer.”

“This isn’t about Tanner Duncan. I’m here on another matter.”

Bianca stares at her for a moment before opening the door a little wider, allowing Karen to enter. As she does, Karen gets a good look at Bianca’s eyes. Dilated pupils. Valium, maybe. Can’t blame her. She wouldn’t be human if she didn’t have nightmares about that blood.

Her living room isn’t spic-and-span clean, but it’s neat enough. Bianca had obviously been lying in front of the TV when Karen knocked. The position of the pillow, blanket, and remote tell her that.

Off to the left, there’s a round table with two chairs, and a tiny kitchen next to it. A basic starter apartment with inexpensive furniture, mostly secondhand. Nothing unusual about it.

Karen perches herself on the edge of a chair that looks like a basket. Bianca plunks down on the couch.

“How are you doing?” Karen asks.

“Okay.”

“I imagine this has been very difficult.”

“I wasn’t trying to kill him,” she says. “I told the other detectives that. I just wanted him off of me. Away from me.”

“I know.”

“You know?” Bianca says.

“Sometimes you have to do things that are . . . inconceivable. To protect yourself.”

Bianca nods hard. Karen assumes she has been in therapy, which is good, and the medication must be helping. Despite the fact that she is lying around watching TV in the middle of the day, she is doing pretty well for someone who stabbed her boss in the throat.

“And Siphon?” Karen says. “Are they helping?”

“They’re still paying my salary, benefits, and everything. My lawyer says it’s because they don’t want me to sue.”

Her lawyer is right. She has a hell of a case against them after being attacked at work. But Karen isn’t here to talk about that. She leans down and removes a Ziploc bag from her work tote.

“This was taken as evidence,” she says. “Now that the case is closed, I thought you might want it back.”

Bianca snatches it out of her hand. She removes the Russian doll set from the bag and, one by one, opens them up.

Mentally, Karen keeps her fingers crossed. These are not Bianca’s Russian dolls, though they look the same and cost only $12.99 on Etsy. Karen had checked out the original set quite thoroughly, and removed the smallest one to make sure the sets matched. The only thing she didn’t do was add the blood splatter.