As with opioids, there was an actual science that explained adrenaline junkies. High-risk behaviors rewarded the body by flooding the system with an intense surge of adrenaline. Adrenergic receptors, like their country cousin mus, loved the overly aggressive stimulation, which fell along the same pathways as the fight-or-flight instinct. Most people hated that perilous, exposed sensation, but adrenaline junkies lived for it. It was no coincidence that adrenaline’s AKA was epinephrine, a hormone valued by body builders and recreational users alike. An adrenaline rush could make you feel like a god. Your heart raced, your muscles got stronger, your focus sharpened, you felt no pain, and you could out-fuck a rabbit.
Like any addict, Andrew needed more and more of the drug to get high. That was why he had raped a woman who could recognize the sound of his voice. That was why Leigh’s mom-friend had been brutally murdered. It was also why Andrew had kidnapped Walter. The bigger the risk, the higher the reward.
Callie let her lips part so that she could take in a deep breath. She could see the mustard-yellow siding from twenty yards away. The overgrown yard still had the FOR SALE BY OWNER sign out front. As she got closer, she saw that the neighborhood graffiti artists had accepted the challenge. A spurting penis covered the phone number, whisker-like hairs jutting from the balls.
A black Mercedes was parked by the mailbox. Dealer tags. Tenant Automotive Group . Another calculated risk on Andrew’s part. The house was still boarded up, so the ’hood would assume a drug dealer was stocking up one of his shooting galleries. Or a police cruiser would drive by and wonder what was going on.
Callie looked inside the car for Walter. The seats were empty. The car was spotless but for a bottle of water in one of the cupholders. She pressed her hand to the hood. The engine was cool. She thought about checking the trunk, but the doors were locked.
She studied the house before steeling herself for the walk up the driveway. Nothing looked amiss, but everything felt wrong. The closer she got to the house, the more the panic threatened to take over. Her legs felt shaky as she stepped around the oil stain where Buddy used to park his Corvette. The carport was dark, shadows overlapping shadows inside. Callie’s Doc Martens crunched against the concrete. She looked down. Someone had laid down a ghetto burglar alarm, scattering shards of broken glass along the carport entrance.
“You can stop there,” Sidney said.
Callie couldn’t see her, but she gathered that Sidney was standing near the kitchen door. She stepped over the glass. Then she took another step.
Click-clack.
Callie recognized the distinctive sound of a slide being pulled back on a nine-millimeter handgun.
She told the woman, “It would be more threatening if I could actually see the gun.”
Sidney stepped out of the shadows. She held the weapon like an amateur, her finger clutching the trigger, the gun turned sideways like she was in a gangster movie. “How about now, Max?”
Callie had almost forgotten her alias, but she had not forgotten that Sidney had probably murdered Leigh’s friend. “I’m surprised you can walk.”
Sidney took another step forward to prove that she could. In the light from the street, Callie could see that the professional attire was gone. Leather pants. Tight leather vest. No shirt. Black mascara. Black eyeliner. Blood-red lips. She saw Callie taking in the change. “Like what you see?”
“Very much ,” Callie said. “If you’d looked this good before, I probably would’ve fucked you back.”
Sidney grinned. “I felt bad for not letting you finish.”
Callie took another step forward. She was close enough to smell Sidney’s musky perfume. “We could always go again.”
Sidney kept grinning. Callie recognized a fellow junkie. Sidney was just as addicted to the rush as her sick fuck of a husband.
“Hey,” Callie said. “How about a quickie in the trunk of the car?”
The grin intensified. “Andrew called first dibs.”
“More like sloppy seconds.” Callie felt the muzzle of the gun pressing into her chest. She glanced down. “That’s a nice toy.”
“I think so,” Sidney said. “Andy bought it for me.”
“Did he show you where the safety is?”
Sidney turned the gun over, looking for the button.
Callie did what she should’ve done before.
She pushed the gun out of the way.
She took the knife out of her pocket and she stabbed Sidney in the stomach five times.
“Oh.” Sidney’s mouth opened in surprise. Her breath smelled like cherries.