“I thought you left,” Robach says, standing at the foot of the steps. His voice takes on a honeyed tone, as American as apple pie.
What is his game here? Why has his accent changed?
“She is my housemaid.”
“Then why wasn’t she upstairs cleaning or something?” She narrows her eyes at me as if I am competition, about to take her prize. She takes two steps down. “She’s also naked under that towel, and you’re here. It’s weird, Robeee.”
Monsieur’s smile is disarming. He does not fool me one bit. “Really, dear? How is it weird? She lives down here. Can’t have the help living upstairs with me, can I? Plus, who can want a waif like her when I have a woman like you?” He holds a hand out for her to take.
I am wound tighter than the skin on a drum. Why can she not see the trap Robach lays for her? I have been on the receiving end more times than I care to count.
She considers him. Looks at me with hooded eyes. Her heels clomp down the stairs, and she clears the last couple of steps. How she does not fall on those stilts, I have no idea. She takes his hand, allowing him to pull her into him.
They kiss for a long while. He fondles her rear. I look around, wondering if I should resume my showering, retreat to my dwelling, or stay as I am.
He pulls away from their kiss, looking down at her, stroking her mane of wild hair. His hand trails gently along the edge of her jawline. He gazes at her. She swoons, exhaling. Her eyes go all gooey and romantic like in one of those black-and-white movies my auntie liked to watch. I scratch an itch on the back of my neck, my every sense electrified.
“My dear,” he says in a disappointed sigh, wiping his hand over his face as if weary, “why couldn’t you mind your fucking business and leave?”
Her head jerks back as if slapped. “What? What do y—what do you mean?” she stammers, confusion filling her rapidly blinking eyes.
She tries to step away, to make some room between the two of them, but he grips her firmly by the waist with his left hand. His other hand snakes up to her neck. My mouth goes dry and my mind numb.
When he speaks, he no longer sounds regretful that she has happened upon us. And his French has returned. “You should have left when you had the chance.”
His voice is cold, colder than I have ever heard, and it nearly stops my heart.
His huge paw of a hand curls around her pale throat. His thumb presses into her larynx; then the other hand sidles up to join it. Together they mash into her throat, closing her airway, damaging the delicate bones, tendons, and nerves that help her breathe. He means to make her suffer. It is as if he blames her for his having to kill her.
Her eyes bulge. The purse drops, sounding loud and heavy. It tips over, and its contents, tons of makeup, spill all over, going this way and that.
Her hands slap and claw at his. She tries going for his face, beats at him. Her fight is in vain. When he is like this, he is not human. His face does not register emotion.
The struggle she puts up is no match for this hunter, this apex predator, the enslaver of girls, the oppressor of souls. My feet shuffle until I am at the bathroom’s doorway. I should run. Turn away. My heart is in my throat, but I cannot tear myself from what I am seeing.
He yanks her forward, then wrestles her to the floor. Terrible sounds erupt from her, tight, gurgling, gagging sounds.
I am not watching to relish her death. I am learning his moves. If I ever get a chance, a big if, I can never allow him to get me beneath him. He cannot wrap his fingers around me like he is doing her. I would never get him off, as she cannot. I will need to maintain the upper hand.
He grasps the sides of her head in his bear paws, lifting it. Our eyes connect. There is utter fear in hers as they beg for help. And before I formulate a thought, Monsieur smashes the back of her head on the floor so hard I become disoriented. Her grip loosens, and an arm flops to the floor. The other wavers in the air.
Her breathing is a wet wheeze. He lifts her head again, gathers himself on his knees so his weight is entirely in it, and smashes her head back. And again. The dull sound her skull makes on concrete is sickening. Her other hand drops, and she no longer moves. He continues straddling her, watching as the last bits of life ebb from her. Then he smiles, takes his finger to her chin, and turns her head toward me.
Her blank eyes stare in my direction, without fear this time because there is nothing. The silence after so much noise is deafening. He looks at me with bottomless black orbs, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
“A shame.” He pouts as if he dropped an ice cream cone. “I rather liked her.” He licks her cheek with the tip of his tongue where a single tear has fallen and takes a deep inhale of her hair, sticky with the blood oozing from her shattered skull. Her dead eyes ask me if her death is on my hands too.