Page 37 of A Love Most Fatal

Ranger settles in a spot by the door, almost wistfully, huffing.

I wait.

When I venture downstairs again a few hours later, there is someone in the kitchen moving about, cooking something that is making my stomach garble. I creep past them hoping to evade their notice as I seek out Vanessa. I don’t find her immediately, but I do open doors at random to two bathrooms and a laundry room before I reach one that is partially open already, music streaming from inside.

I don’t knock, I just use my pointer finger on the handle to slowly pull open the door and it swings outward to reveal a staircase down to what I can only assume is a murder dungeon. I steel myself before descending and when I get there,murder dungeondoesn’t seem that far off.

The floor and walls are concrete, there’s this big home gym set up and a couple of closed doors that I imagine lead to plexiglass psycho cells. Like on that Netflix show about the stalker, but more than one of them for double the murdering.

I do find Vanessa, and she’s wearing a tight little workout set and beating the absolute shit out of a punching bag in the corner. She doesn’t hear me when I come in, but how could she over the 2000s divorced dad rock playing over the speakers?

It appears that working out is higher on her list of priorities than, oh I don’t know, explaining to me why my life has been sent through a garbage disposal. She owes me an explanation, or at least an apology, but here she is, throwing her whole body into punching that bag, her ass looking ridiculously good while doing so.

I watch for a moment too long before remembering my mission and how much of a menace she is, and I force my eyes decidedly away.

There’s a complicated sound system and I fiddle with it, accidentally turning it up louder before cutting the song completely.

Vanessa lobs a few more combos on the bag before finally turning around to look at me. She doesn’t look surprised, which pisses me off more. It’s not like she’d forgotten; would she have even come to find me if I hadn’t sought her out?

I prop my hands on my hips, and look only at her face, not her tan skin shining with sweat. “Where have you been?”

Vanessa uses her teeth to undo the velcro on one of her gloves and then pulls off the other before tossing them onto a bench. I can’t help but notice that she looks exceptionally tired, a weight about her face that would almost make me feel a sting of compassion for her if she wasn’t the reason there may still be a dead man strung up in my bathroom, dripping his guts onto my new bottle of shampoo.

“Working,” she says.

I scoff, I can’t help it. I’m still not entirely sure what her job is, but I doubt an afternoon workout constitutes work payable. Vanessa unwraps a long wrap from her hands as I approach, and she hardly glances up as I do.

“What’s on your agenda for the rest of the day? Think you can squeeze me in, or should I just keep watching TV in your guest room?”

“Nate,” she bites, and it sounds like a warning.

I decide to dive straight into it: “Am I ever going to be able to go back to my apartment again? Did you do the same thing with Tony that you did the last two guys?”

She looks pained at the reminder, her eyes shutting on a wince. Invoking his name reminds me of the way he was left, and my stomach lurches, all that red coming to mind.

“We took care of it,” she says, and there’s that mask of indifference I saw earlier, that icy wall she puts up to hide what she’s feeling. I want to smash it. What little is left of my composure snaps.

“How? Chopping him up and throwing away the little meat pieces? You were vague the last time this happened and now look where that landed us.”

“It’s better if you know less?—”

“Who does that protect, me or you?”

Vanessa’s hands fist at her sides as she glares at me, but I don’t stop there.

“And do tell, is this how all your first dates end up? Or do they usually not live long enough to meet the family? I should consider myselflucky.”

“Jesus, Nate?—”

“And please enlighten me, do you often pretend to be a normal human to unassuming men you meet? Or do they end up in the meat grinder, too?”

Vanessa twists away from me and slams one of her palms on the punching bag before putting her hands on the back of her head and walking across the gym. Her back is rigid, and I can’t see her face.

I go on, because I can’t let shit rest and I’m desperate for her to admit that she’s feeling anything as horrible as I’ve been since walking into my apartment this morning. “I deserve to know what the fuck is going on if I am just as likely to die any day.”

Vanessa stalks back to me until she’s just in front of me. Without her heels she has to look farther up to meet my eyes.

“Do you want to know where I just was?” she asks, and her voice is steady. The punching bag sways on its chain. I want to say something else about her blazing around the city shooting people, but something about her tone gives me pause.

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