Page 2 of Killer Knows Best

The elevator dings, and we step inside. My stomach twists in knots as the doors close, sealing us off from the world outside. I force myself to breathe. Deep breaths, in and out.

Gwen stands next to me, tapping away on her phone like she’s about to order room service and not walk into a situation that could go south in about a hundred different ways. Although at this point, she’s basically a seasoned pro. She let me know she’s been doing this as a side gig for the last three years and that she’ll be graduating debt-free, with a brand new Dodge Charger she bought in cash, not to mention the shopping sprees I’ve witnessed.

Gwen has been living the good life and she’s earned it all lying on her back.

Heaven knows I can use a couple of nickels to rub together. I don’t make nearly enough to survive with my job down at the local library. I could pick up a few more hours, but then I wouldn’t have enough time to study or write the endless stream of papers that are constantly piling up. Not to mention my nonexistent social life because of those two outstanding factors. That’s actually what got this nefarious ball rolling, my nonexistent social life.

A sweet woman down at the library was constantly encouraging me to go out and have some fun with people my age. She said meeting decent men, once I graduated, would be like finding a needle in a haystack. She said to go for the cream of the crop, choose someone with strong values, someone who treats me like a queen. She leaned in close and told me that the secret to a great relationship was to find a man who fell hard and fell first. Don’t chase after anyone. Make sure you’re the only star in his universe.

It seemed like sage advice at the time, a good idea in general.But then again, I seem to magnetize toward bad ideas, and that’s exactly why I pressed my feet into six-inch stilettos this evening.

“You really need to chill,” Gwen says, her voice cutting through my thoughts. “This isn’t a big deal. It’s just one night. It’seasymoney.”

I shoot her a look.

Easy money?

Maybe for her. But for me, every alarm in my brain is screaming for me to find the exit.

But I can’t. Not now.

I’ve already agreed, and the cash is too good to turn down. Tuition is looming, rent is due on a loop, and my options are limited.

“Yeah, sure,” I mutter, more to myself than to her. “Just one night.”

The elevator stops, and my heart leaps into my throat.

Twelfth floor.

This is it.

2

DELANEY RIGGS

Victim

Gwen and I step out into the hallway on the twelfth floor of the Grand Meadows Hotel, where everything is eerily quiet, a luxurious silence only an exorbitant tax bracket can buy. I feel the quiet hush of money with every step I take.

The click of Gwen’s heels enlivens the silence as we trek along the plush carpet, my own footsteps muffled as if I’m trying not to leave a trace.

A man stands in a doorway. He’s older—gray hair, glasses, the whole bit. He’s wearing a suit, but there’s something off about it. It’s like he’s trying too hard by playing a role that doesn’t quite fit him. His eyes sweep over us, lingering on Gwen a little too long before settling on me. I feel a shiver run down my spine, but I force myself to stay still, to smile.

This might be him. And horror upon horror if it is.

“Ladies.” He tips his head our way, but Gwen just grabs meby the arm as we pass him by and a flood of relief hits me. He’s too old. Not attractive. He had a greasy feel about him in general.

Gwen has already let me know that just about anyone can be good-looking in the dark, especially when your eyes are closed. And believe me, I plan on shutting them tight until this entire nightmare is over.

“This is the one,” Gwen says, stopping in front of a dark mahogany door. She lets us in with the keycard and flashes that same fearless grin she’s been wearing all night. “They won’t be here for another twenty minutes at least. But whatever you do, don’t freeze up. Just follow my lead.”

I take a deep breath and step inside. The room is just as opulent as the lobby—plush furniture, dim lighting, the faint smell of cologne lingering in the air. My hands tremble as I clasp them in front of me, trying to steady myself.

This is fine. Everything is fine. It’s just one night.

But I know—deep down, I know—that nothing about this is fine.

What would my mother think if she knew? Honestly, this might stoke a hint of pride in her. She’s always had a soft spot for creative ingenuity when it comes to utilizing our feminine wiles to our best efforts. And this definitely fits in that category.

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