Page 85 of Worse Than Wicked
“Damn,” Dahlia says, looking impressed when I hand the knife back. “I didn’t think you’d really do it.”
I nod at her. “Your turn.”
She makes a small cut in her hand, and my mind loops back on itself, to the day so long ago when we did this the first time. Knee to knee we sat, dappled sunlight dancing around us, the insects louder than the wind tossing the branches. Neither of us wanted to go first, so we both hesitated. That time, she was braver. I remember the sickness that swam up when I saw the scarlet beads rising in her palm. But I knew I couldn’t back down once she’d already made the first cut.
Now she holds out her hand, and I take it. Her fingers are calloused, but her palm is warm and soft, and it strikes me how delicate her hand feels, almost dainty, not the hand of a killer at all, but a lady who belongs in the big house at the end of the trail that winds a mile through the woods, over the stream and past the low bluffs.
“Let the guilty pay,” she says.
“Let the guilty pay,” I agree.
Still gripping my hand, she leans forward and presses her lips to my cheek. Then she releases my hand and stands. “See you in another ten, Black Widow.”
“You’re leaving?” I ask, my anguish undisguised.
“We’ll meet again,” she says. “Our paths will cross when the time is right.”
“In a decade?”
“I didn’t mean that literally,” she says.
“How do I contact you?”
“You don’t,” she says. “But if you need me, I’ll be here.” Then she gives me a conspiratorial smile, like we’re in on this together. “And you never know. You might see me tomorrow.”
She crouches, grips the side of the platform with both hands, and kicks off, dropping over the edge and into the darkness. I wait to hear her hit the ground, but I never do.
twenty-one
Duke Dolce
“Remind me again, why couldn’t we go over to the other house for breakfast?” I ask, peering down into the bowl where my cereal bar is floating. I thought it was supposed to turn into cereal when you added milk, but it’s just floating there like a soggy, bloated turd.
“We don’t need a cook,” Mabel says, setting a plate with an English muffin and two perfectly poached eggs next to my bowl on the picnic table out back. “It’s really not that hard to put something in the toaster, and even a kid can scramble an egg.”
“You had a cook growing up,” I point out, deciding not to tell them what happened when I put some eggs in the microwave because I didn’t want to cook them on the stove and risk starting a fire. I’d probably just stand there watching it burn the house down, dumbass that I am.
“I didn’t like to bother her,” Mabel says. “I had to eat dinner with the family, but otherwise, I made my own meals and ate them by myself unless I was required to attend a special breakfast or luncheon.”
“Yeah, well, we can’t all be robots who don’t need anything from anyone,” I say, dumping an egg onto the English muffin. “I like my family, and I like having a cook.”
“You should know how to feed yourself,” she says.
“I’m feeding myself now, aren’t I?” I ask, stabbing my fork into the soggy cereal bar. I pick it up and start chewing on the end, letting milk dribble down my chin. Mabel makes a face and daintily breaks a yolk.
“We’re having breakfast here because we wanted to talk,” Baron says. “Make sure we’re all on the same page. I think we should go back to Tennessee.”
“What?” I ask, my fork clattering back into the bowl. The mushy bar plops into the milk, splashing it onto the weathered grey wood. I’ve lost my appetite, and all I want is to swallow a few blue pearls and reverse time, make this go away.
Baron hands me a napkin. “Next week would be ideal. I can get started on that new product we talked about.”
“I don’t care about that,” I say.
“We don’t want to leave too soon after the disappearance,” Baron says. “That might draw attention. But two people have died in Faulkner this week, and I don’t want any link between them to come up.”
“That’s unlikely,” Mabel says. “One is a philandering teacher at a fleabag motel, the other is the richest man in Faulkner having a simple accident at his estate. He was old and infirm. Preston lives with him, and he said so himself. Nothing suspicious about his death.”
“It’s all over the local news,” Baron points out. “Your grandfather was hugely influential in this town, but he had important ties all over the state.”
