Last Known Victim by Erica Spindler Read Free Book Online Page A

all—and then some.
    Yvette had long since given up feeling embarrassed or ashamed over what she did for a living. What she had said to that new waitress, Brandi, had been the truth. She had no one to watch out for her—but her. She never had, even as a kid.
    She’d survived because she was a fighter. And a realist. Tonight she’d made five hundred bucks. She’d make that tomorrow as well, maybe a little more.
    So what if she had to grind herself against some guy’s crotch or shake her tits for a bunch of horny strangers? She pulled down six-plus figures a year, much of it tax free—and the only investment she’d had to make was in her double-Ds.
    Where else could a twenty-two-year-old with no skills, training or education make that kind of cash?
    Nowhere. That was a fact. One she had learned the hard way.
    Yvette sipped her chocolate, thoughts turning to Marcus. To his absence tonight. She frowned as she realized she had grown to expect him to be there each night. That she counted on it.
    Not emotionally. She’d been kicked in the teeth enough times to have finally cured herself of falling for every guy who acted like he cared. Cured herself of stupidly trusting anyone who held out their hand in friendship.
    She didn’t love Marcus. She wasn’t so stupid as that. Not only was he married, but he was beyond her. Too educated. Too rich. Too connected. The best she could hope for from Marcus was a good time and a lot of cash.
    Yvette curled her fingers around the warm mug. Unlike most of the girls, she didn’t blow her money. Not up her nose or on things like jewelry and clothes. With the help of a broker, she’d invested it. She had money invested in the market and a good, old-fashioned savings account.
    She wasn’t going to let anyone or anything beat her down—not Marcus, a hurricane named Katrina or life itself. She’d been down that road with her daddy—and had vowed never again.
    The memory came upon her so suddenly it took her breath. Blood. A growing pool of it. The sound of terror. Of hopelessness.
    No! She wouldn’t allow herself to go there. That belonged to another part of her life. To another person.
    She meant to move forward. Only forward. Save enough to go to school. Buy a little house somewhere. Get a dog.
    Have a happy life.
    Her thoughts drifted to tonight’s creepy note. From the freak who called himself the “Artist.” It hadn’t been the first note she had received from him. Nor had it been the first time a “fan” had written, professing their undying love and devotion. The job drew freaks, perverts and lonely guys in search of “true” love.
    She set down her hot chocolate and reached for her backpack. She dug inside and pulled out the three notes.
    She had received the first a week ago. Yvette opened it and reread the short, cryptic message.
    I think you’re the one. I can’t be certain…am afraid to hope…I just pray I have finally found you, my sweet muse.
    Yours, the Artist
    It had been written on unlined journal paper. Or perhaps paper taken from a sketch tablet. The handwriting was spidery, in pencil. “Old person” handwriting.
    The second had been delivered three days ago.
    Tell me, do you long for love? True, undying and eternal love? For “the one” who will never leave you? I think you do. And it makes me love you all the more.
    Yours, the Artist
    She bit her lip to keep it from trembling. It was as if he had peeked inside her. It was what she had always wanted—undying and eternal love, someone who would love her forever, never leave her.
    She shifted her attention to tonight’s message. It had been written on a lovely sheet of Crane’s stationery. In black ink. The envelope had been fixed with a wax seal. A blood-red A.
    As I watched you last night, I realized you are, indeed, the one I’ve been waiting for. It has seemed ages since I’ve