The Tease (The Darling Killer Trilogy) by Nikki M. Pill Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nikki M. Pill
clothes were folded neatly next to her awkwardly sprawled limbs, garter belt in a tidy roll on top of them. On her arm, in what looked like blue eyeliner, someone had written the word “DARLING.”
CHAPTER FOUR
I took her wrist in my hand, hunting for a pulse despite her sickly pallor and cold skin.
Darling.
Max was here tonight.
My fingertips went ice-cold, almost as cold as Lisa’s.
Most necrophiliacs aren’t violent.
Most.
That’s a lot of work for one little word.
The last time I was in the room with the body of someone I knew, it was my mother, fourteen years before. The cancer had sucked all flesh from her brittle bones, and her mouth hung open. Her shaved head looked tiny on the white hospital pillow. My dad hunched over in his chair, hands folded, one tear trailing down his face. Lisa was so alive just a few hours before, crinkling her nose at me during our troupe number. She lay on the floor like a discarded doll, lurid magenta bruises around her neck above the black rhinestone bow.
I took a deep breath, fighting the panicked feeling in my chest. The phantom arm encircled my waist again, and I pressed my hands to my stomach.
It’s not happening again. It’s not happening all over again. This is Lisa. There has to be something I can do for Lisa.
I stood up, turned away, and inhaled again, envisioning my breath moving down my spinal column, opening me, insulating me. I exhaled, turned around, and looked back at Lisa, searching for the whole picture.
He arranges them so carefully
, Max said in my mind. There was something artificial about the awkwardness in her pose, as if someone wanted her to look distorted, yet without marring her face.
I read that stranglers do it that way to preserve their beauty.
My purse was just where I’d left it, hanging on the coat rack by the door. All the makeup tables were tidy, all the chairs pushed in. Lisa’s bag sat on the bed, zippered as if ready to go. The dressing room looked better than it did when we usually arrived. How much of that was the killer? One thing was clear: this guy had everything under control. There was no sign of a struggle, no brutality. If someone tried strangling me, I’d fight him, and I’d probably get hurt in the process. I looked at Lisa’s perfectly manicured hands. I think she told me the shade is called Not Just A Waitress. I didn’t want to touch her and possibly mess things up for the police, so I crouched down next to her and peered at her hands and forearms. There were no cuts or bruises.
Defensive wounds
, I thought.
Those would be defensive wounds. So either she knew the guy, or he was really fast and quiet
. I didn’t see any bruising on her torso either. Just the nasty blotches already darkening towards purple around her throat.
The bruises really bothered me.
“They’ll be here in a few minutes,” Grant said.
I jumped and turned to see him at the door.
“We should probably wait outside,” he said. “To make sure no one comes in. They said not to touch anything.”
I looked back down at Lisa. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry to leave you by yourself in here.” I stood, tears blurring my eyes, and headed out to the hall.
Grant closed the door behind me and we leaned against the wall. We waited in silence until the police arrived. Tish turned up and almost had hysterics at the door; Grant had to restrain her from going in. “But he was in
my theater
,” she kept saying. “At
my show.
” The tears spilling down her face didn’t smudge her stage makeup.
“You can’t do anything for her right now,” Grant said.
The others turned up gradually. I don’t know who told them. They tiptoed into the narrow hall, eyes round, footfalls soft, like deer emerging from the trees in a meadow. Ronnie and Frenchie huddled together, arms about each other’s waists. Trixie sat against the wall. Sasha paced. Pip stared at the door, arms crossed in front of her.
It was almost a relief when a police officer
CHAPTER FOUR
I took her wrist in my hand, hunting for a pulse despite her sickly pallor and cold skin.
Darling.
Max was here tonight.
My fingertips went ice-cold, almost as cold as Lisa’s.
Most necrophiliacs aren’t violent.
Most.
That’s a lot of work for one little word.
The last time I was in the room with the body of someone I knew, it was my mother, fourteen years before. The cancer had sucked all flesh from her brittle bones, and her mouth hung open. Her shaved head looked tiny on the white hospital pillow. My dad hunched over in his chair, hands folded, one tear trailing down his face. Lisa was so alive just a few hours before, crinkling her nose at me during our troupe number. She lay on the floor like a discarded doll, lurid magenta bruises around her neck above the black rhinestone bow.
I took a deep breath, fighting the panicked feeling in my chest. The phantom arm encircled my waist again, and I pressed my hands to my stomach.
It’s not happening again. It’s not happening all over again. This is Lisa. There has to be something I can do for Lisa.
I stood up, turned away, and inhaled again, envisioning my breath moving down my spinal column, opening me, insulating me. I exhaled, turned around, and looked back at Lisa, searching for the whole picture.
He arranges them so carefully
, Max said in my mind. There was something artificial about the awkwardness in her pose, as if someone wanted her to look distorted, yet without marring her face.
I read that stranglers do it that way to preserve their beauty.
My purse was just where I’d left it, hanging on the coat rack by the door. All the makeup tables were tidy, all the chairs pushed in. Lisa’s bag sat on the bed, zippered as if ready to go. The dressing room looked better than it did when we usually arrived. How much of that was the killer? One thing was clear: this guy had everything under control. There was no sign of a struggle, no brutality. If someone tried strangling me, I’d fight him, and I’d probably get hurt in the process. I looked at Lisa’s perfectly manicured hands. I think she told me the shade is called Not Just A Waitress. I didn’t want to touch her and possibly mess things up for the police, so I crouched down next to her and peered at her hands and forearms. There were no cuts or bruises.
Defensive wounds
, I thought.
Those would be defensive wounds. So either she knew the guy, or he was really fast and quiet
. I didn’t see any bruising on her torso either. Just the nasty blotches already darkening towards purple around her throat.
The bruises really bothered me.
“They’ll be here in a few minutes,” Grant said.
I jumped and turned to see him at the door.
“We should probably wait outside,” he said. “To make sure no one comes in. They said not to touch anything.”
I looked back down at Lisa. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry to leave you by yourself in here.” I stood, tears blurring my eyes, and headed out to the hall.
Grant closed the door behind me and we leaned against the wall. We waited in silence until the police arrived. Tish turned up and almost had hysterics at the door; Grant had to restrain her from going in. “But he was in
my theater
,” she kept saying. “At
my show.
” The tears spilling down her face didn’t smudge her stage makeup.
“You can’t do anything for her right now,” Grant said.
The others turned up gradually. I don’t know who told them. They tiptoed into the narrow hall, eyes round, footfalls soft, like deer emerging from the trees in a meadow. Ronnie and Frenchie huddled together, arms about each other’s waists. Trixie sat against the wall. Sasha paced. Pip stared at the door, arms crossed in front of her.
It was almost a relief when a police officer