Page 52 of Pure Killers

He doesn’t seem bothered. “Fucked him yet?”

“No,” I admit, pressing back.

“Mm, serious, then.”

“It could be.”

He's lifting my dress, finding my thigh, hand sliding under to lift my knee.

“Well, if you fuck him, you’ll have to tell me how it is. If he satisfies you."

“You’re a killer. A criminal.”

“Mm, your protests so far must have beenverysoftly spoken.” I swallow a wince. He’s not wrong, there. “If you don’t like what I do to you, or what I make you feel… go on and say it. Be loyal to your ‘someone’.”

I could say that, say something,anything. I could tell him to get out. He’d go, I know he would. Instead, my jaw works, mouth stubbornly closed. He chuckles, pouring salt in the wound of my pride. “Itcouldbe serious...” He presses, lifting me against the wall, and my legs wrap around his hips, the skirts of my dress bunching awkwardly.

He carries me all the way to the bedroom, stopping and pressing me to the doorframe to kiss me. "Imagine if you'd caught me tonight." His thumb scrapes my bottom lip. "What an interesting interview that would be."

My eyes widen slightly. "You'd tell them?"

"No, I wouldn't tell." He pauses then, the closest I've ever seen him to hesitating. "You shouldn't be on the Cocooner case."

Surprised, I straighten my legs, though he doesn't let me have more space as my feet touch the ground. "Why the interest in him lately?" I watch the glimpse of his eyes through the mask, dark hazel or green. It’s hard to tell. Always in dark places with him. Intentionally, I suppose, another reason for me to believe he thinks I’d recognise him if I got too close of a look. "He's due to strike again soon. But you know that."

The mask ducks, hiding his eyes.

"What do you know?" I press.

"Just… don't go off alone where you think they are."

"Why? He stopped targeting female detectives years ago when my husband—"

"You just shouldn't." Needler cuts me off again, bracing his palm against my cheek. "Don't risk your life."

I frown. He seems so earnest suddenly, but why? I laugh, almost awkward for it. "Why…"

But then he kisses me, long and deep, and all questions fall away.

***

Three hours of sleep later, and dawn comes too fast. As before, Needler was long gone by the time I woke up. I slump into Dirk’s car when he pulls up at the front of my building, and he immediately passes me coffee in a paper cup. "I know you don't drink it, but…"

"I'll take it," I say quickly, doing just that. Today, to visit my husband’s memorial, knowing what I did last night with Needler… I need something, and alcohol isn't on the menu.

"Good choice," he commends, pulling away from the curb. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him about what I heard last night, preferably without admitting that I followed him. His deals with the less savoury of Tregam, lying to the department. It’s all pressing on my mind, and I’m still yet to find a reason he can’t be Needler.

But is it just wishful thinking? Would he even have any interest in me in that way?

I make myself drop that question. Today is going to be hard enough without thinking about all of that.

The memorial is on the edge of downtown, a precious bit of real estate spared next to the city park, which itself takes up nearly a whole block. During the day the park is a nice place, full of families playing frisbee and people walking their dogs, almost like somewhere in a normal city, a city without the highest crime rate in the country. But at night, with the lack of lighting, it’s a place people avoid.

As the sun rises now, that transition is taking place, groups of people in respectful black fast outnumbering the more ragged types that slink off, following the shadows. A caretaker idlesalong, stabbing empty cans and pushing them into a hessian bag.

The memorial itself is spread over a flat of concrete between thick, harsh pillars. Framed pictures dot the space at intervals, many of them drowning in bouquets of flowers. The people are buried elsewhere, but this is a place to see them together, a place for the more regular public of Tregam to appreciate the sacrifices made.

Before the service starts, I break away and wander through the sparse crowd to his picture. I bought a bouquet at the entrance, and now I kneel, looking at his face. He was in uniform when this picture was taken, so smiling and sure then. I place the flowers. "I miss you," I say, and drop my gaze. How can I be here, saying this, when last night I lay with his murderer? Needler has never denied killing Caleb. Somehow, I'd tricked myself into believing he didn't, that it was a misunderstanding.

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