Page 43 of Savage Seduction

“Yeah, but a best friend can always tell. Does this have to do with the date from last night?” Her attention is split as she looks over my shoulder every minute or so.

Normally, I would have turned to see who she was looking at, but something about how she was acting felt off, like she was trying to warn me. I lower my sunglasses, revealing the bruising and abrasions I incurred during the attack.

London chokes on her coffee, spitting into the cup what was left in her mouth, and jumps up from her seat. She wipes her chin with a napkin before slowly turning toward me once again. “That piece of shit hit you? Where’s he at? I’m going to kick his ass.”

I glance around the room, embarrassed by her outburst, but don’t notice anyone looking. “No, please sit. It’s not what it looks like.”

She lowers herself back into the chair. “What it looks like is you got your face smashed in by some psycho.”

I feel my cheeks flush hot. “Then I guess it kind of is what it looks like.”

The little vein in the center of London’s forehead bulges with anger. Her normally flawless, light brown skin, is blotchy and reddening by the second. “What the-?”

I raise my hands to stop her cascade of rage. “London… London.” I reach for her wrist to prevent her from standing again. “I’m fine, and it wasn’t Ben.”

“Who was it then?”

“It has to do with… you know.” I lower my voice even more.

“No, I don’t know,” she says, cocking her head to the side looking at me with wide eyes that slowly narrow. “Wait… that mother fucker did this?”

The Butcher. That Mother Fucker.Synonymous andcorrect. “It’s one of the reasons we need to talk this morning. Get to the bottom of what’s been going on.”

“He attacked you?”

“No, I think it was either one of his minions or a follower. Someone who is a copycat kind of psycho. He even had an ankh carved into his belly.” I sit back in the chair. “Self-inflicted? An old wound?”

“Or fresh,” London says.

“Exactly.”

London relaxes back into her chair and remains quiet for a few moments. Then, leaning forward, she whispers, “There have been a few developments in what we were researching. My concern is that there might be someone here listening. If you’re a target… I might be too. Were we followed? It’s hard to tell.”

I rub my hands through my hair. “I don’t know what to think anymore. Last night was crazy. I never expected the attack. It was brutal.”

“What did Dr. Dimples say? Does he know about it?”

“Yes. There was no way to keep it from him. Honestly, I would have. It’s embarrassing, but he took it really well. We kind of even kissed.”

She slaps the table, but then quickly looks around. “You did? How was it?” Her eyes sparkle with excitement.

“Nice, actually.” I smile. “The only problem is that every time I close my eyes to think about that moment, one that should be awesome, I see The Butcher’s face.” I lean in. “Get this. I could have sworn I saw him sitting at the bar. Then after I had a mild freak out, I excused myself to the restroom, and that’s when I was attacked.”

London winces as she looks at my bruised cheek. “I’m sorry, Max. What a horrible way to end the night.”

“The weird thing is that while I know serial killers have fans and copycats, it usually all happens when the killer is stillalive. It’s like they are trying to win favor with their god or something. Which makes me think even more so that he’s lurking around here somewhere.” I shrug. “How he survived and was never discovered is beyond me. Has he really been able to keep himself from killing anyone in that time?”

“Well, that’s probably where I come in,” London says. “Those are some really great questions, and I think we need to spend some time together in a secure setting to answer them.”

I lean in, to whisper plans to meet up at her grandmother’s home, but London taps her finger on the table as if to stop me from talking. I meet her gaze, and she narrows her eyes a touch. I straighten back up in my chair and take a sip of coffee.

Her expression softens as she glances over my shoulder and then toward the restrooms. I fight the urge to look in the direction she indicated.Who was she watching?

“What did Ben say?” she asks. “I mean, you didn’t ditch him at the restaurant… did you?”

“Of course not,” I say, allowing her to change the subject. “He wanted me to call the police.”

“No-brainer there.”

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