Page 7 of Resist Me Not
All I can think is, despite that mess with Curtis and even if I do end up with a scar from it, this day is proving better than most in a good long while.
Chapter three
TREY
Icalled Walker a few hours later, after my lunch date and some investigation, both for my cover job and for my real job as a dispatcher of the world’s trash. Walker agreed to dinner tomorrow night at one of the restaurants I had already planned on frequenting for my article, an Asian eatery featuring a fusion of Thai, Vietnamese, Lao, Cambodian and Filipino dishes all on the same menu. I told Walker it would be my treat, since Manifest Ventures would cover it, but if he wanted to splurge, I would cover anything past my per diem for the right price.
“Oh yeah? What’s the price?”
“I’m sure we can think of something.”
His laugh was lyrically enchanting, but what I most enjoyed hearing was earlier when he called meDaddyafter I kissed his cheek. I know it was only a teasing slip of the tongue, but I very much want to hear that again. Rescuing him, taking care of him, pressing my lips above his cut, it all stirred something in me I do not believe I have ever experienced before.
How delightful.
It is after the dinner hour now, but I plan to eat late tonight. I am too engrossed in perusing my target’s eccentricities to stop just yet. So many pieces of evidence to confirm my condemnation of the man. He has his password on a Post-it note attached to his computer screen. The same password lets me into everything I could possibly want to infiltrate. His email. His bank records. His Expedia account. Most of it I don’t even need to type in, because he has it all saved for autofill. Convenient—for me.
With the lights all off and only the computer screen illuminating the room, I set to complete my work as quickly as possible. His emails and social media posts point to a classic narcissist—entitled, self-important, with a constant need to be the best and praised for being the best. He is in sales, and his work email repeatedly shows him talking behind the backs of his peers, particularly to his direct superior to help him get ahead. He has three exes who have blocked him on social media, proving he doesn’t handle rejection well. Not that I’m surprised. My first encounter with him was him physically assaulting his soon-to-be ex outside this apartment building.
Oh, I’m no longer following that tempting family man upstairs. The lunch date was with his sister, who encouraged him to seek counselling, and he agreed, while nearly breaking down crying. It doesn’t absolve him of anything, but it shows he has the capacity for change, so I will let him live. For now.Should I check on him again in a few months’ time to discover no progress, all bets are off.
I am not always easily dissuaded from a target, butCurtis Van Kirkearned so much more of my attention. I am in his apartment where I first saw Walker. In the same room. The bookshelf where Walker retrieved his textbook is to my left. To my right is the window I looked through. From here, I can see my own hotel room. My camera still points toward the building but down at the entrance. My phone is beside me, showing a live feed, so I will know the exact moment when Curtis returns home.
I already know his schedule, since I also have access to his calendar. He is at a work event and, given emails between him and his fellow salespeople, he won’t be returning home sober. He emailed his superior earlier about being late for normal work hours due to his broken wrist, but he clearly never informed the police, since his explanation for it was a mishap moving furniture. It’s a gamble that he won’t be coming home with someone tonight—or bringing someone here—but I have a feeling all will work out as I need it too.
Just my luck, Curtis has another work event scheduled for tomorrow, one he is attending alone and out of town. It’s the kind of event where he will be assessing vendors, not doing any selling himself, so he won’t be expected to check in or meet with anyone specific. A little adjusting on my part extends his stay from three days to a week, with a request sent to his superior for a few days off afterward. He is one of their top salespeople and rarely takes vacation, so I am confident the request will be approved—but not until tomorrow, since the superior is also at tonight’s event. I’m not worried about Curtis noticing anything else. No one ever checks their sent folder. Even if someone misses Curtis, no one should go looking for him until long after I—or Walker—could be considered a suspect. I wouldn’t want the good doctor to get into any trouble.
Hotels keep records of check-ins, and given Curtis will miss his, that could pose a problem, but the hotel he’s staying at has a laughable firewall. I can fix those records. They wouldn’t keep the information for long anyway, but best to be safe. Airlines are different and any no-shows result in a cancellation. But although this event is out of town, it isn’t too far to drive, so Curtis’s email also informs his superior that he has decided to use his travel funds for gas instead, allowing him to better enjoy his vacation time on the road.
Really, with this level of access into his life, he couldn’t have made it easier for me than if he came home and passed out right onto my plastic sheeting in the bathroom. The bathroom is the ideal location for a kill space. No one bats an eye at finding bleach particles in there and there are plenty of drains.
I won’t go into too many specifics of how I dispose of my victims, since it depends on the city, and much of my research before arriving is dedicated to the most successful methods. But it usually involves dismemberment, very careful packaging, and distribution to multiple dumpsters to prevent the entire body from ever being found together.
I find the best dumpsters are for medical waste disposal, though depending on the facility, those aren’t always accessible. Normal hospital dumpsters will also do, since if parts are discovered, it’s more often assumed improper disposal than homicide. Restaurant dumpsters work in a pinch as well. The smell of rotting food tends to dissuade casual rummagers.
As for any evidence from me, why do you think I splurge on clothes? Beyond the aesthetics and personal preferences, natural fibers shed less. You won’t find any polyester or nylon at my crime scenes. I also wear gloves and am very carefulabout which rooms I disturb and anything I could possibly leave behind.
The next thing I scroll through on Curtis’s computer is his porn history. The past several months shows a heavily veering trajectory toward violence and dubious to completely lacking consent—all played for the camera of course, not actual snuff, and such tendencies are hardly condemning on their own. It’s an outlet like any other. But with Curtis, I can feel it. This isn’t innocent roleplay or fantasy delving. The way he erupted at Walker and would have gone back for more proved it to me beyond doubt. I still followed some of my usual protocols before sentencing him, but my timeline can always be sped up for the right mark. And honestly, I don’t need much additional incentive to kill this guy.
Movement from my phone draws my attention. There he is now, alone and stumbling just as expected, with his broken wrist in a black brace instead of a cast. Must have been a mild fracture. How lucky for him.
I finish my work at the computer, returning all the browser tabs to where they were when I found them. I have changed clothes since earlier, wearing a dark henley for better movement and easier blending with the shadows. I haven’t left anything else disturbed for Curtis to notice when he enters, but I do a cursory glance through the rooms just to be sure and hide in an alcove most equidistant to anywhere he might stumble to first.
The trick to not getting caught hiding in someone’s home is to not try being or breathing quieter than usual. Trying inevitably leads to overcompensating, and besides, Curtis isn’t sober enough to scan for intruders. He enters giggling at his own clumsy feet. He is in a suit and tie, but the tie is loosened of its knot, with the top buttons of his shirt undone, leaving his throat accessible. Perfect.
He barely gets his door closed behind him and doesn’t lock it. There is such a thing as too easy in these cases, but I’m not planning to leave a crime scene behind of a potential B&E gone wrong. No, Curtis will simply disappear.
“W-Walker?” he calls as he moves across the living room. It’s a nice two-bedroom apartment, with the second bedroom acting as his office. When only silence greets Curtis, he makes a face like an exaggerated sneer. “Right. Fuckin’ slut’s prolly bangin’ that prick who fucked up my wrist.”
Not yet. But soon.
Curtis loosens his tie further and swings toward the kitchen. Water would be the smart option, but even if he was thinking critically, he makes another exaggerated face, lips downturned and brows scowling, and bolts instead for the bathroom.
I follow.
Curtis speeds across my tarp without even noticing it and heaves up the lid on the toilet seat. He does not purge his guts out, much as that might have made things even easier, but drops his pants to piss. I am in the doorway by the time he realizes he is standing on plastic. Almost as good as if he passed out on it.
“What the fu—”
