Page 15 of The Deer and the Dragon
“Horseperson,” they corrected, a smile in their voice.
“Bye, Kirby.”
“Wait!” they urged. “Jokes aside: are you sure you’re okay? You feel safe?”
I rolled my eyes. They were nearly a year younger than me yet somehow always the parent. “I’m fine. I was just being paranoid. Try to talk me out of getting drunk and binging another slasher marathon. Go have enough fun for the both of us.”
“Love you,” they said cheerily as the line disconnected.
I went directly to the refrigerator and grabbed a twist-off bottle of beer and took a swig, savoring the gratifying pop of bubbles after a taxing day. I’d trade horror films for alien conspiracy theories. I hummed to myself as I looked for the remote. I swore I’d left it on the counter. Maybe the island? Or the coffee table?
A small light went on in the corner of the living room.
I jolted so hard that beer splashed from my bottle onto my forearm. Eyes wide, I stared at the figure waiting in thecorner. Lurking near the television, just on the dark side of the curtains, was one face I’d hoped to never see again. Nausea roiled through me. The coppery tang of fear filled my mouth.
“Richard,” I breathed on an exhale.
Black pants. Black shirt. Gloves. Oh god,gloves.
“Maribelle,” he replied coldly. “Or, should I call you Merit? Or Marlow?”
Ice pumped through my veins as I remembered the first—and last—time I’d seen him. He’d passed the background check. He’d put a thousand down on the evening. He’d booked for three hours: dinner, drinks, and date. The three-hour minimum kept the client list short, wealthy, and worth my while. I’d even liked some of my patrons…
Except with him. He’d made one seemingly innocent comment within the first hour that I’d been unable to shake. Even two years after the date, the minor exchange sent a shudder down my spine.
The dinner flashed through me.
We’d finished drinks when he’d said, “So, shall we go up to the room?”
No. I informed him politely that the second hour was on me, so there was no need for reimbursement, but that I wasn’t feeling well. He’d been visibly disappointed but hadn’t seemed angry.
Prior to that, the meal had gone well enough. We’d chatted about our favorite movies, his life as a neurosurgeon, his very strong feelings on theStar Explorerfranchise, and his upbringing in a tiny town. I usually didn’t mind dates with doctors, as they often had interesting stories that made fantastic party anecdotes. I hadn’t been thrilled at the way he kept referring to his job ascutting into people, but then again, my clients were often odd. It came with the territory.
The date had been utterly standard until he mentioned in passing that his childhood home had burned down. I’d frowned and reached across the table to touch his hand,apologizing for his loss. I had perfected the empathetic pout and loved the opportunity to use it. Endearing exchanges like this generally earned me several hundred in tips.
“I’m so sorry you went through that,” I’d said.
“I’m not,” he’d responded, a distant twinkle in his eye.
That had been it. Nothing more. The food from our dinner had turned to ice chips in my stomach. My gut had forced three words to the forefront of my mind in a way I couldn’t ignore.
The Macdonald Triad was what all the true-crime podcasts I listened to while cleaning my house or wasting time on a plane had called it. The triad was composed of three ingredients: cruelty to animals, bed-wetting, and arson. Of course, he’d never come to dinner and tell me that he’d beat a neighborhood cat with a hammer or mention chronic childhood incontinence, but something about the sparkle in his eye communicated all I needed to know. I wasn’t ready to justify it, nor did I need to. The triad was of one the only warning signs one had when looking into the eyes of a serial killer.
I could, of course, never know if I’d been insane or paranoid, but I was lucky to have Taylor in my life. She’d hammered it into me before my first date: I held all of the cards. I could end a date for any reason; whether he made an off-color joke or wore pungent cologne, dates were at my discretion. For all I knew, he was just a well-paid brain surgeon who liked movies about space a little too much. But it didn’t matter. I’d offered my most convincing condolences and gathered my purse. The abrupt end of our date was public enough that those sitting at the bar around us had turned to watch the poor man’s failed attempt at romance.
He’d furrowed his brow as if trying to decide whether or not he should walk me to the door. He looked up over our empty glasses and asked, “Can we reschedule when you feel better, Maribelle?”
“Of course,” I’d agreed, blocking his number before I’d even walked out of the restaurant.
I’d rushed home from the restaurant, crashing into strong, unseen arms. Caliban hadn’t believed me when I told him nothing was wrong, which was fair, as I was lying. I didn’t want to worry him. Or perhaps I was the one who didn’t want to face that I’d either put myself in danger or that I’d been acting paranoid.
But my gut had been right.
“Richard,” I said again, eyes darting from his dark shape to my phone. I’d left it on the island near the fridge. I calculated the time it would take me to lunge for it, to dial the police, to call for help. My mind flitted to my options. Knife? Possibly. Running for the elevator? He’d get to me before I hit the front door. My fingers tightened around the beer bottle, grateful for any blunt object as I stared twenty-six years of horror movies in the face. My eyes watered, heart thundering. Finally, I asked, “Where is the receptionist?”
“Out” was all he said, mouth pulling wide in a slow, evil smile. There was something not quite human about the way his lips turned upward, almost as if he were borrowing the smile from the wide jaws of a panther.
My stomach rolled. I had to do something. I couldn’t stand here numbly until he moved. In the flash of a few pulsing seconds, my memory paged through hundreds of hours of slashers, thriller novels, and murder podcasts searching for a solution.
