Page 42 of Kept
“Like?”
“Like the man seen lurking around here, the country club murders, the - oh my god!”
“What?” he sits up straight, startled by my exclamation. As do I.
“It’s him.”
“What’s him.”
“The murders. It’s all starting to make sense now.”
“Slow down, hon, tell me what you are thinking, slowly.”
I take a deep breath.
“I found a book, I showed it to you; ‘death seizes all things,’ remember?”
“Sure, some ridiculous vampire novel.”
“Yes,” I say breathlessly, my thoughts outracing my ability to vocalise them, “but for every murder the vampire committed, a similar murder happened here. Lady Boston losing her head, the vampire pops people’s heads off like champagne corks. The woman drained of blood, Madame Boufant having her heart ripped out…”
“How did you know about that?” he frowns, “we kept that fact out of the papers.”
“I know because he was there, he told me.”
“Who?”
“James. James Hunter, the one I’m trying to tell you about.”
“The teacher who coerced you to go out?”
“Yes. He says he believes in vampires; he keeps telling me that I’m not safe, that I have a real vampire’s journal. But I’ve begun to believe he is writing these, playing some sort of stupid joke or game. He gave me another one tonight!”
Blake frowns and rises from the bed, pulling on his jeans with his back to me, sans underwear, before turning back and offering me his hand.
“How about you cook me that meal you promised, and we take a look at these books together? We will both think better on a full stomach.”
I smile and allow him to pull me up, stand in the warmth and strength of his arms for a second, before pulling on a t-shirt and my knickers, and following him out.
Walking into the kitchen, I pop the casserole into the oven and shake my head. It will take a good two hours to cook, but at least it has had more time to marinate.
Checking the dessert, I see it is also fully set.
“Dinner won’t be ready for at least two hours,” I say apologetically as I walk back into the lounge room.
“Well then, let’s get reading,” he smiles, handing me the book and taking a pen and notebook from his jacket pocket.
I sit down beside him, cross-legged on the couch and begin to read to him.
12
I stare out the bus window and watch the people rushing along the sidewalk, hailing cabs, entering shops – how many, I wonder, are good? How many are bad?
The books are heavy in my bag on the floor between my feet, but I won’t leave them at home now, they are too valuable.
I feel strangely hollow inside, and yet, also relieved that this might finally be all over, and life might get back to normal. But at the same time, I’m horrified that something awful, something violent and bloody and terrible, may have happened to Margarita.
Part of me wanted to know what it was. Wanted to find out once and for all, so that my over-active imagination wouldn’t keep conjuring her up with broken bones and no heart.
