Page 36 of Half the Summer's Night
His eyes move behind the mask, watching me.
“Who was that?” I gasp out.
“I don’t know.” He tilts his head toward the body. “Why don’t you take that stocking off and find out?”
My breath lodges in my throat, and I shake my head furiously. “I can’t do that. I can’t mess with a—a crime scene?—”
My killer grabs me around the waist, jerking me up against his chest. I don’t know how he moved so fast. One minute he was there, the next he wasn’t.
“You’re not thinking of calling the police, are you?” He bows his head to speak into my ear, the cool latex of the mask smooth against my skin.
“What else am I supposed to do?” I whimper. “I can’t—it happened in my house, and I?—”
My killer snakes his arm tighter around my waist, pulling me closer into him. His body is soft and strong at the same time, and I have to fight against the urge to lean back into him, to wriggle my ass until I feel his cock.
You did not just fucking think that.
“You can’t call the police,” my killer murmurs. “Because then we wouldn’t be able to continue our conversation.”
“What conversation?” I gasp, even though I know:
Letters carved into skin, spelling out words only I can see.
He tuts. “Don’t hurt my feelings, little detective. I don’t want the authorities investigating me. I want you to do it.”
“He killed Olivia.” The words turn into a sob, and I doubt my killer even knows who Olivia Pearce is. Or cares. “He told me he did.”
“And now he’s dead.” My killer loosens his grip, sliding his hand over the curve of my hip but not dropping it any lower. “Justice has been served, yes?”
I take deep, shaky breaths, staring over at the body. It looks like a pile of laundry in the middle of the floor. It looks like nothing.
“What am I supposed to do with that?” I hardly believe that I’m evenconsideringdoing what my killer asks. I want to tell myself I’m just playing along, that as soon as he leaves, I’ll be on the phone with the police department and the sheriff’s office, given his track record covers both their jurisdictions.
But I know I won’t be.
“You don’t have to do anything with it.” He steps around me, moving with slow, steady strides. “I’ll take care of everything, little detective. All you have to do?—”
He glances over at me, the twisted expression on his mask leering and cold.
“—Is keep looking for me.”
“I found you,” I gasp. “You’re here. Right here.”
He shakes his head. “Not what I mean, and you know it.”
He crouches down beside the body and gestures for me to come over.
“You’re going to keep killing,” I whisper. “I’m supposed to let you just keep killing?—”
He looks at me again, his eyes an impossible weight. For a moment, I want to see his face. Not so I can know what he looks like, but so I can know what he’s thinking.
“Of course,” he says. “We’re having a conversation. Each death serves a purpose.” His eyes glitter. “It helps me reveal a little more of myself to you.”
I suck in my breath, unsure how to respond to that. Or unsure why it sets my heart fluttering.
My killer reaches down and yanks the stocking off the attacker, then carefully tilts the face toward me.
He’s older. That’s the first thing I think. He’s got to be fifteen years older than me, with shaggy brown hair going grey at the temples and tanned, leathery skin. His eyes are wide with shock, his mouth slack.
