Page 4 of Crawl
The owner drops the fiberglass batt onto the counter and I walk languidly up to the cashier.
“Cash again today?” the cashier asks.
I slap the correct amount on the counter, never leaving the cashier’s eye contact. He’s always wary when it comes to our interactions. Begging for a card to keep on file. Asking for my name, in case they need to contact me about a new shipment. ‘Cash’ is enough. I know my place and there isn’t any reason to waste time with meaningless interactions.
But my shaft twitches. I love knowing that he’s afraid of me. I tilt my head toward the register. He hasn’t liked me since I helped cover his ass for stealing from the store.
“Don’t worry, kid,” I say. “You’re stuck with me for a while. At least until I finish these projects.”
“Thought you said you were moving soon?” he asks.
Ah, he remembers then. “Eventually.”
In truth, I don’t give a shit about stealing. I first stole lunch meat from a grocery store when I was nine years old. But I enjoy having poweroversomeone. If you have a person in a corner, then they have to do whatever you say. And Remedy likes it dirty. What will make her finally crawl to me, begging for the sweet release I can give her?
I wink at the cashier, then grab the fiberglass batt. “You take care now.”
Outside, the sea air brushes my cheeks, the salty, mildly fishy scent hovering in the cold humidity. I suck in a breath. I always enjoy the winter here. The high sixties to mid-seventies. A light, constant breeze. Clear skies. And enough of a population to keep me entertained. Tourists. Locals. The rich bastards who visited their third homes for the winter. They all have their place here. And usually, I keep myself in check, only killing one to three every season. But this time, the itch is growing like my hunger for Remedy. I’ll have to do it again soon. And that will be my fifth this year.
I decide to walk, leaving my truck on the street. I can have someone pick it up later. The occasional pedestrian passes and we exchange nods. The mayor has urged people to stay home after dark, but no one seems to think it can happen to them. And why would they? It’s not like they’ll pass a killer on the street. I like it that way. Dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved button-up shirt, I look unimportant. The shock on their faces always amuses me when they realize how wrong they are.
I find my way to the estate, right off of Queen Street. Six bedrooms, four bathrooms, two offices. Navy blue shutters on a crisp white exterior. Enough palm trees surround the property to give it a natural barrier of privacy beyond the white fence. The Winstone Estate. My home.
A black cat slinks up to my side. Her fur is matted, twigs tangled in the strands, but she purrs at my ankles, not giving a damn. She gazes up at the estate with me.
“Do you have a home?” I ask. She purrs, and as I stroke her neck, I check for a collar, but her neck is bare. My mind shifts to Remedy’s dirty video, the rope around the adult actress’s neck.
The image of Remedy sprawled out on that squeaking computer chair fills my mind: those light brown nipples strapped into the clamps, her moan of release when she rips them off, the tiny beads of reddened skin.
I’m supposed to move soon. Get the hell out and keep law enforcement off of my back.
But what if I stay?
If I pin my crimes on Remedy, perhaps killing everyone she loves, to prove thatshe’sthe one who did it all, it’ll benew.A way to pass the time. A bigger challenge than simply moving away.
The idea is enticing. I can’t kill her yet, then. But it’ll be worth it.
The cat purrs against my leg, white patches around her eyes and nose and mouth, like the reverse image of a skeleton.Bones.Remedy’s favorite password. Those boney tattoos on her back fill my mind. Tattoos are a way to control your body, to show ownership over the canvas you’re given. But she doesn’t own that skin anymore. I’ll cut her up, leaving my scars, and my knife won’t be as forgiving as the tattoo gun.
I gesture to the side of the house. “Let’s go home,” I say, and the black cat and I disappear.
CHAPTER 2
Remedy
“All finished up,” a male voice, like a smooth, aged scotch, startles me. I quickly dash up, but as I spin around to see him, I only catch a glimpse of him in my mirror: a button-up shirt, sunlight flashing across his face, casting ripples of shadows on his eyes, the sockets dark and cavernous.
“I thought you finished last Tuesday?” I shout, racing to the hallway. But he’s already gone.
The maintenance men are awful at actually notifying us like they promise. You’d think that living in a place like Key West with a high influx of tourists would guarantee adequate maintenance. But when it comes to thelocaldwellings, those of us that live year round in the older buildings, the opposite is true. Despite Mr. Winstone being an obsessive and wealthy real estate developer, he’s a cheap bastard with his long-term tenants. He gives us the absolute bare minimum, not caring whether we tenants have a life or need privacy. Ihatethat the maintenance men get keys from our ‘gracious’ landlord, but what can I do? Winstone controls practically everything in Key West, and the man barely leaves his house. Years ago, he fired the entire house staff for incompetence; he’sthatkind of billionaire. He only works with one personal assistant, and now, that’s me.
Back when we were in high school, Jenna was the only person who immediately believed me when it came to my stepdad. I owe her this. And luckily for me, no one wants to work with Mr. Winstone.
I park my car on the street, then stare up at the house. It’s massive compared to its neighbors. The spiky edges of saw palmetto trees fan-like blades, splitting off the estate from civilization. Drooping skinny edges of the lilies hang down, like an omen, to warn onlookers that nothingnicelives here.
The plaque on the white fence establishes the historic significance of the building:The Winstone Estate, built in 1889.I roll my eyes, huffing out a breath. He thinks his home is old and refined. I open the white gate, taking the stairs up to the front porch. I make sure my hairpins are fixed in place, keeping the hair out of my eyes, then I adjust my blouse, making sure my cleavage is ample, everything set to attract his attention. Slipping the key from underneath the mat like the agency instructed me, I let myself inside.
Light streams in through the open windows on the first floor. Chills pebble over my skin. Winstone’s a recluse, not someone who lives with open windows, and yet the scent of the ocean, salty and sweet, lingers in the air. It’s brighter than I expected, and the openness makes my senses heighten. Everything is accessible, nothing is locked. Winstone must know about the Key West Killer. Why is he keeping everything open? Isn’t he afraid?
