Page 5 of Their Cruel Love

I glare, sigh.

“Luckily for you, I have a skull mask in the props. If I end up training her, please tell me I’m allowed to bend her over a desk and fuck her.”

My glare intensifies, and I realize I definitely want to fuck with her, if I can, in the very worst and cruelest ways.

Razor laughs then leaves the room. I assume he’s off to find this skull mask. I decide not to talk when she is here. My voice might be enough to trigger recognition, and I really want to sit this out anonymously…at first.

I shouldn’t touch her.I draw a few deep breaths, thinking on the contradiction in that statement compared to what I wanted to do nine years ago, after she betrayed me.

3

Phoebe

I study the note on my phone then check the letter box. Correct house number and an exterior that speaks of years of neglect. I press onward through the garden, passing weeds, overgrown trees, and topiary shrubs that have been allowed to turn into contorted messes. Dead flowers lie splattered on patches of dirt or are perched, slumped and wilted, atop the spears of taller grasses. This paved pathway winds to the front door. Moss covers the cracked, lopsided pavers.

Calling this a garden is a step too far.

Am I stupid for doing this? Yes. Oh yes, I am stupid and, clearly, I need certifying.

Here goes.

I raise my hand, knock a few times. When no one appears, I reach for the round black doorknob and turn it, halfexpecting it to be locked, except it isn’t. The shambolic garden has raised the possibility of an axe-wielding killer on the other side. I hold my breath and step through. Curiosity has me inclining my head and swiveling my eyes to either side to check the wide foyer.

A dark-suited guard comes gratis with the door. He approaches with a flat smile and solid tread. No axe, thank god. I wonder if he is deaf, or just instructed to ignore knocking.

“Yes, miss?”

I haven’t been called ‘miss’ since school days. “I have an appointment?” My doubt comes through in my tone.

He eyes me pointedly. “Name?”

“Mine?” Of course he wants mine. I fumble for it, even though I made myself repeat it in preparation for this question. “Melissa Dawkes.”

“This way.”

I follow him up the hallway, passing three doors before he opens one on the left and ushers me through. A background fear is making me tense up, but I try not to show it, allowing only my fingers to do their dance—clench, unclench. I keep my face relaxed even as I see the two men waiting in this room.

A study, I assume, considering the bookshelves, and the desk with the raven sculpture and the leather blotter. Everything is dusty—desk, books, the pelican bronze to the left of the door I entered through…even the window ahead that shows past the desk that Man One is perched against. Smears in the dust on the desk surface tell me they had something on there that’s now gone.

Only the men are non-dusty, and I imagine them sitting here for years, waiting for me, with dust percolating down.

“Hi.” I smile fleetingly, thinking to break the ice with angular-faced Man One.

Of course, Man Two is scarier. Though wearing faded jeans and a sweet pastel-blue shirt, he also sports a smoky-gray skull mask. Unreadable, invisible face. Why the fuck is he wearing that?

So I can’t ID him in a police line-up?

He sits in a timber framed armchair that seems about to collapse. The upholstery says posh beginnings. The broken leg at the back says nobody in here cares.

They don’t answer me. I suck in air through my nostrils, as quietly as I can, waiting. Roll fingers into fist, unroll.

Man One smiles and focuses on my hand. I swallow and stop fidgeting.

“Why are you here…Melissa?”

Is that pause before my name significant? Has Sir Gregory revealed who I am? “Are you Razor?”

“I am.”

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