Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 30052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 150(@200wpm)___ 120(@250wpm)___ 100(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 150(@200wpm)___ 120(@250wpm)___ 100(@300wpm)
“Maybe.” I look down at my Snapple, playing with the label.
“Did he ask you out?” she pushes. Shit. How the hell do I answer that one?
“He invited me over.”
“Well then.” She goes back to unpacking the rest of the food she brought over. I’m not sure what she means by that. Is she encouraging me to take him up on his offer? Or does she think it’s strange that he would ask me out?
“What does that mean?” I have no experience with this sort of thing. This whole crush thing is new for me. There was no dating in my high school. Unless you wanted to date someone that already sucked face with someone you’re friends with. No, thanks.
“It doesn't mean anything, honey.” She gives me a smile. “Are you hungry?” She changes the subject.
“No, I have work to do,” I huff.
“Don’t stalk him.”
“Mom!” There might have been plans for a stakeout. “Stalking is my job.” I watch her fight a smile and realize she’s messing with me. “You’re the worst. I should probably mention some people on the interwebs think he might be a killer.”
That was one of the speculations as to why he up and left New York. They think he’s gone into hiding. They actually linked some unsolved crimes around the city that were eerily similar to some of his books. It’s what I’ve been reading up on for the past two hours. It’s how I fell down that rabbit hole.
“Sure he is, sweetheart. You should go on a date with him and find out.”
“I was going to go over and scope his place out.”
She runs her eyes up and down me. “Is that why you’re in all black? You should put some color on. Pull your hair down.” It doesn't matter what I say. Now she’s in set my daughter up mode. I hop down from my chair.
“Well, if I disappear tonight, you’ll know who murdered me.”
“Or whose bed to find you in.”
“Mom!” I shout as she makes me snacks to take for the road.
Chapter Seven
Corby
The only vehicles that have rolled down my lane were mine and the delivery man, so when a pair of headlights bounce in the distance, I know it’s her. I look around the interior of the house. It took several hours to clean everything up, and it smells vaguely of lemon and bleach, but at least she won’t run screaming from the state of the home. Other things may frighten her, but not this.
I turn on the front porch light and leave the door open. I made some mulled cider spiked with rum. Since I’m not a good cook, and serving reheated frozen dinners didn’t seem conducive to getting her to take her clothes off, I just plated some cheese and grapes. It’s a dorky, hipster thing that I would’ve written in for one of the uninteresting side characters that would be killed off later, but my bag of tricks is pretty shallow.
Hopefully, she’ll be enthralled with my writer status, and that will be enough to get her to the bedroom. It’s all other women have needed. I once came home from a book tour to find a woman naked in my bedroom. She’d bribed the doorman to let her up and had lived in my apartment for three days, waiting for me to come home.
That was a little terrifying, but I’d pay a fortune for this unnamed woman to do the same. I’m literally leaving my door ajar for her.
She parks in front, the car slightly askew. Either she doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. Only serial killers really care about order, though, so this is a good sign she’s not here to murder me in the woods. Would I mind, though? As long as I had a taste of her before I went?
She pauses when she spots me just inside the door. She throws her keys up and catches them, likely wondering if she’s the one that’s going to get murdered. The French call the orgasm a little death, so she wouldn’t be that far from the truth. I want to kill her and then revive her again and again, making her mine in a way that Victor Frankenstein never achieved with his sentient being.
“Long way from New York City,” she says pertly as she steps over the threshold.
“I am,” I agree. She looks disappointed that I’m not surprised or annoyed. “You wouldn’t be a decent reporter if you didn’t figure out who bought this place. Did you have to bribe Williams or threaten him?”
“Neither.” Her face is inches away from a small Alberto Giacometti walking man figurine. Is she attempting to decipher me from my belongings? Curious as to what conclusions she’ll draw, I throw myself into a deep cushioned chair and watch as she pokes and prods the few ornaments I’ve brought with me from New York. “I brought Amethyst.”