Текст книги "If You Dare"

Автор книги: Alessandra Torre

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CHAPTER 8

Present

I’M EXAMINING MY face in the bathroom mirror. Today started out late, a killer headache keeping me in bed until almost noon, two Vicodin barely taking the sting off. When I finally crawled out of bed, I showered, then pulled on a baby-blue camisole and matching thong, blow-drying my hair on the floor by my bed, checking e-mails as the hot air did its thing. When I flipped on the bright lights and climbed onto the cam bed, hooking my laptop in and stretching out on the comforter, my face was off camera, my waist and hips on full display, my fingers busy as they logged into different sites and sent my live feed into every corner of cyberspace. When I propped up on one elbow, panning out, and smiled for my viewers, I didn’t understand the image on the screen. I leaned closer to the cam and flinched in surprise, jerking out a hand and ending the stream, my body rolling off of the bed, my feet quick as they hurried to the bathroom. And now, my hand clenched on the edge of the medicine cabinet mirror, I stare into my reflection and at the broken, bloody mess that is my nose. Did I do this? Knock myself out again with another dramatic fall to the floor? Lose control trying to get out of my locked door and headbutt the steel? I’ve never done that before, never caused any more damage than a few broken nails and occasional bruises.

I need to go out, buy makeup. I can’t cam like this, not without enticing a thousand fans to storm to their feet in chivalrous support. One will probably call the cops, report the jealous boyfriend that they will assume is responsible. I don’t normally wear makeup, nothing more than mascara and gloss, which gives me the innocent look all the men love. But mascara and lip gloss will do nothing with this. This is concealer-and foundation-worthy. Concealer, foundation, and whatever other magical items girls who wear makeup covet. I’ll go to the drugstore. Just a quick trip, nothing will happen. I have to go. I can’t work without it, and can’t expect Jeremy to pick out makeup for me. I’ll hop in FtypeBaby and go, be back within the hour. I grab my keys and stop, looking down at my outfit or, rather, lack of one. I am lacing up my tennis shoes when the knock comes. I finish lacing and try to invent a reason for being dressed, something to tell Jeremy when he asks. I pull open the door and stare into a woman’s face.

“Deanna Madden?” The woman’s mouth is too big for her face, her lips chewed, a big chunk of lip skin missing from the right side of her smile. She wears eyeliner but no other makeup, the result of which is slightly trashy. She doesn’t smile. Neither do I. Behind her, a black man in a suit shifts on the cheap carpet.

“Yes.” I curl my toes inside my socks and dig my nails into the door frame. Wonder idly if her eyeliner is waterproof. If I strangle her, will her eyes water? Will the liner run? I need more of her voice in order to properly imagine it gasping for help.

“I’m Detective Boles; this is Detective Reuber. We are with the Tulsa Police Department. May we come in?”

Detectives. Police. Words I’ve waited years to hear yet today is the moment. How odd. I blink to buy time, and it is too short. May we come in? “I’d rather you not.” No, you may not come in. I will not let you set foot into this place. I lost my virginity here. Touched for the first time here. Seduced here. Contained crazy here. Killed here.

“We just have a few questions. They’d be easier to handle inside.” Oh, so TheOtherOne can speak. I flick my eyes to him. Notice the calm chew of his jaw as he works a piece of gum. The steady stare of his gaze as he meets mine. The lift of his chin that speaks of more authority than his cheap suit.

“No.” I lift my own damn chin.

The woman glances down the empty hall. “Ms. Madden, these questions are of a personal nature.”

“I don’t really let people in.”

“We can take this down to the station if you’d prefer that.”

I hesitate for a long moment, my eyes darting from the woman to the man. The woman to the man. They have guns, both of them, the precious weapons hanging casually from their belts. Bulletproof vests also, the bulk of it most obvious on the woman. Then, against my better judgment, I open the door and step back. “Come on in.”

CHAPTER 9

Present

SHE HAS SOCIALanxiety. That’s what they’d been told. Detective Brenda Boles looks into Deanna Madden’s eyes and calls bullshit on that right then and there.

The girl stands, one hand on the knob, the other on the frame, and stares at them, her eyes darting from her, to David, to her. Her back hunches a little forward, her hands are braced on the door as if to hold herself back. Her eyes show no sign of fear, or stress. Instead they are wary. Confident. Smart.

Brenda has locked eyes with a thousand suspects before. And she can tell you, in that moment, right there in the hall, without a word between them, without a question asked, that this girl is guilty.

CHAPTER 10

Present

I’VE HAD A grand total of five visitors into my apartment. One was Jeremy, his surprise at my setup interrupted by my promptly launched attack. Then there was Marcus. The other three have been a variety of maintenance workers, whose presence was necessary at some point or other in the last four years. Their visits were short and sweet, but the reactions were all the same. I’m sure, to an unsuspecting individual crossing over my threshold, my apartment’s setup would be a bit of a shock. The right side is relatively normal, a bed, some books. If you look further right it starts to get odd, five stacked rows holding over a hundred cardboard boxes, arranged by size and contents, all of the items that an enterprising recluse might need. But it’s the left side of the apartment that really gives someone pause, when their eyes slide back, past the kitchen that divides the two spaces, past the small round table, past the large lone window that tests my sanity. The left side is pink. Pink walls, pink bed frame, pink bedspread, pink dresser and side tables. Posters break up the space and bring in more colors, pillows plump up the bed and make it inviting, the ensemble another level of WTF when you see the giant steel framework that surrounds the entire bedroom set. The framework supports eight high-def cameras, over 10,000 watts of lighting, sex toy attachments, laptops, extension cords, and ethernet cables.

I hold the door for the detectives and wait for a reaction.

The woman stops first, an unexpected halt that causes the man to collide into her. He apologizes, she sidesteps, and then he stops. I lean against the door frame and wait, wondering how long this entire production is going to take.

“Wow.” The woman speaks first. She holds out a weak finger in the direction of the pink bed. “What’s… what’s up with all this?”

“My work.” I shut the door and walk to the round table. Perch on the edge of it and cross my arms.

TheOtherOne steps to the left and crouches, lifting the edge of the pink bedspread. Like I’d have hidden something there. Give me a little credit.

“Step away from that please,” I snap. He looks up and hoists himself back to standing.

“Just looking around, Ms. Madden.”

“Look all you want with a warrant in hand.”

“What kind of work do you do?” EyelinerCop raises a thinly plucked brow and I wonder how she’d take to constructive criticism. Pluck that brow any more and she’ll have to find a new way to spend her free time.

“I work online. Webcamming.” I expect a blank look and am rewarded; the majority of people having no clue about the webcam business. The woman rubs her forearm and I notice the chill bumps. Smile to myself. Stay in my seat, leave the thermostat where it is. Sixty-four degrees should keep this visit short. I am dressed for success in my sweatshirt.

“Webcamming…?” She raises her eyebrows and I say nothing. She wants to ask a question, she can go right ahead.

The man coughs. Of course he knows what it is. I keep my eyes on her and see, in the peripheral, him lean forward. “It’s in the adult industry.”

If her eyebrows get any higher, they’ll hit her hairline. She looks down and shifts her purse higher on her shoulder. Oh… so it makes her uncomfortable. Interesting. I’ve seen so few reactions to my work. The man turns, and it catches my attention, his feet moving the wrong way, toward my real bed and the library of cardboard boxes. “What’s in the boxes?”

I lift a shoulder. “Stuff. Supplies.”

“Supplies?” This woman really needs to learn how to ask a fucking question. I take the bait this time, no real reason not to.

“Food and toiletries. Lightbulbs for my cam lights, laundry detergent…” I stand and step around to the back of the table and hope they follow me. “That kind of stuff.”

“Why so much of it?” The man tilts his head, reading a label, carefully written in Sharpie on the side of a box. “You’ve got to have a year’s worth of stuff here.”

I swallow. Open the fridge and pull out a few waters. Search my future words and look for pitfalls. “I don’t get out much. I prefer to do any shopping online. That means I have to buy in bulk.”

Now EyelinerCop is looking at the boxes, and the pit in my stomach grows. “Even floss? You buy floss online? Isn’t that a bit… excessive?” She turns to me.

I set their water bottles on the table. “Did you have something to ask me? Because I need to get back to work.”

“Is that a safe?” The man’s voice is sharper, and the water bottle crackles from my squeeze. “What’s in the safe?”

CHAPTER 11

Present

I DIDN’T SKIMP when it came to the safe. It’s big, not big enough to hold a body, but possibly could, if the person was chopped into parts. It currently holds two guns, twenty-one knives, my gas mask, leftover fentanyl, and an assortment of other weapons. It also holds a small scrapbook, one that used to sit on our family’s coffee table. I’m pretty sure the detectives will have no interest in that and an overwhelming interest in the rest.

I shrug. “Family scrapbooks, my passport. Those sorts of things.”

“Can we take a look inside?” He smiles, a friendly smile.

I return the gesture. So much cordiality bouncing around. “Not without a warrant.”

The woman clears her throat. “Can we get to the questions?”

Oh yes, the questions. This should be interesting. I pull out a chair from the table and sit.

The woman follows suit; the man fidgets in a familiar way. “Got a bathroom?”

I point, my eyes following his steps, purposeful and direct. I listen to the door close and thank God I never killed anyone in the bathroom. I hear the drizzle of urine and move my eyes to the woman. EyelinerCop’s eyes are suspicious, they crawl over my face as if they can dig the truth from my skin. I relax against the seat’s back and wait.

I should be nervous but I only feel excitement.

“Where were you last night, Ms. Madden?”

An unexpected question. I bring my eyes up from the water bottle and into the woman’s eyes, wonder if all criminal investigations start with that question or if last night is of particular consequence. Think of my wake on the concrete floor, my crawl to the bed. “I was here. In my apartment.”

The woman’s eyes dart¸ from left to right, like a Pong paddle. “All night?”

“Yes.”

“Can anyone verify that?”

When she speaks, her eyebrows pinch together in a sharp V of distrust. I watch their narrow exclamations and wonder what they have on me. Anything? Is this a fishing expedition or a sharpening of the nails that will seal my coffin?

“Umm… yes. My neighbor. Simon.” I try to push into last night’s vault of recollection, try to move earlier than my pounding headache, but find nothing. Strange. Then again, I was locked in. How much trouble could I have possibly caused?

“Simon was with you?” From the bathroom, the door opens and TheOtherOne walks out.

I feel the upward curl of my lip. “No. But he locked me into the apartment. From nine till sometime this morning.”

That surprises them. I feel the shift of air, the rigid tilt of the woman as she fights against turning her head to the man. Ha. My alibi is unbreakable. He pulls out a chair, sits, and speaks. “I don’t understand.”

I sigh, an action that buys me a moment to deliberate the wisdom of information sharing. “Simon lives a few doors down. He locks my door at night. So he can verify that he locked me inside last night, and I was here all night until he unlocked me.”

“Your door locks from the outside?” EyelinerCop finds this very interesting. I watch the tip of her pen, the increased tremor of it as it scratches against the page of her notebook.

“Yes.” I lift my eyes from the pen. “What evidence do you have against me?”

Her mouth widens into a grin, a stretch of raw lips that looks painful. I don’t like that grin, that tell that I just stepped into a pile of shit. “Why, Ms. Madden, what an interesting question. An innocent person would be more interested in finding out what crime was committed.”

“Who said I was an innocent person?”

CHAPTER 12

Present

“WHO SAID I was an innocent person?”

The response slipped out, snarky and unnecessary. I’d wanted to shut the cop up, to wipe that smug grin off her face. The question was much more passive than what I wanted to do. To spring across the table and claw at her neck, pulling and ripping the delicate cords of her throat. Yank at her belt and palm her service revolver. Celebrate the gun’s weight in my hand in the moment before I pointed the gun at her temple and pulled the trigger, her head exploding in one beautiful blood-splattering second. Take that, bulletproof vest. Compared to that scenario, my egotistic response was tame. Tame and stupid. The pair of detectives all but high-fived each other with their eye contact. I settled back in my chair and waited. Counted to ten and swore to behave.

The woman composes herself and speaks. “What are you guilty of, Ms. Madden?”

I wonder why she is in charge of this interaction. If it is her rank or if it is because they thought I’d associate with a woman more. Thought I would buddy up and confess away, all because a penis didn’t hang between her legs. I tap my fingers against the arm of the chair. “I’d like you both to leave now. Unless you have something to charge me with.”

They have to have something. Surely they didn’t show up at my apartment on a whim. I must have slipped up somewhere, forgotten something in my past crimes. Left a gaping hole big enough for them to stick an arrest warrant through.

TheOtherOne speaks. “Let’s get back to the neighbor. You said he locks you inside? Why would you let him do that?”

This is wrong, bad. I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be talking to them. I asked them to leave; doesn’t that mean they have to? I take a sip of my water and look away from the man, make accidental eye contact with the woman. She leans forward and points, her finger one long arrow of invasion. “What happened to your nose, Ms. Madden?”

Oh, right. I had forgotten. “My nose?” I reach up and touch it. Feel the caked blood, the split across my bridge. I push on the joint and suddenly realize how much it throbs. The Vicodin for my headache must have taken off the sting. It’s been five or six hours. I close my eyes and try to remember how many pills I have. Calculate the time it would take for the doc to send me more.

“It looks broken.” She looks concerned, but she’s not. Her voice sounds giddy; she’d probably reach out and grip my nose herself if she could.

It looks broken. It feels broken. I push on the tip and get lightheaded. Pull my hand away before I faint. I stare at a strand of the woman’s hair that has escaped her ponytail. Focus on it until the spots clear from my vision.

“Ms. Madden?” the man prods.

“What?”

“What happened to your nose?”

Good question. I look away from the strand of hair and into the man’s eyes. “I’m not sure.”

“You forgot?”

All of the caution signs in my head are lining up for battle. Why am I talking to them? Why are they here? Why am I offering information when I’m not getting any? I stand up and watch for a reaction. A reach for a paper, for evidence to wave in my face, but they do nothing, just stay in place and watch me. “I’d like to be alone.”

I walk to the door and wait, the pair slow as they stand, step, then pass through the open door. I am almost free, about to shut it, when the woman’s hand settles on my arm, a firm and hard grip that tightens against the sleeve of my Marilyn Monroe sweatshirt. I turn, raising my brows at her in question.

“Why did you kill him?” the cop whispers, her eyes glued on me.

I don’t answer her. I hold her eye contact while I reach down and pull back on her index finger until she releases my arm with a pained wince. Then I drop my hand, step back, and shut the door, the slam of the steel against the frame loud and unfamiliar.

I didn’t not answer to be smart or mysterious. The main reason I didn’t answer was because I wasn’t sure how to answer. I wasn’t sure which death she was asking about. To be honest, I am starting to lose track.

CHAPTER 13

Present

“SHE’S GUILTY.” DETECTIVE Brenda Boles speaks quietly in the close confines of the elevator, the pair of detectives watching the panel warily as it wheezes down. “No doubt. Did you see her face before she let us in? The way she stared at my gun?”

“I saw it. But a lot of women are scared of guns. It’s got to be intimidating to let two armed strangers into your apartment.” Detective David Reuber chews his gum and leans against the side of the elevator.

“Oh, please.” She snorts. “Intimidated? That girl wasn’t intimidated. She was cornered. And guilty. I’d bet my pension on it.”

“We got nothing. A body who knew her. Nothing else. You know that.”

“Yet. We’ve got nothing yet. We will. And next time we’re on this damn elevator, it’ll be to arrest her. You know she’s good for this, David.”

“I don’t know…” He shakes his head. “She doesn’t fit any profile.”

“Skinny white chicks can’t be killers? You already forgotten Jodi Arias?”

He shrugs, gesturing her forward when the elevator doors open. “Maybe. I’m just saying. Don’t close the suspect list yet.”

“I’m not closing anything yet. But she’s topping it.”

“It’s your case. You bark, I follow.”

She laughs, and they exit the building, stepping into the afternoon sun, her question held until they are both settled into the squad car. “You find anything in the bathroom?”

“Oh, right.” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out his phone. Flips through to the camera roll and holds it out.

She snatches the phone, zooming in. “Meds?”

“They’re in her name. But the bottle’s three years old and full. A Dr. Derek Vanderbilt in Dallas prescribed them to her.”

Clozapine. She looks up at David. “Isn’t clozapine an antipsychotic?”

“If you want to tell the judge that, then yes. But between me and you, my sister takes it for anxiety. I think they use it for all sorts of things. One pill will mellow my sister out. Two will put her on her ass.”

“And the bottle was full?”

“Yep.” He buckles his belt. “You gonna call the doctor?”

She passes the phone back to him. “You better believe it. Let’s head in and do it now.” In the moment before pulling off, she glances up, to the sixth floor. There, in the dark window, Deanna Madden stares down at her.

CHAPTER 14

Present

WHEN I SHUT the door behind the cops, I walk to the center of my apartment. Look right, then left. Close my eyes and try to put my finger on the nagging thread that has bothered me since I woke. Something is off. Something more than cops showing up at my door and random broken noses appearing from nowhere. I walk to the bathroom and take a second look at my reflection. On this round, I notice the dark lines under my eyes. They’ll be black soon. My barely functional makeup skills won’t be able to cover up two black eyes and a broken nose. So I won’t, for the next few days, be able to cam. Damn.

I run a soft finger over the break in my nose. When I told them I didn’t know what happened to my nose, it wasn’t the entire truth. I don’t know exactly what happened, the events from last night a blur. But my weak, pathetic memory does have one clear picture, one of Jeremy, his face pinched. Worried. Scared.

It doesn’t make any sense, but I think he broke my nose. Why? I don’t know. I called him earlier this morning and he didn’t answer. I pull out my cell and call him again. Listen to the dull tones of unanswered rings, each one feeling like a step downward into hell. Then, the unfamiliar words of his voice mail. Hmmm. One unanswered call is nothing, two—a problem. His not answering my calls says something. I feel a flicker of fear, pulling from a spot of insecurity. I did something and he’s mad. I glance at the mirror. I did something and he broke my nose. I must have lost control. Maybe over that stupid family dinner.

I step out of the bathroom and to the window, the afternoon light flooding in. Oh, right. The window. That’s what it is, the other nagging thread that is off on the equation of my apartment’s normality. The window that, for four years, has tormented me and tested my level of control. The window, my one peek into the world that exists outside 6E. I have painted it shut five or six times, scraped it open a similar number of times. Six months ago, I got bold. Started running around town like I had options. Started opening the window and sitting on its sill, listening to the city and smelling its air. The window had been the crack in my world that had condemned it to hell, and after I had single-handedly endangered everyone I cared about, I closed it a final time. Stopped going outside, resumed my life of reclusedom, and covered the window with cardboard. Eliminated its pull the best way I knew. Now, I run my toe along the floor below the sill and remember the pile of cardboard pieces I discovered this morning, during the microwave of my tasteless oatmeal. I look at my fingers and am surprised I didn’t break a nail last night. I must have lost control and torn it all off in my maddening desire to be free. The hundred bits of ripped cardboard evidence had been there, under the sill, pieces I had swept up and put in the trash after I’d eaten. Now, I pop open the trash can’s lid and look down at them. Wonder, as I did while cleaning up the mess earlier, why I can’t remember tearing them. Wonder why half of yesterday is a fog, the latter half is gone completely. Maybe it was the knock on my head. Dr. Pat said it could have unpredictable consequences.

“Where were you last night, Ms. Madden?”

I was locked in. I couldn’t have done anything, and there are no bodies sharing this space with me.

Of all times for me to lose my mind, this is a really bad one. The flicker of fear grows into something more.