Speak of the Devil: A Psychological Thriller Page 6

  “I’m sorry,” she says to her friend. “It was a bad idea, coming here.”

  She’s had a few; I can tell by the way she stumbles over her feet as she tries to stand. Also, I watched their server deliver three Midori Sours, a couple tumblers of something amber-colored, and one glass of Riesling. Hummingbird food, my father calls it. Emily’s favorite.

  “You didn’t have to do this,” the girl assures me. I estimate her blood alcohol level at .16, twice the legal limit. Well past the point in which good decisions are made.

  “I know.”

  “He’s really a nice guy.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “You’re such a gentleman,” she says, fidgeting. “Are you a cop?”

  I pick up pace. I don’t care for small talk. “A chemist.”

  “Oh. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  I don’t respond. She’s drunk. And very obviously a hopeless romantic. “You have to make him work harder,” I say. “That’s how you thank me. Make him earn your respect.”

  “Yeah…”

  Outside at the curb, I pull a fifty from my wallet and hail a cab. She keeps at the small talk thing, most of which is random. Until it isn’t.

  “And you? What are you working on, Mr. …? Chemist.”

  “A formula to counter the effects of alcohol.”

  Chapter Nine

  Vanessa

  I don’t expect to meet her when I do. The sitter has texted a question—something about Matthew’s bedtime routine—and it’s easier to call than send the kind of detailed response it would require to explain.

  Hearing anything over the noise of dozens of women would be impossible, so I step outside. As I hit the call button, the door opens behind me. When I turn, she’s standing there.

  “Sorry,” she says, nodding at the phone in my hand as she closes the door behind her. She’s not exactly quiet about it, and I’m thankful for that. Instinctively, my finger taps the button to end the call. I should be more careful about these things. You never know what can happen if you let your guard down. I check my screen and realize I’m late for my third and final dose of vitamins. Two capsules, three times a day.

  “I’m not interrupting, am I?” she asks, lighting a cigarette. So, clearly not as disciplined as it appeared.

  “No, you saved me, actually.” Already, I’m at work on the novel-length text. “It’s so much easier to text, isn’t it?”

  She takes a pull on the cigarette and inhales like her life depends on it. “Depends on who it is,” she says, exhaling upward into the air.

  We both laugh.

  She takes another drag and then removes the cigarette from her lips and studies it. “I’m not usually a smoker,” she huffs. “Only when I drink.”

  Everyone says that. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  “We haven’t met, have we?” She extends her hand. “Marcia.” This is what happens when you build trust— when you offer to keep a person’s secrets.

  “Vanessa.”

  She drops the cigarette and stubs it out with her heel. “What do you do, Vanessa—when you’re not avoiding phone calls?”

  You can’t be too hurried with answers when you’re working someone over, so I consider my response carefully. I take my time taking her in. I’m not sure if she’s exactly what I expected, or if she’s kicked back a few. Or both.

  “I’m still making up my mind about that.”

  She glances at my ring finger. “Well, what do you do while you’re still making up your mind?”

  “I’m a writer.”

  I can see the surprise on her face.

  “Are you published?”

  I look away like she’s hit a nerve. “Not yet…” I sigh wistfully. “But I have several pieces out on submission.”

  “So you have an agent, then?” Surprise registers in her voice.

  “I do.”

  She crosses the patio, dusts off a lounge chair. I want to tell her she needn’t bother. Some member surely has scoured this place from top to bottom, in the name of God. To absolve themselves of their sins. We all end up paying in one way or another.

  “What do you write?”

  “Bad fiction, mostly.”

  “So the truth, then.”

  I smile. She beckons me to join her, but she isn’t expecting me to plop down beside her, not in the way I do. Her eyes had settled on the chaise adjacent to her. I kick off my sandals and tuck my feet under for good measure. I want to close the space between us. I want to feel familiar. Reckless.

  “A writer,” she says after several beats of silence. “That’s impressive. I’ve always wanted to do something creative.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know…”

  “I bet you do.”

  Once again her eyes settle on mine. She’s trying to figure me out. She won’t. That’s my job. You don’t get to be a top-rated Siren in this congregation by being easy to read.

  “Oh, you know…the usual.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t. What’s the usual?”

  She seems to really consider her response. “Well, when you’re young, you have all of these fantasies…ideas of things you could do but that you probably won’t do. Then…before you know it…things go in another direction. Life moves quick, and I guess you move with it, don’t you?”

  I tilt my head. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  She’s silent for several moments. We look out at the water, and the silver moon reflecting off of it. Some people are afraid of silence, so given just the proper amount of space to feel free, she answers. “I wanted to own a bakery.”

  Pretending to mull over what she’s said, I turn to her suddenly, and lift her hand. I flip her palm over so it’s facing me. Tracing the lines with my fingertips, I study it carefully. “You have a baker’s hands.”

  She laughs. But she pulls away. Too much, too soon. “There’s no such thing.”

  My expression remains unchanged. “When was the last time you baked?”

  She chews at her bottom lip. She doesn’t remember. “Oh, I don’t know. Who has time for that these days?”

  “Bakers.”

  Her lips flatten. “Right,” she says as several women spill out the back door and onto the patio. It was a matter of time. “Listen…” I nod toward the dock. “Do you want to walk down?” A drunk girl knocks over a potted plant. Laughter erupts. “It’s quieter down there…and the guest cottage is the cutest thing you’ve ever seen.”

  “A walk would be great.”

  I glance at my phone. The sitter has sent a text. He’s fallen asleep. I look up at my target. “I need to hit the ladies’ room first. Give me two seconds.”

  I don’t hit the ladies’ room. I hit the kitchen, where I grab an unopened bottle of Veuve and two champagne flutes. I pop two capsules in my mouth. I don’t bother chasing them with water. I just want to finish the job, give my little speech, and get home. I have some planning to do before Sean returns.

  The guest cottage is unlocked, as I knew it would be.

  I’m sitting on the sofa and the flutes are on the coffee table, ready. My mark is staring at a painting on the wall until I make a show of popping the bottle.

  Her attention shifts as I fill her glass. “It’s so homey in here. Reminds me of my first house, in a way.”

  “I like smaller homes,” I say. “My husband, on the other hand…”

  “Your husband. Tell me about him. What does he do?”

  It’s nice to remind her I’m attached. Lowers expectations. Takes the pressure off of this being anything but two would-be friends sharing a drink. And at this point, that’s exactly what it is. Now that she’s interested, it’s time for the transition.

  “Golf, mostly.”

  She laughs. She thinks I’m kidding. I watch as she sips her champagne—once, twice, and then downs the rest. “I’m not usually a drinker…”

  Smiling, I ignore her comment and press on. This isn’t the time for guilt.
That will come later. “He’s retired.”

  She cocks her head. “Retired?”

  I know what she is thinking. She’s thinking I married up. “There’s a pretty big age gap between us.”

  Her brows raise, and I almost don’t see her next question coming. “Do you love him?”

  I sip my champagne. Just a smidge off the top. I haven’t eaten, and I’m due for a weigh-in tomorrow afternoon. “Very much.”

  “I take it you haven’t been married long.” Her bottom lip juts out. “How old are you? You can’t be…what, twenty-five at most?”

  “Twenty-four.” I lie like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

  “You’re just a baby,” she says, rolling her eyes. “What can you possibly know of love?”

  I shrug. It never makes much sense when people judge you from a point of reference you don’t have.

  “So no kids then?”

  “No, not yet.” I know she’s a mother, so I add, “Someday though…”

  “It changes everything.”

  “I can’t imagine…”

  I don’t give her time to respond or even think.

  “In the meantime,” I say, grabbing the bottle by the neck, “I propose we have the best night of our lives.”

  “What makes you think we haven’t already?”

  I take a swig straight from the bottle and pass it to her. “I know for a fact we haven’t.” When she takes the bottle, I extend my hand. Eventually, hesitantly, she places hers in it. “Let’s go swimming!”

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit chilly out for that?”

  I shake my head. “The water’s still relatively warm. And anyway—we don’t have to stay in long. Cold water is actually very good for you.”

  Her brow knits together before her face falls. “I’m afraid I haven’t brought my suit.”

  “When it’s the best night of your life, you don’t need a suit.”

  “Touché,” she says, and she doesn’t resist when I lead the way.

  She finishes off the champagne on the dock. For someone who says she doesn’t drink I have to say she’s pretty good at it.

  Not that I mind. It makes my job easier.

  “Marcia?” I say. The moon is bright overhead. Lights twinkle in the distance, a breeze waifs through the air. There’s a slight chill, and it’s pleasant. Music from the party in the distance lulls us into passivity. She doesn’t answer.

  She’s lying on her back. “God, I love nights like this,” she exclaims. Suddenly, she props herself up on her elbows and looks over at me. “I’m drunk. Are you drunk?”

  “Maybe. I can’t tell.”

  She lies back down and stares at the sky.

  “I’m breaking so many rules right now,” I mention. My voice lowers. “In fact, I’m supposed to be up there, giving a speech.”

  “You’re young enough to still play by the rules.”

  “Sometimes,” I tell her. “But not often.”

  “You have something,” she says quietly. “I don’t know…a spark…it’s in the eyes.”

  It’s always in the eyes.

  “I think it’s time for a swim. What do you say?”

  Before she can even answer, I’m up and slipping out of my dress. I feel her eyes on me as I remove my bra and panties. If this assignment had been a man, I would have intentionally forgotten the underwear all together. Women appreciate the extra detail.

  Using the ladder, I slowly lower myself into the water. She watches me closely, but she doesn’t move to follow. “God, I used to have a body like that. Once upon a time…”

  I swim in circles around her. “Aren’t you coming in?”

  “I like the view from up here.”

  She’s not immune to flirting. But I realize I’m going to have to do something to break her in.

  I float on my back and stare at the sky. “You see the little dipper?”

  “I’m too busy looking at the skinny dipper,” she says.

  Talk is cheap. I don’t really like swimming in lakes at night. Seducing women is not exactly my cup of tea, but I can pretend like nobodies business. I’ve waited long enough, and she’s still clothed and on dry land. I dive under and I don’t come up. I used to practice holding my breath with my brothers growing up. Sixty-seven seconds is about what I can manage.

  She calls for me. I practice being very still, listening as she paces the dock. Suddenly, she’s in the water. I feel her hands searching. She’s not panicking. Yet. That takes a certain level of control. I aim for the same, and so I push myself a little harder. My lungs feel like they are going to explode at any second. I can do this. Finally, her fingers brush my leg.

  When I surface, she gasps. Fear is a powerful aphrodisiac.

  “What the fuck?” she says, her voice laced with anger. “That wasn’t funny.”

  I offer a wry smile. “Got you in the water, didn’t it?”

  The thing about seduction is you can’t be someone’s fantasy and be real at the same time. There’s a time to let her think I’m like her and a time to be more. Bolder. Braver. Freer.

  She splashes me, and I can see in the way she moves, in her slack expression, that she’s buzzed. And also, that it’s working in my favor.

  “Have you ever been with a woman?” she asks, and maybe it’s the water, or the unexpectedness of finding herself here, doing something so foolish like skinny-dipping when there’s a proper party just up the way with proper women doing mostly proper things but she plays right into my hand, exactly as I’d expected.

  “Never,” I say. “But I always meant to.”

  We end up back in the cottage. Sopping wet, dripping everywhere, because who needs towels when it’s the best night of your life? We’re out of breath, the rush of tiptoeing up the stairs, our clothes shamefully clutched at our chests, careful to pause at all the right moments like actors in a spy film. There would be hell to pay should we get caught naked. Even if this is an assignment, discretion is key. In all things. Plus, it’s only me who’s naked. Mrs. Louis is halfway there.

  “There’s a really nice shower,” I call over my shoulder. “In the master suite.”

  As I lock the front door, I let her contemplate what I’m saying. When I turn, she’s looking at me, her eyes wide. She’s shivering. I turn on the heat.

  “You’re cold,” I exclaim, tossing her the throw that’s laid over the back of the sofa.

  “Thanks,” she says running her fingers through blonde hair that doesn’t quite touch her shoulders. It’s the first time I really see her. Some women don’t age well, but she isn’t one of them. She senses me watching. I can see that she longs to be taken care of. This is how she makes her decision. “Yeah, I think we’d better.”

  “Lake water is gross,” I confess, and then we erupt in laughter, the kind only slightly drunk women manage when they know what they are about to do is utterly ridiculous. As for me, I’m completely sober—a trick I learned in training: how to make it look like you’re drinking from a bottle when in reality, you’re just chugging and spitting it back in.

  When the laughter has run its course, she turns. “You go first.”

  I shake my head. “You’re shivering.”

  She runs her hands up and down the length of her arms. Her eyes never leave mine. She wants permission. But that would be a mistake on my part. She has to give it to herself. “It’s fine.”

  “I don’t mind sharing,” I say, walking away. The power of suggestion. Most people don’t know what they like until you tell them. Nevertheless, it’s best if I go first. She wants the opportunity to make the first move. She needs to feel in control even if she’s yearning to lose it.

  The truth is, it could go either way.

  I’m not certain she’ll join me, and I’m contemplating what my move will be if she doesn’t, when I hear the shower door creak open behind me.

  We stand there facing each other for several seconds before she practically leaps across the space like a gazelle. She pins me to t
he wall. I plead with her not to stop with my eyes. I show her with my hands.

  Thankfully, she doesn’t.

  Marcia Louis is either very experienced or very good at pretending.

  “Wait…” I take her hand in mine, removing it from my belly, but she wriggles free and resumes, moving in the direction things are headed. She goes lower. I scoot away as she trails down my stomach. “No,” I say, again slowing things down. “This time, you first.”

  After my fingers and then my mouth work their magic, I take her by the hand and lead her to the bedroom where the camera is set up.

  I plop down on the bed playfully and then I hold one finger up and beckon her forward like a challenge. When she joins me, I lay back and close my eyes. “My turn.”

  Afterward, we’re sprawled out on the bed.

  To remedy the awkwardness, she lifts her phone from the bedside table. Nobody understands the value of silence anymore.

  She holds it up, showing me a picture of a young girl. I don’t know why, but nearly all women do this following a sexual encounter. Sometimes it’s a pet, or a place they’ve visited, always something personal.

  My theory is they want the experience to mean something.

  They want to be known.

  But what if it doesn’t?

  And how well can you really ever know anyone?

  “She’s lovely,” I confess.

  “She’s chaos.” Her voice is warm. She looks over at me and props her head on her elbow. I follow suit. Mirroring is powerful.

  Despite the fact that I’ve done my job, having an exit strategy is important. This is a sign I need to start considering mine.

  Her eyes narrow. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  “I’ll keep it till the day I die.” This feels like the opposite of an exit strategy. In a way, it’s supposed to.

  “I never wanted kids. They complicate everything. They make you feel things you don’t want to feel…”

  “Like guilt?” Sometimes it’s best to hit things head-on.

  “Exactly,” she says. “Like guilt.”