The Tease (The Darling Killer Trilogy) by Nikki M. Pill Page B

Maybe Friday?
    A dopey grin spread across my face. Yes, I texted.
    Great, he texted. I’ll call you later this week to plan.
    Easy
, I thought.
This feels so easy. Like it should.
    I sniffed the roses again, and then thought of the flowers we were sending to Lisa’s funeral. All the girls had agreed to chip in.
    A wave of sadness crashed over me, and I was ashamed of worrying about a text message when Lisa would never feel that first-date excitement again.
    I turned to the murder board, which I had set on the floor with its back to the room. I hadn’t wanted to alarm Lynne, and with her tendency to chatter about everything she saw, I was glad.
    I hung it up again and took a step back. Five women. Five lives reduced to columns of dry-erase scrawl. A sixth column of words and question marks.
Occupation? Flexible hours. SES? Organized/planner. Type? All age 25-35. No assault… autoerotic? No struggle? Overpowers them. Fit. Charming. Well-dressed or uniform. Motive?
    My notes on Max were in a password-locked file in my computer called “Knitting Tips.” A personal note file was only personal if no one knew you had it. I didn’t have to call it up; I remembered every word of it. He was fit. He played soccer. He was attractive and charming. But if there was no sign of assault on the bodies, and he was fixated on sex with dead bodies, could it really be him? Maybe he was just a confused guy struggling with urges. Maybe he was deeply, profoundly lonely and scared.
    Maybe it’s a persona
, I thought.
He smiled when he talked about the kills. Maybe he wanted a place to relive it. To savor your reaction. Maybe he made it all up.
    I tapped the dry-erase marker against my lip and stopped, holding it out. I hadn’t realized I had picked it up.
I’m overreacting.
    I had an appointment with Max later in the week. I should mention his fascination with the Darling Killer again and see if he said anything.
    I have to ask him about being at the theater. I have to.
    My stomach twisted. I could lose my job.
    Or someone else could die.
    I put the marker down and strode into the kitchen, where I dumped the broccoli in the colander.
    I love cooking. Making a meal has a start point and an end point. The rules of temperature and flavor don’t change. A client might be in therapy for months or even years. It could take a week to learn a minute of choreography. It could take weeks to sew a costume. I could make a meal in an hour – or a day, depending on what and for whom – and it was complete. Sitting down to something I’d cooked gave me an uncomplicated sense of satisfaction.
    People are complicated. Food doesn’t talk back.
    I chopped, sautéed, and fed tidbits to Caprice as my mind continued to churn the data.
Cori Victoria Krista Darcy Lisa. And maybe Max. You and me and the devil makes three. Maybe Max. Maybe a stranger. 68 percent.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    I n my limited experience with funerals, I usually wear a simple black dress with a strand of pearls. Pearls symbolize tears, and they’re more muted and subdued than the flashy jewelry I usually like. I would understate my makeup, pull my hair back, and stay mostly unadorned. I knew Lisa would want us to look fabulous, though, so I did.
    I selected a black velvet dress with a plunging neckline and slim fit about the waist and hips. The fishtail hem ended in a black flounce just below my knees in front and bottom of my calves in back. I wore dark heels and black stockings with rhinestones up the back. I curled my black hair and pinned it up, applied dark Marilyn Monroe-style eyeliner, and finished the look with poppy-red lipstick. Instead of pearls, I wore dangling, faux diamond earrings, a matching rhinestone necklace, and a thick rhinestone tennis bracelet. I even wore a purple spangled G-string that Lisa had particularly liked when I used it in a costume.
    The service was at a funeral home in Hoffman Estates, the suburb where her parents lived. I left early because Route 90 is almost