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"Why so long?" I brace my fingers behind another lipstick, but she spots me at the last second and swipes it away. "I'm bored of being patient."
"You're always bored."
"Stop watching that bullshit TV show and answer my question."
"I don't know why it takes so long. You want answers, I'll give you the number of my contact and you can ask him yourself." Her eyes dart left to right. "Although all you'll do is terrify him, and then you'll never get what you want, so..."
"Don't be so overdramatic."
"Don't call Dexter bullshit. This show is genius."
"I don't watch it." I squint at the screen, where the guy from Six Feet Under is hacking someone up with a chainsaw. Have to respect variety. "Isn't it just some serial killer crap?"
"No," she huffs.
"You know what percentage of serial killers are actually caught?"
"Should it worry me that you know this?"
"Three percent. The rest are just walking around like average Joes, murdering when they feel like it. And they'll probably never be brought to justice." I have to be careful that this doesn't sound like bragging.
Not that I'm a serial killer. Of course.
"Yep," she mutters, not looking up. "Definitely worries me."
"You finally figured it out, Tuij." I grin, dimples and all.
"Right. You're not nearly stereotypical enough. I mean, where's your obsession with expensive grooming products? Why has there never been blood on your dry cleaning? Where's your collection of dried-out butterflies, huh? I've seen your apartment. It's way too..." She almost sounds disappointed. "...Normal."
"You realise that most murderers don't hack off their victims' third finger and send it to a police detective in a jar? They just snap. Kill. Go back to their day jobs. If they're lucky, they do a good enough job of clearing up or disassociating themselves, but that's it."
"Dexter kills people because they deserve it," she says matter-of-factly. "He picks out people who've committed crimes and then uses them to relieve his urge to kill."
"Doesn't make him any less of a predator."
"I guess not." She shrugs. "It's like spiders though, right? Some people are afraid of them and some people aren't, but either way, they do a good job taking care of the flies."
I press my lips together. "You're seriously standing up for this guy?" He's not even real!
"Why?" She beams at me, all lipstick and bright white teeth. "You jealous?"
"I think I'll survive."
"You'd make an excellent sociopath. Just work on your cannibalism, or something."
I pull myself to standing. "Right."
"Or maybe psychopath. Cannibals are psychopaths, right?" she calls.
"There's no difference." I glance back, careful to catch her eye. "They just started using sociopath because too many professionals mistook psychopath to mean psychotic."
She pauses, her finger pointing feebly at the laptop screen. "These guys are not sane."
"Yep, they are." I grin again. "Get me my intel please, Tuij."
"I'm working on it." She glances back at her laptop and shakes her head, muttering to herself. "No way they're sane."
We're saner than all of you.
***
That evening, I wait for the rest of the SilentWitn3ss clique to leave before knocking on the door of Leo's office. I haven't seen her depart on the security cameras; it's gone seven p.m., but she should still be around.
"Come in," she calls, sounding harassed.
Long day, sweetheart?
The office is surprisingly tidy; besides a stack of brown boxes near the door, everything is in its place and the surfaces are clear. She's even mounted her certificates and product blueprints on the walls, and several large bunches of flowers, dotted about in tall Lore Corp glass vases, make the place reek of cloying lilies.
Leo, seated at her desk, looks down as I enter.
"Miss Reeves," I say, my voice gruffer than I intended.
"Indeed."
"You're still here."
She tips her chin, half-smiles. "I believe they call it work."
I consider pulling up a spare chair, but decide to stand instead. I like to look down on her; it's symbolic in this obvious, delectable way. "And when did you take up floristry?"
"People heard I was moving to your company. They're gestures of condolence."
"Very amusing." I prod one lily and shake away its spatter of pollen. "If the media is anything to go by, people are queuing up to congratulate you."
"But not you." She swallows. "No flowers from Mr Lore."
"Didn't think you'd appreciate them."
"And why not?"
I find her black button eyes, the pupils all dilated for me already. "Because you don't sleep with clichés."
Leo takes a sharp little breath and puts her chin in her hand, staring at something ahead that is infinitely less interesting than me, but probably less threatening. "Why do you do that?"
I shrug. "Do what?"
"Flirt with me like everything's normal. Act as if I'm some girl at a bar you're trying to charm."
"Why don't you look at me, and I'll answer?"
She peers up though curled eyelashes. "I'm looking."
I should hide the way her gaze gets me hard—should knot my hands over my groin, or something. But instead, my fingers fall to cup her jaw, and I run my tongue along the dissolving stitches inside my bottom lip.
"Would you like me to play the gentleman?" I push my thumb through her flesh. Against the bone. "A seduction...is that what you want?"
She winces at the pressure of my hand. "Why bother with seduction when you have knives and guns?"
"I don't know. It might be fun."
"I'm aware of your type of fun."
"Yet here you are."
Silence.
She doesn't even attempt to defend her decision; I find this curious.
I want to shove my thumb in her mouth, make her suck on it. Choke. I want to see those button eyes drowned in so much pleasure that they ebb from the world. And yet this seduction idea—it's so absurd that I warm to it. How better to punish Leo for fucking with me than with a horrible mockery of love?
I drag my fingers down her throat, press lightly. Soak up her badly stifled gasps. And then I stand back.
"Did you come in here for anything specific?" she asks in a croaky voice.
"Probably."
"And is this the part where I tell you to go fuck yourself?"
"It'd be a shame to break the habit of a lifetime."
"Ha."
"Have dinner with me," I say firmly.
She stiffens. "Why?"
"Because I asked you to."
"I have a busy week ahead," she mutters.
"I'm your boss. I'll free you up." And then I turn for the door. I'm about to tell her that Tuija will check my calendar, but it feels too impersonal. Seduction isn't performed by an assistant. "Wednesday evening. Nine o'clock." Whatever I have, I'll clear it.
She sits back in her chair and like a far more arrogant creature, gives me the once-over. "Go fuck yourself."
"Wednesday," I call over my shoulder. "Bring that smart mouth of yours. I have some new words to teach it."
***
I've never seduced a woman before.
Well. That's a lie.
I've never performed a traditional seduction, the hearts and flowers kind. I'm almost excited to play with this. Tear it apart and make it my own.
Later that night, when the apartment is empty and quiet, I load up my laptop and begin my research. Pay her compliments, say the gentlemen. Ask questions and listen to her answers; always pay for dinner. Give foot massages and take the kids for an evening so she can go to book club or running club or sit in a coffee shop and pretend she's married to somebody else. This particular website isn't called Captain Obvious, but it probably should be.
