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“Karma,” she finally answers.
“Karma bugs you?”
“No. I mean, yes. It does. Which is why I’m not going to talk about them. I didn’t mean to invite you over just to bore you with my freakish life.”
“Your freakish life is far from boring.”
The giggle that flies from her mouth is quickly capped by the slap of her hand, and the hiccup that follows is a sure bet the alcohol has kicked in.
“I don’ need any more bad karma, right?”
“Having an opinion doesn’t make for bad karma.”
“No, but sharing it does.”
“Touché.” I smile back at her, catching the slight sway of her posture. “What’s your opinion of me, Star Wars? Still think I’m a killer?”
“I’m still formin’ my opinion, but if y’are, you’ve got great taste in wine!” She lifts her glass like a toast and tips back the last sip in the glass.
“Drink it up.”
“I will, thanks. Wait. You didn’t poison it, did you?”
I feign a glance at my watch and smile. “About five minutes, and the poison should kick in. You’ll be knocked onto your ass.”
“If I do, you better not try anything while I’m dead.”
A chuckle escapes me, and I shake my head at this chick. She’s probably the most entertainment I’ve had in years. It’s almost a shame this is business and not pleasure. “Scout’s honor.”
“Were you actually a Boy Scout, because I think you’ve pulled that scouts honor shit before.”
“No, I wasn’t a scout. So, this Harvey, tell me why he rubs you the wrong way.”
“I never said he rubbed me. Never. The thought of that is just … disgusting.”
As amusing as this is, it’s going to take hours to keep this girl focused.
“But if you must know, I’m apparently his Tom Hardy.”
“You’re what?”
“His free pass. His fuck fantasy. Whatever sick thing swingers call it.”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
“He left me a note. Telling me he wanted to strangle me, or rape me. I get to choose. Isn’t that sweet? I get a choice.” She chuckles again on another hiccup.
Meanwhile, her words hit my blood like a frost, turning everything cold and numb. Carl. Perhaps it’s the taunting nature of the note—providing two horrible outcomes—that reminds me so much of my childhood, when Carl would have me choose between two evils. A manipulative means of lessening his own guilt, by making me an accomplice to my own nightmare.
Kill the cat, or skin the fur off its tail. You pick. His words chime in my memory, and I’ve no doubt the note Nola received wasn’t from Harvey. A cunning killer has chosen her, and she thinks it’s some swinging cock looking for a gang bang. There is a connection to Harvey, one I haven’t yet made in my head, but for now, I have a vehicle to track, one that has ties to Nola, and that’s better than nothing.
“He signed it Sweet Dreams.”
A play on his moniker.
Jesus Christ.
She doesn’t even realize the shit storm she’s been swept up in. Bad karma doesn’t even begin to describe the situation.
