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Something I’m about to do right now.
Standing in the fiction stacks of the downtown Phoenix library, right betweenKiandNe,I spot the living, breathing garbage who’s next on the list: Peter Snowden. I run my fingers over a series of Rudyard Kipling books, pretending to be absorbed in my library ways while actually being a stealthy criminal stalking her prey.
Snowden sits across from the young adult section, keeping his gaze straight ahead while thumbing through a thick, leather-bound book. Something he does every Thursday around this time when he’s avoiding the wife and her Tupperware party, or essential oils pyramid meeting, or whatever the hell she sells. I’ll bet she’s told him plenty of times that he can come home after work, that he doesn’t need to hide from her and her friends. And he comes back with something sweet and thoughtful, like, “Oh no, sweetheart. This isyourtime. Your friends don’t want a man around, listening in on their conversations.” And she clasps her fingers together and kisses him on that disgusting mouth, thinking, “Wow. I have the best husband in the world.”
Good husband or not, he’s garbage that needs to be taken out. Because for the better part of his adult life, Peter Snowden has not only supported the sex trafficking industry by watching underground snuff porn, he helps them find their young victims, most of them between the ages of 8 and 12. I haven’t seen him in years, but I remember Peter Snowden well. As one of my mother’s dear friends, he was around a lot. I remember the way he looked at me when I was only eight years old. I remember how my skin pricked and my heart drummed and my stomach lurched. Even at eight, you know how grown men should look at you.
And how they shouldn’t.
I also remember with painstaking clarity what he and a group of his scummy friends did to me right before my mother, Mona Nilssen, was killed, and all during a party at our house. My parents had no idea what was happening. Too many guests to notice five were missing. I told my father later what transpired that night, and he was so disgusted he couldn’t even respond.
My stomach rolls when I see Snowden touch his crotch under the table, massaging his dick, and it makes me wonder if he’s not hiding sick, illicit material inside of that thick, leather-bound book. Wouldn’t put it past him. Thankfully he doesn’t have any kids of his own. I guess there are small miracles that still exist in the world.
When he jerks a phone out of his pocket and glimpses the screen, he slaps the book closed and tucks it under his arm after getting up from the table. From there, I watch his middle-aged, doughy body march to the elevator. I’m pretty sure he’s leaving, so I dart to the stairs and run down the three flights before hitting the ground floor. I make it ahead of him, push the doors open that lead to Camelback Road, and just when I feel his presence behind me I drop my purse and freeze in step, causing him to bump into me.
“Oh shit,” he mutters. “I’m sorry.”
I grab my purse and spin around, brushing some of my fake red hair aside. “No, it’s my fault. I’m sorry.”
His lips part, and he circles my face with his eyes. He’s balder and shorter than I remember, his skin clammy with greasy sweat. “It’s not your fault. I should have watched where I was going.”
I smile and tilt my head, wishing I could just stab him right here and be done with it.
He gestures to the steps. “Ladies first.”
“Thank you.” I walk down one stair and stop, turning back to face him. “Say, I don’t normally do this. But I’m new in town, and I’ve got a job interview at the Gentleman’s Gem in half an hour. I don’t suppose you could tell me which way it is? I’m a nervous wreck and have no sense of direction.” I fake a nervous laugh and part my coat, revealing a baby-pink bustier that’s pushing up my bust.
He lifts a brow and licks his lips, and I recognize the flash of lust that appears on his face. It makes me sick. “Gentleman’s Gem is uptown, just a couple miles from here on Buchanan. But it’s kind of a pain in the ass to find the parking lot because they put it behind the building across the street, which you can only access if you have a VIP Pass. I’m sure they probably told you all this, though.”
“Oh. No, they didn’t. Sounds like you know a lot about it.” I pooch out my lips.
He runs a hand through his thinning hair and licks his lips. “I’m a VIP member. What can I say?” He chuckles, this deep, throatyI’m-so-damn-funnychuckle that makes me want to puke.
“Wow, how cool.”
His shoulders lift in a shrug. “You’re probably not going to believe me but I’m on my way there now. I’d offer you a lift, but I’m sure you don’t want to ride with someone you don’t know.”
“Are you kidding? That would be amazing. Much better than driving in circles. I couldn’t find my way out of a paper bag, swear to God.”
With a pretentious smile, he hooks his arm out and I slide my hand around it, pulling the hood of the coat over my head so any cameras surrounding us can’t get a clear shot of my face. At least it’s dark outside and I’m wearing a wig. That will help a little. Because if there’s one thing I plan onnotdoing tonight, it’s getting caught committing violent acts.
“So. What’s a pretty girl like you doing at a library on a Thursday night?”
I blow out a breath. “Using their computer to job hunt. I don’t have a place lined up just yet, so I’m crashing at this cheap hotel that forgot to list cockroach infestation as an amenity.”
“That’s a shame. But I’m sure you’ll get hired at GG’s. They’re great folks down there, and well …” He pulls a key fob out of his pocket and chirps his beamer unlocked. “Pardon my frankness, Miss …?”
“Trina.”
He pulls the passenger door open then turns to face me, pausing to boldly part my coat and steal another glance at my breasts. My hands clench into fists and I have to remind myself of the end goal here to keep from kneeing him in the balls then grinding the heel of my shoes on them for good measure.
“Miss Trina. You are undoubtedly the sexiest girl I’ve ever laid eyes on. Jeff’d have to be blind or dead to not hire you.”
“You’re very sweet.” I force a smile and sit in the passenger seat, feeling a calm, cold, dizziness engulf me. Having to smile at that compliment makes me want to scream.
God, I can’t wait until he’s no longer breathing.
“You interviewing for a dancer position? Or bartender?” he asks, pulling his phone from his pocket and tossing it in the console.
