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I pat her down. She enjoys it a little more than I’d like. “Show me your purse.”
“It’s in the car.”
I think back to her sitting on my porch. She’s right. She wasn’t holding anything. “It makes me wet when you get all worked up.” She leans forward and kisses me on the mouth. I taste the wine on her lips.
“I know who you are,” I say, but it’s too late. She’s already fumbling with my belt and then the button on my jeans. The zipper I help her with.
She takes me in her hand and works her magic. When she sees I am dissolving with pleasure, she stops, and looks at me in a way that suggests she’s considering that if she deprives me now, I might cave or beg, or make a gesture toward something more. At first I do nothing, letting the uncertainty hang in the air.
Ali lifts her shirt, pulls it over her head, and drops it at my feet. She pushes her skirt up above her hips and takes my hand, placing it between her legs. She moves my fingers mechanically. I offer little in the way of help. “You think you know me,” she says. “But you don’t.”
She’s taunting me and it’s working. My finger dips beneath her panties, searching. I am tormented with desire. But I refuse to give in to her. Ali grows desperate. She pushes my hand forward, before dropping to her knees. She takes me into her mouth, and her hands work double-time. She moves swiftly up and down my shaft and then stops, slows, and starts again. Her mouth absorbs me fully. I take a fistful of her hair and tug. Then I push her forward, easing her into it, then move faster, controlling the pace. She looks up at me doe-eyed, in a way that we both know is an act. She’s good, and I come with such violent delight that I think we’re both a little surprised. Then I lean over with gratitude and tenderness, and murmur, “You’re perfect on paper, but you lie to my face.”
“What a lovely observation,” she says, wiping her mouth with the corner of her hand. “What now?”
“Now, we eat.”
I extend my hand and help her to her feet. “Good. I’m starving.”
She follows me to the table, grabbing her wineglass on the way. “You won’t believe the week I’ve had.”
I pull her chair out and motion for her to take a seat. “Sounds like we have a lot to discuss.”
I take a bit of Italian meatballs from the dish and scoop them onto my plate. “So, tell me about Donovan Roberts.”
“My stepfather?” She stabs at her plate of pasta and looks me straight in the eye. “He’s dead.”
“I know. And you killed him?”
“You ask like it’s a question. But you’re the investigator. You tell me.”
“And the others?”
She cocks her head. “What?”
“I know you have a knack for making sure the men in your life end up dead. What I want to know is why.”
She laughs. A little at first, but then it becomes hysterical. “So that’s what you think of me?” she asks between fits.
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“You know what?” She throws her napkin at me. Her aim is quite impressive. It hits me in the head. “Fuck you, Ethan.”
Her eyes convey fury, and maybe a little hurt. I think she’s going to kill me.
* * *
It starts out slow.The slightest twinge, coupled with an inkling that something isn’t right. It quickly becomes more than that. Embarrassed, I excuse myself from the table and retreat to the bedroom, which I soon realize is a smart move.
I haven’t even fully closed the door before the twinges stop and the pain takes over, engulfing me. Internal heat rages throughout my rib cage, descending downward, spiraling into my abdominal cavity. It effortlessly pulls me under until I fold in two. Thirty seconds ago, I was completely fine. Better than fine. It was the happiest moment of my life. I was about to finally solve the Roberts case. I was about to finally be right in a conversation with a woman. That in and of itself is a real feat.
Now I’m dying.
Clutching my midsection in complete agony, I lean forward, pressing my body against the door, slamming it shut. I flip the lock as a cold sweat sweeps over me. Within seconds, my lungs seize. No matter how much air I attempt to suck in, it isn’t enough. My vision blurs as my breath comes out in spurts. I pant like a dog on a hot day.
The room takes on a very distinct smell, reminding me of burnt flesh. It steeps the air in the combination of a liver-like scent and sulfur. While the fire may be internal, the smell isn’t. My stomach knots, clenches, twists, and turns. The pain is relentless as it radiates outward, its tendrils wrapping around every inch of me. It feels like I’m being skinned alive, only from the inside out. With every inhale, the sensation tightens its grip, until I can no longer think straight.
Until I can no longer see a way out of this.
