He doesn’t even know he’s doing it.
But he can’t escape the confirmation in my face. We both know that he sees a killer in Cole because he sees something familiar: a man who crosses the line when he feels it’s necessary. When he thinks he’s justified.
“I’m going to put him in prison for a hundred years,” Hawks hisses, his nose inches from mine. “Help me to do it, or I swear to god, I’ll book you as an accomplice. I’ll make sure you see prison time along with him. You’ll be splashed across every fucking paper: the Karla Homolka to his Paul Bernardo.”
Hawks has no idea how accurate that may soon become. But not in the way he thinks.
As I try to push past him, Hawks seizes my upper arm. I don’t shake him off, not even when his fingers dig into my flesh.
“You live in his house now. You could let me inside. Let me search the place. I’ll do it when he’s not home. He doesn’t even have to know.”
Hawks is unaware that Cole has cameras all over the house. Regardless, there’s no evidence to be found. Cole’s not that fucking stupid.
He’s only left evidence out in the open one time: inside Fragile Ego. I’ve begged Cole to buy the sculpture back and destroy it, but he doesn’t want to. He says it’s too beautiful.
This is the one point on which he is utterly irrational. Cole loves his art. He’d no sooner destroy it than he’d destroy me.
I almost want to let Hawks search the house just to show him how fucking stupid he’s being.
On the other hand, he’s not completely wrong. Cole is a murderer, just not the one he’s looking for.
The only way to deal with Hawks is to keep him at bay until we can deliver Shaw gift-wrapped. Just in time for Christmas.
Calmly, I remove Hawks’ fingers from my arm, grabbing his pinky and bending it back until he lets go.
“You’re wrong,” I tell him, flatly. “You’ll see it for yourself soon enough.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The Beast of the Bay kills three times. Have you noticed that?”
Hawks goes still, eyes glinting behind his glasses. “Last time was four.”
My stomach lurches.
Can’t think about that. Picturing Erin drowned on my bed doesn’t fucking help her.
“The point is, he started a new cycle. Why don’t you try tailing Shaw on your off-hours? Either you’ll catch him in the act … or you’ll save a girl from becoming his next victim.”
To his credit, Hawks actually considers this idea. But then his eyes narrow and he hisses, “Sounds like you want to clear the way for your boyfriend’s nocturnal activities.”
I’m losing my patience.
“If that’s what you think, then there’s no point continuing this conversation. I would NEVER help a man hurt another woman. I’m a ladies’ lady and always will be.”
Shaking off Hawks, I storm into the building.
Sonia is already hurrying over, having seen the whole thing through the window. She looks ready to rip Hawks a new asshole if he hadn’t let go of me.
Sonia is also a ladies’ lady.
When she sees that I’m fucking fuming, she puts her arm around my shoulders
“You want me to call his boss?” she says. “Or better yet—I’ll call Cole.”
“No need. I told him off myself.”
“I’ll bet you did,” Sonia grins approvingly. “You’re turning into quite the little hellcat.”
I let out a laugh, thinking that Cole calls me a pleasure kitty, and Sonia a hellcat. I really don’t mind either of those descriptors. In fact, they suit me perfectly.
“I don’t want to claw his eyes out. But I will if I have to.”
Sonia snorts. “Now you sound like Cole. Must be a hazard of working here. We all become a little more … utilitarian.”
Sonia and I part ways at the stairs, her attending to the monumental labor of running Cole’s empire, and me heading upstairs to work on my newest series.
Sonia is right. Cole is rubbing off on me, and so is she. We always become like the people that surround us. No human is an island. We’re more like rocks in a tumbler, knocking each other’s rough edges, polishing and refining one another as we pass.
These days, I have no problem with the company I keep.
18
Cole
Shaw dies on Christmas Eve.
That’s the plan.
I’ve gone over it with Mara a thousand times, but I still hate that I have to involve her. She’s the bait, and the bait is never entirely safe from being swallowed whole.
We’re attending the East Bay Artists’ Christmas party. In the art world, this is the biggest rager of the year—bigger than Halloween or New Year’s. Holding it on Christmas Eve probably means something—that artists lack the traditional family ties that would usually consume this night of the year. That used to be true for me.
Tonight I wish I was home with Mara, far away from anyone else.
At least she looks fucking stunning. I love showing her off. Wish I didn’t have to ruin it all in a few hours’ time.
Mara wears a glittering gown, the halter top cut almost down to the navel, the long skirt hiding the fact that she’s wearing her favorite boots beneath. No high heels tonight—that would be very stupid.
Her makeup is full of sparkles too, her hair tumbling down her back in dark waves, with little diamond stars and moons pinned all over it. She looks like the night sky come to life.
Her arms are bare, the long scars running up both wrists still dark and raised. They’ll probably never fade.
Tonight, they’re meant as an invitation to Shaw: come finish what you started.
I know he’ll be here, though I haven’t seen him yet. He wouldn’t miss the biggest event of the year.
The party is in the Castro Theater on Market Street. The old baroque theater is currently being renovated, so all the seats have been removed, leaving plenty of space for socializing and dancing. The movie screen remains, playing a loop of psychedelic images: time-lapse video of flowers blooming, withering, dying. Raindrops falling upward in reverse. Spiraling mandalas that break apart and reform like beads in a kaleidoscope.