“You were asking me questions, pigeon. For your story.”
And that’s when Susan knew what to ask. “What’s your favorite movie?” she said. Take that. Come up with a snappy answer to that. Try to find a twisted answer to that. Susan settled back smugly.
Gretchen’s answer was instantaneous. “Band of Outsiders. Godard.”
Well. That was unexpected. Susan looked at Archie searchingly, not even trying to mask the confusion that was surely screwed up on her face. “That’s Detective Sheridan’s favorite movie,” she said.
“You can call him Archie,” Gretchen said lightly. “I’ve seen him naked.”
“Have you two talked about Godard?” Susan asked Archie.
“No,” he said. And there was the pillbox again.
Gretchen smiled, all innocence. “Isn’t that a funny coincidence? Do you have any other questions?”
Susan examined Gretchen. She had heard stories that Gretchen had killed something like two hundred people. She had never believed it. Until now. “The After School Strangler. Any ideas of what kind of person we’re looking for?”
Gretchen laughed. It was a throaty laugh, like Bette Davis, like sex and lung cancer. She’d probably spent years practicing it. It was worth that kind of effort. “Want me to get inside his head for you? Sorry, Clarice. Can’t help you.”
“You’re both murderers,” Susan offered sweetly.
Gretchen shook her head. “We’re different.”
“You are?”
“Tell her, Archie.”
Archie voice sounded unnaturally slow. “He doesn’t like the killing part. Gretchen does.”
Cold smile. “See? Apples and oranges.”
“You didn’t kill Detective Sheridan,” Susan pointed out.
“Yes I did.” Gretchen’s smile widened around her perfect teeth. It was the most chilling smile Susan had ever seen. She suddenly felt an infinite tenderness for Archie, and even as she did, she regretted it, because she knew that Gretchen could see it in her eyes.
“Has he rejected you yet, pigeon?” Gretchen asked, bemused. “It will be hard for you. You don’t get rejected often, do you? You’re not used to that. You think sex is your power. But it isn’t.”
“Gretchen,” Archie cautioned.
“Do you know what’s more intimate than sex?” Gretchen asked. She shot a wicked smile at Archie. “Violence.”
Susan felt all of the saliva in her throat evaporate. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“You’re attracted to older men. Authority figures. Men with more power than you have. Married. Why is that, pigeon, hmm?” Gretchen tilted her head, and Susan could see a thought skate across her eyes and then settle. Gretchen smiled. “How old were you when your father died?”
Susan felt like the wind had been knocked out of her. Had she flinched? She squeezed her thumbs as hard as she could under the table until the pain dried up the tears she feared would well at any moment. When the moment passed, she stood up—and leaned over the table, her knuckles pressed against its cold aluminum surface. “Fuck you,” she said to Gretchen. “Fuck you, you fucking psycho killer.”
But Gretchen merely smiled. “All that bubbling postpubescent rage. Whom did you end up fucking? Your English teacher?” She arched an eyebrow. “Drama teacher?”
Susan couldn’t breathe. She felt a tear slide down one cheek and she was furious at herself for it. “How—” she began. She put a hand over her mouth to try to stop herself from speaking, but it was too late.
Archie turned slowly and looked up at Susan, his eyes wide, forehead lined. “The drama teacher at Cleveland? Reston?”
“No,” Susan stammered.
Gretchen shook her head at Archie. “Textbook denial.”
“Susan,” Archie said, his voice stern, authoritative. “If you had a sexual relationship with Paul Reston when you were a teenager, you need to tell me right now.”
Gretchen’s blue eyes narrowed victoriously. Game. Set. Match.
Susan laughed, a horrible distraught half chuckle, and then the floodgates opened. Hot tears on her cheeks, humiliated, she backed away, hunched, gulping for air. She fumbled for the door buzzer, and when the door jerked open, fled into the corridor.
CHAPTER
32