“No, I didn’t. I didn’t know you knew that either.”
She breezed right past what he was saying without thinking about the implications. “Psychiatrists love group therapy, especially for eating disorders. They pack ’em in like sardines.” She waved a hand.
“So you want to join the group?”
“Yeah. All I have to do is hint I feel the intense need to starve myself, and good old Prunella will ship me right over to Group.”
“You should know.”
She stopped, really hearing him for the first time. “Hey, I was never anorexic. I just don’t feel hungry when I’m stressed.”
He sighed, but didn’t push. “What exactly is your plan here, Max? So you get close to Jada. Then you do ... what?”
“Haven’t I gone over and over all that?”
“Not with me.”
“Fine. At the risk of repeating myself ...” She waited for him to stop her. He didn’t. “I’m going to gain Jada’s confidence. Once I’ve done that, I’ll get her to admit both she and Bethany were molested by Traynor. Uup”—she held up her finger at Cameron’s little snort of interruption—“you lost your chance to say anything. To go on, once I’ve got her to admit that, I’ll turn to Traynor’s part in Bethany’s death.”
This time she couldn’t stop him. “You have no perspective where he’s concerned.”
“I have perspective,” she snapped.
“Listen to me, Max. Watching your back when he’s around might save your life some day, but you shouldn’t let him blind you to other possibilities either.
“I can feel Bud Traynor’s hand in what happened to Bethany. My bet’s that he somehow manipulated Jada into killing her sister. As soon as I get close enough to Jada, I’ll prove it, too.”
The phone rang. Damn. She was only halfway through her bowl of Chinese dumplings.
Max looked at her watch. Midnight. To hell with Traynor for the moment. She had other fish to fry, Bethany’s night freaks.
*
Max picked up the phone, but Bethany was with her, inside her, when she spoke. She remembered Cameron’s words the last time a dead woman had tried taking possession of her: “Roll with it, Max, let yourself go.” This time, she did. Almost willingly.
“Hi, this is Helen. How can I do ya?” Literally. She thought it was quite catchy.
“Suck my cock, bitch.”
Ooh, a tough guy. Voice low, throaty, breathless. Like Bethany’s, she was sure, Max egged him on. “Fuck you, asshole.”
“I’ll ram it right down your throat, you cunt.”
“I’ll bite the fucking thing off.” Crude words, but Bethany had always made them seem erotic, powerful. Max did, too. Didn’t she?
“You know you want it, whore.”
“You think you’re man enough to give it to me?” Damn, she was getting good at this. No one would know the difference between her and Bethany. The thought should have raised her hackles.
“I’m more than man enough. You’ll be begging me to fuck you up the ass.”
Then he cried out, and the phone went dead. 30 seconds down. One hour, 59 minutes and 30 seconds to go. God, Bethany was a natural. She’d known exactly what the guy wanted and exactly how to give it to him. Max opened her mouth, and Bethany’s words and voice came out of her. Witt would pop a blood vessel when he realized his cop buds had heard it. Max smiled. The guy was getting too sure of himself. This would do him good.
She pushed back the covers and climbed from the bed, unbuttoning her shirt. Then she shoved off her wrinkled slacks and threw them in the corner. The phone rang again. This time she described her imaginary crotchless panties and let the voice on the other end remove them with his teeth. It was so easy, so simple. All she had to do was talk. Power pumped through her veins when she heard his first and last moan. Bethany’s voice. Bethany’s power. The woman fairly sizzled inside Max, pent-up emotions ready to burst out. She was waiting. Waiting for him.
The phone rang again. And again. And again. Max gave up trying to change clothes and flopped back on the pillow with the lights still out, only the street lamps shining through the leaves illuminating the bed.
Still they waited to hear Achilles’ voice. Bethany wet and panting for him, Max ready to slip the noose around his neck.
“Hi, this is Helen. You want me to blow you, suck you or fuck you?” She felt the slightest twinge at her newest variation on the theme. Going too far with the game, Max? she asked herself. Cameron hadn’t spoken in over an hour, but it was exactly what he would have said.
“Tell me a story.” A familiar voice, not Achilles, but someone who made Bethany preen.
“What kind of story?”
“How about a bar pick-up story.” A soft yet deep voice. Sexy. With a hint of Witt in it.