my good hand. “Furthermore, I don’t think you can say with such confidence that this killer has or has not left any victims alive since most serial killers start with assaults, rapes, failed kidnap attempts.
“I would wager a bet to say your profile on this guy is thin. And if you have names, they will be in the thousands, with no way of narrowing it down since he doesn’t leave any physical evidence. I know all of this, because you’re right, I’m writing a book right now that does involve a serial killer butchering women, and I’m good at doing my research. I’m also committed to my craft but not this committed. Because, as much as I really enjoy your company, I’d much rather be at home, alone, with whisky for company and an arm that wasn’t going to be scarred for life.”
I paused. “But we can’t always get what we want. So, I’m here, with you. Because I wanted to do anything and everything I can in order to catch this guy. Or, at the very least, maybe give you something that might be able to get some names crossed off that mighty long list of yours.”
I stood on weak legs, but I made sure my stance was strong. “Now, I have a writer’s memory, so I think I’ve given you and your colleagues every detail I can recall. So, unless you feel like arresting me, I’m going to go home now. I’ll try my best not to run into any serial killers while I’m gone. I’d hate for us to have to see each other again so soon. Or at all.”
And then I turned and walked out.
He didn’t try to stop me. Because he didn’t have shit.
Saint was still there, waiting for me. And I let him take me home. To his home.
Chapter 19
“I liked to surprise people. It would’ve been too cliché just to be a killer. I wanted to be a friend. A muse. I wanted it all. But if I could only be one thing, I’d always be a killer.”
Again, Margot was on the doorstep of Emily’s house, with tequila and cake this time.
“Cake?” I asked, letting her in.
Her gaze zeroed in on the bandage on my arm for less than a second before her eyes met mine. “Because when you survive being cut by a serial killer, you eat cake. Without a fucking word about being allergic to it.”
I nodded. She was close to cracking, so I let her feed me cake while we sat on the patio.
“Are you okay?” I asked. I couldn’t remember the last time I asked that question. Or cared about the answer.
She glanced to me in surprise. She knew me well enough to know this was not normal. “She gets kidnapped by a serial killer and asks me if I’m okay?”
I shrugged. “I survived, Emily didn’t.” It was the first time we’d said her name.
Margot flinched ever so slightly. “I’m angry,” she said. “I’m angry that she’s dead and he got away. That…” she trailed off. “That I wasn’t there that day, sitting with her.”
“He would’ve just come another day,” I said.
She wiped at a single tear. “I guess you’re right.” She looked to the lake. “She was a good friend. Everyone needs that. Good friends.” She looked to me. “You’re close, you and this doctor?”
“As close as we can be.”
She raised her brow in question.
“We’re both…detached. Cold, maybe. And we don’t like the bullshit. The whining about men, mood swings, family drama.”
“So just about everything that embodies a normal friendship,” she cut in dryly.
I gave her my “fuck you” smile. “I’m not normal. I told you that the first time you met me.”
“Which is why I like you,” she countered. “How’d you meet, then, you two unlikely creatures.”
“I was convinced I had a brain tumor,” I said. “I was having migraines, loss of vision, and naturally looked for the best brain surgeon in the city and demanded to meet with her. She examined me, assured me that the only thing wrong with my head was anxiety. I told her that I needed someone to remind me of that once in a while. She offered to go for a drink and write down every symptom of a brain tumor, to help calm me.” I shrugged.
“You’re strange, Magnolia,” Margot said.
“Thank you,” I said, biting into my cake.
She paused again. “You’re really okay?”
I met her eyes. “No, of course not. But I’m going to be able to finish my book now.