Triptych (Will Trent #1) - Karin Slaughter Page 0,151
I knew when the heat was turned up, all I had to do was point the finger back at him.”
“They were just kids.”
“Believe me, they were a lot more experienced than they let on. Real mature for their ages.” He shook his head, as if he could not get over the irony. “Bunch of prick teases is what y’all are.”
From out of nowhere, Angie felt shame welling up inside of her. How many of her mother’s boyfriends had said the same thing about Angie? How many times had she accepted their stuffed animals or their nice meals out or their pretty clothes and then been told she was going to have to pay for it with her mouth?
Michael told her, “Most of those girls have been drilled so many times they can’t even feel it unless you pound it into them.” He was looking at her again, appraising her. “You were exactly like Mary Alice. You know that? You tease me, let me kiss you, touch you for a while, and then you push me away like I’m not good enough for you.” He snorted his disgust. “You play it all innocent, but then when I’m inside you, I feel like my cock’s in a fucking vacuum.”
Angie stared at the gun on the couch.
“The whores are good for that. You can do anything to them, right? I mean, that’s what you pay for.” He had turned his back to her, his hands pressed into the mantel. Angie kept her eyes on the Glock, hoping the weapon wasn’t some kind of trick her mind had played on her. “All I wanted was to blow off a little steam with Aleesha before the game. And then she gets all uppity with me, chases me out of the apartment and into the stairway like I’m some kind of punk. I don’t pay for that shit. She kept pushing me and pushing me, and then she learned the lesson. Michael Ormewood does not pay.”
Angie pressed her face to the floor, willing herself to endure this.
“Yeah, I let her get my temper up.” She heard his footsteps, could feel him standing inches from her face. “But, nobody really cares when a whore dies, right? Nobody cares about you.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. She had let him get into her head, let him have control, just like he wanted.
Angie said, “All that John had to do was tell them.” She took a chance, adding, “You’re his cousin.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Michael tsked. “You actually think John would’ve had the chance to open his mouth in a courtroom?” He shook his head, telling her, “I’ve been playing with him all along, just tugging his strings whenever I wanted to.” He chuckled to himself. “Sure, I almost shit in my pants when I opened that toolbox, saw what he put in there, but that’s nothing compared to the shock I had planned for him. I was gonna have some wicked fun with that little girl, then lay it all back on Johnny’s door—or, more specifically, that shithole room he lives in.”
“It wouldn’t have worked,” she said, knowing that it probably would have.
“ ‘Hero cop catches serial killer in the act.’ My DNA all over the room from holding the poor little dead thing in my arms. Cops busting in, seeing Johnny dead, me wailing in grief. I would’ve gotten a fucking promotion for killing that bastard. Do you know how much it costs to put a man on death row? I’d be saving the city twenty million bucks, easy.”
“They would’ve found out.”
“From who? All his friends? His loving family? His devoted, dead mother?”
“People would remember you.”
“Nobody remembers me,” Michael snapped, and she could tell she’d cut close to the bone. “John’s the one who always stood out. I was just in the background—always in the background. Nobody ever noticed me, and you know what? Now, the only thing they’re going to remember their precious Johnny for is being a killer.”
“But John’s not a killer, is he?” When he didn’t answer, she looked up.
Michael was standing in front of a closed door that she assumed led to a closet. He reached up, feeling along the sill at the top, and pulled down a key.
She saw the dead bolt. Her heart stopped mid-beat. “What are you doing?”
“Enough talking,” he said, slipping the key into the lock.
Angie’s leg muscles trembled as she forced herself to stand. She backed away from him, pushing toward the couch.