

What Lies Within

By:

Clare de Lune

What Lies Within

By: Clare de Lune

Crescent City Crypt Press

New Orleans, LA

crescent.city.crypt@gmail.com

Copyright 2016 by Clare de Lune

Cover artist: Margò Wiessman

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Crescent City Crypt Press, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For Mom.

# CHAPTER ONE

Sophia: Cleanliness Equals Godliness

Sophia Varga drowned in hopelessness long ago, her responsibilities and daily life her only marionettes. The sun had long since faded and only the dull phosphorus streetlights lit the way to a rather inconspicuous warehouse near the San Francisco Airport. Sophia parked her car on the side of the building and went in, flicked on fluorescent lights, inhaled the stale air, and cursed the fact that the warehouse had no air conditioning. In one of the side rooms of the warehouse, the one with sufficient ventilation, she boiled the fat of a dead transient boy, age twenty-two, in a vat of caustic soda.

Once the pot of thick, vicious mush had melted, she would add a bottle of fragrance. Soon, the boy's remains would be packaged in beautiful thick paper and tied up with a purple ribbon. His packaging would have the words 'Everlasting Beauty's Luscious Lavender Soap' inscribed with care in fine ink. Then, he—rather, the soap--would be shipped off to Hawaii.

The melting always took time, so Sophia turned on her laptop, opened an email, and downloaded a video. A pretty young girl smiled with pained awkwardness. She was thin, with cheekbones sharp enough to cut your finger, dyed blond hair and flat brown eyes. She pivoted in the shower in slow motion, billows of soft white bubbles clinging to her body.

"When I want to feel rejuvenated, soft and clean, there's just one soap for me: The Everlasting Beauty Bar. This amazing soap takes years off your skin, leaving you feeling revitalized and youthful!"

The camera cut to the package and a close-up of a bar of soap, with a man's voice explaining how this soap made a splash in international markets, how it's made with all-natural, secret ingredients, and how it's _the_ alternative to plastic surgery.

Sophia didn't even finish watching it. She hit the 'Reply' button and her fingers flew over the keyboard:

"If our product takes years off your skin, you should hire models that don't look like they've come straight off Hooker's Row. Get rid of her and get another model."

Flustered, she huffed and clicked 'Send.'

Mere seconds passed before the reply came:

"And you should find suppliers who aren't skinny little boys or trannies."

_No use in replying,_ she thought. She dug her fingernails into her palm and waited for the anger to subside.

She stayed at the warehouse all night, and just before the sun came up, she closed up the building and headed north towards Ocean Beach. She knew he'd be there this morning, showing off his impressive surfing and swimming skills.

Paul. That was his name. It had been easy to find out. She would make him hers. She wasn't sure how to do it yet. She wouldn't use him...at least, not yet.

She gazed at him once more as he paddled out, savoring the moment, then finally, she began walking back towards her car with much reluctance. She had to sleep. The caffeine from earlier had fizzled out, its small remnants still clinging to the edges of her brain. She glanced at the rising sun and guessed the time.

The drive back up to her neighborhood was full of twists and turns, and Sophia took them with no caution. Her little Honda hung to the road in desperation, its tires squeaking on every turn.

She had been walking back from the grocery store, bags in hand, when she'd first seen Paul. He walked down the street, his pace quick and his strides long. She noticed people gave him plenty of room. He looked confident and thoughtful and it intrigued her. She followed him.

Following people had always been second nature for her. If she saw someone interesting, male or female, she'd follow just to see where they'd go, what they'd do. A person's walk revealed a lot. If they exuded a certain sense of superiority and confidence, she'd follow them out of curiosity. There was so much to learn from people. Sophia often found herself in situations where she would mimic someone she'd followed and observed. If they walked and looked around, unsure of themselves, she'd stalk. She always thought following and stalking were two different things. Following meant you admired the person for whatever reason. Stalking meant you had it out for the person.

She had been following him for so long, the condensation from her frozen food started to form a dark, wet patch on the paper grocery bag. She didn't care. Paul carried himself in a way that was so different from others, making it hard not to notice him.

He was tall with blond hair. She could tell he highlighted or dyed it, something like that. She could tell when he passed her that his eyes were blue, sapphires set into a childlike face. He had a defined jaw, broad shoulders and an Armani suit.

Back in the city, blocks away from Ocean Beach, Sophia fiddled with the lock on her door, which almost always jammed. As she wiggled the handle, she could hear her cat yowling inside the apartment. No wonder. She had been busy all night catching up on work things. Argie, her cat, was used to getting what he wanted, and that meant she had to get up at odd hours of the night to let him in and out. When you're an insomniac, demanding cats are the last thing on your worry list.

She swung the door open wider, dropped her bag on the floor and headed to the back for a long shower. She did nothing for at least ten minutes but stand in its massaging path. Then deep, luxurious sleep.

She awoke at 10:13 that evening and took her time dressing and manicuring herself to perfection. Later, she stepped out into the night and inhaled the clean, salty air. Time to have some fun.

She enjoyed the sounds of her heels tattooing on the stairs, out onto sidewalk, and the sharp, cold sting of impending autumn on her face and in her lungs, and the hum of traffic over on Market Street. Other than a few people out and about, it was quiet and she enjoyed the alone time on the long walk to the bar.

She usually slipped in and out of bars unnoticed, especially if they were dark like Club X. The only illumination glittered from a few tiny Christmas lights framing the bar, and a projector screen showing scenes from old B horror movies. She recognized a few, but focused her attention on making it to the bar and seating herself, saying "whiskey" to the annoyed bartender and getting comfortable. It took her a moment or two to get acclimated to being in public and around other people. She downed the drink and instantly took note of her soon-to-be friend for the evening out of the corner of her eye. She smiled while letting the cool rim of the glass rest against her bottom lip.

Drunk, dumb musician type.

Delicious.

* * * *

Everything felt amplified by a thousand-fold. She could feel every crease in her skirt against and between her legs. She could feel every fiber of fabric against her skin...her skin...she held out her hands...her skin had taken on a new glow. It felt alive, detoxed, supple, fresh. Energy soared through her veins like sugar. The whiskey she drank tasted wonderful, but burned her throat at the same time. She kept polishing it off in small glasses, relishing the sound of the crackling ice, tonguing the last drops of the fiery amber liquid out of the bottom.

The guy in the bloody bathtub, whatever his name was, had certainly been a musician. He'd insisted on buying her the nice bottle of whiskey, which must have cost him a couple of hundred. What _was_ his name? Scott, or Sam... something like that. Her lips curled a little when she thought about him, the way the hot blood felt on her mouth, the sound of her fingernails popping the skin on his wrist and on his neck, his hard-on still pressed against her leg.

Anyway, she'd have a lot of cleaning to do before morning rolled around. The digital clock on her microwave said 5:24 a.m., and she decided to step out on the fire escape to watch the sun come up.

She was glad she did. The sky glowed a shocking pink at first and reminded her of the inside of a seashell. Then it turned juicy orange and the fat sun slowly crept up over the San Francisco skyline. Despite the calm beauty of the early morning, something troubled her. She had a distinct feeling of impending doom. But she wasn't sure what. She realized she hadn't seen her cat since she'd returned from the warehouse. He was probably hiding from Sam-Scott. She took a deep breath and savored the scenery once more before going back inside to fix coffee and clean up the bloody mess in the bathroom.

She completed everything by mid-morning. Exhausted, she showered with the last bits of alcohol fading out of the corners of her eyes and her system. She crawled into bed, relaxing every muscle fiber and relishing the clean sheets on her nude body.

The dream started out where she and Paul were in some comfortable bed. She straddled him. She kissed him and felt every little detail, relished the texture of his lips. She awoke in a sweaty, confused fit.

* * * *

From Sophia's Journal

I don't really know exactly what I am. I know I am different. I've always felt like such an alien in this world, like I can't relate to people at all. I can only really relate to animals: they eat, sleep, hunt, mate. Life is so simple for them. I know I am too unusual to find a mate, so I always look for a Mr. Right Now.

I have been thinking about Mother lately. She was a great beauty frozen in time, and I don't recall her aging much. On her deathbed, I told her I felt an emptiness overcoming me. She smiled, but a weary look was buried in there somewhere. She tutored on her ways: how to talk to people, how to get them to do what you want, how her mind worked. I'd always wondered how she did it. For a single mother and child, we lived quite well. Strange men floated in and out of the apartment like ghosts, but I never knew they were taking care of us. After my mother died, Claude appeared like a mysterious phantom at our home. He assured me he would take care of me, and that he was one of my mother's closest friends.

He made me wary from the get-go. I didn't recognize him from the past, but he swooped in and "took care of things" with great ease and speed. Everything from then on blurred together. He made me call him Daddy and we did things I thought very strange. On the other hand, he took me on trips all over Europe. I fell in love with Paris and Budapest, two places my mother frequented. Claude even bought me a condo in San Francisco, not far from where I live today.

The condo had great bay windows that fascinated me, and we were in a posh district close to shopping, something that definitely held a seventeen-year-old's interest. Claude suggested we open a business, which I learned meant I would provide the services and he would manage the money.

Our first customers weren't exactly of the seedy sort, but I was quick to learn the true nature of our business. I remember them well: a husband and wife. She looked like a poodle and he a bulldog. She had permed hair piled high on her head and a perfect, petite nose, and he had sagging jowls. It helped. I already hated them.

I smiled as I held the door open. The woman put on a high and mighty front. She said she wanted a manicure. The man wanted a massage. They were extremely condescending and rude. They treated me like a slave and commented on my skin color and accent, mentioning how I must come from a poor place. "One of those Eastern Bloc countries, right dear?"

Infuriated, I left the room to get a few things and informed Claude of our new customers. The couple proved easy to overpower--Claude entered the room, a looming figure, lean and muscular. The woman, despite her lashing tongue, did not have even the slightest force when it came to defending herself. Our emotions ran leaps and bounds, our wallets burst with cash, and we became perfect partners in crime.

My 'Pampering Services' business continued for quite a while, especially since I learned how a body could become a beautiful contribution to the power of cosmetics...the most exquisite, deepest shade of blood red lipstick you've ever seen, rich soaps made from the finest fats...all those parts put to wondrous use for our benefit. And for those who used them. Little did they know: they were using me for forbidden sexual pleasure, Claude used them for an even higher level of unmentionable pleasures, and their leftovers were used again...sold in the shop or used to bathe, scrub, soothe and relax my clients. The entire business cycle bloomed into a beautiful, profitable circle, one that hasn't even been close to being broken since its inception.

Claude taught me everything I needed to know. Would I have helped him if I had other options? I think not.

The business was in a bustling city center spot. Everything happened with impeccable timing. Folks in the neighborhood began to become suspicious of my business partner and me. They whispered to each other about the odd smells trickling from the condominium's windows, and our even stranger hours of operation.

Claude took care of everything with a roaring house fire. We said some of the oils and the candles started it all (technically, they did), and we collected the insurance money. This was Claude's solution every time the shit hit the fan. He even told me that I should burn down the San Francisco warehouse if things got out of hand. "We only store stuff at the New Orleans location now and that'll be the best place to ship our product from. Not as many questions in New Orleans, you know what I mean? It's more laissez faire here, live and let live."

Laissez faire. Right.

Anyway, we fled to Europe and lived in luxury for some time. And our business? Well, let's just say this: thank goodness for the Internet. Our cosmetics line has always done well. As for me? The oldest profession never failed me when our profits dipped.

Claude and I moved back to Louisiana after our stint in Europe. We were tired and wanted to settle for a while. The house we found in New Orleans was one giant antique. French doors with glass knobs, iron balconies, floor-to-ceiling windows, beautiful architecture. I miss those nights sitting on my iron balcony outside my bedroom, inspecting the curly tendrils of Spanish moss hanging from the trees, the smell of magnolia and the muddiness of the Mississippi River. I was sitting out there one night when I first saw him. He was strolling along with some other sophisticated looking guy, but he stuck out to me the most. I think it was the way he carried himself--he seemed a step behind the others so he could take in his world, he looked at everything with wonder and amazement. His name was Thomas. He was sensitive and beautiful and quiet. Sort of an outcast like yours truly, and he carried around a fluffy white cat he referred to as Josephine. Thomas fascinated me, in much the same way Paul fascinates me now, and in fact they resemble each other quite a bit. Enchanted, I began to follow Thomas everywhere he went.

I think that's when I started to really learn how to stalk. Eventually, he did begin to notice me. I remember it so clearly: his look of surprise at my interest, his smile when I asked questions, and the warm, genuine kiss he planted on my cheek.

I did care about him. I suppose as much as someone like me could care about another human being. I wanted him to be my companion, but I also wanted every possible emotion that billowed from his soul as my very own. I wanted to devour his soul, to become everything he'd ever wanted.

Claude was not impressed by Thomas. Not at all. He believed I should stop toying around with him and just get back to work. Claude frequently irritated me with this kind of thing. Always. I'd find the perfect boy, but Claude was always there, lurking. Like he always does.

I want a new partner in crime, a new person in my life that doesn't crack the whip on me like Claude does. I thought that person was Thomas, but I was wrong. I wish it could be Paul.

It's often too easy to look at the world and only see all repulsive, vile people and the things they do. In every city, there are pockets of violence, murder, crime and sealed secrets, all of which fester and burn like an infected cut. Once people start to drown in this cesspool, they panic, and their hope for humanity begins to die.

I don't panic. I turn the cesspool into something clean.

Why do we do the things we do? I suppose, in a way, it's like being the director of a great show called Life—we get to play God. Claude especially. Killing provides a portal to sights unseen by no more than a handful of humans, things people only get to experience vicariously through films and books. It defies the parameters of sensation, where one could be released from that dull, daily disappointment that begins to set in beyond the margins of childhood experiences.

Killers are different. They take it all, pleasure and pain, all encompassing. Their lives are dreams, bursting beyond the boundaries of what is known to man in the present world: eat, sleep, work, fuck. They take what is wrong and make it into something beautiful. They are masters of their own realms, and they take what they want.

They are what stories are made of, like the sand that makes up miles of beaches, like stardust...

Gods.

Say goodnight to everything, for when you close your eyes, you'll be in another world, far away from here. I can do that for you...I can take you away from the pain, the worry, the stress.

And I'll make you into something better.

# CHAPTER TWO

Benjamin and the Bone

Saturday's bright and sunny weather beckoned people out of their homes, and tourists were heavily sprinkled in all the popular spots. Little Benjamin, eight-and-a-half years old, was having the time of his life. His mouth was bright indigo from blue raspberry flavored bubble gum, and he jumped over the wells at the Sutro Baths with enthusiasm and curiosity. He balanced his weight as best he could. His tennis shoes didn't provide the best traction. He looked up, waved at Daddy, and Daddy waved back and turned back around to talk to Mommy.

Benjamin sneaked closer to the edge, to the part where Daddy told him not to go.

"Too close to the water. You could fall in."

Not gonna fall in. Gonna be careful.

Something funny looking bumped up against the edge of the concrete, stuck in the sloshing waves. He wanted to see what it was. They were right on the edge of the Pacific Ocean, so he always hoped to find something cool. A shark tooth. A cool shell. Anything.

_Well, good enough_ , he thought. It did look like some kind of bone. It was big! A good find. He'd pull it out of the water and show it to Daddy. Daddy could identify pretty much anything.

His sneakers squeaked rhythmically, and he wormed his way back up to Mommy and Daddy.

"Whatcha got there, baby?" Ben was pleased Mommy asked him that. He'd explain how brave he had been. But Daddy was making a horrified face.

Somehow, Ben got a funny feeling it wasn't a bone from the sea. Judging by the look on his father's face, he realized he really shouldn't have gone to the edge.

* * * *

From San Francisco Daily

Human Femur Found in Water Near Sutro Baths

By: Randy Carver

San Francisco

Tourists were stunned after an eight-year-old found a human bone on the shores of the Pacific. The boy, who shall remain anonymous, found the bone while visiting the Sutro Baths with his mother and father.

The San Francisco Police Department was called to recover the bone. Detective Robert Black confirmed that he and partner, Ellen Wong, were involved in the recovery. Black said the bone was given to the Anthropology Department at the University of California-San Francisco for additional study. "We expect results back soon," Detective Black said, who also noted that the bone "looked like it had a good number of years on it."

At this time, police have been instructed to search for any remaining bones in the area, according to Detective Black. Black did not comment on whether or not foul play was involved. "It could have come from anywhere," he explained.

After examination at UCSF, the remains will be sent to forensic experts at the police station. They will subsequently be sealed and sent to a forensic lab for detailed investigations.

# CHAPTER THREE

Ti: Chasing the Sun West

Ti had her face pressed into Danielle's soft, cottony blond hair. She inhaled. It smelled like coconuts and sweet, tangy sweat. Ti peeked out the window again, just to confirm that yes, it was still storming. The rain offered some relief from the hot, Louisiana humidity, but not much. Mostly, it made her room feel like a balmy greenhouse.

Ti was always conscious of this great divide in class every time Danielle came over. Danielle lived in Uptown, on the other side of Audubon Park, in a huge home brimming with upper-class things and upper-class people: a doctor father, a professor mother, some expensive purebred dog called something Ti could never remember how to pronounce. Ti and her stepfather, John, lived on Tchoupitoulas in a run-down, aging shotgun house that was in serious need of some tender loving care. The shutters hung on by some miracle and John had haphazardly left an array of items on the front porch: a bookshelf to paint later, some flower pots to tidy up the jungle of a garden, tools and paintbrushes. It looked like the house was being worked on, but it never was. The whole house seemed to sag and frown and creak in agony whenever she moved through it.

Danny had been very quiet that day. She had escaped her large family's Sunday gathering and followed the muddy riverbanks to Ti's stepfather's house. Her soaked clothing formed a damp imprint on Ti's sheets.

"What's the matter with you today?" Ti asked, still nuzzling Danny's hair. Danny sighed and frowned. Danny's uncomfortable silence screamed something was wrong. Ti ignored it, spellbound by the goddess spread out on her bed.

Danny opened her mouth to talk, but all that emerged was a low squeak. She swallowed hard.

"I'm so sorry, Ti," she managed.

"What the fuck? Sorry for what?"

"I saw Marcus over the weekend." Danny didn't have to say anything else. Ever since Danny decided she was a lesbian, her ex-boyfriend, Marcus, had been creeping around in the background of her and Danny's relationship, threatening to steal her away. Ti always supposed Marcus felt emasculated in some kind of weird way, and winning Danny back would somehow magically make his dick bigger.

For a moment, Ti could say nothing. Danny shifted to meet Ti's eyes, and then flinched, as if expecting Ti to unleash some awful verbal tirade.

"Get out of here."

"Ti? Wait..."

But the look on Ti's face must have summed it all up. Danny slowly peeled herself off of the bed and crept out of the bedroom. The ancient hardwood floor barely creaked in response.

Ti buried her face into the still damp pillow Danny had her head on. Her scent lingered there, sultry and potent.

"Fuck!" Ti screamed into the pillow.

She buttoned up her shirt to go outside. Walks, even in the torrential rain, were always a good way to clear the head.

That evening, Ti sat with John in the kitchen, her clothes still soaked from her walk in the rain. They drank coffee in the dim room, the rain tinkering lightly against the window panes. Ti always found this ritual comforting: she'd watch John scoop the black grounds from the bright yellow Café du Monde tin, carefully place them in the filter so as not to spill them, then add another scoop to make it stronger. Always the extra scoop. Sometimes, they would have deep conversations, dark as the night they seeped into, and sometimes, they sat and said nothing, just enjoyed the silence.

That night, John didn't offer much condolence. At least, she didn't think so at the time.

"You need closure. Don't ever let someone run off on you on bad terms, Celestine. If something happens, you'll kick yourself in the ass." John got up to pour another cup of coffee, rich and thick like tar.

"Trust me, I know." He frowned as he blew a cooling breeze into the cup before taking a hearty gulp.

Ti knew too. Momma had loved alcohol like it was a Don Juan kind of secret lover, always visiting it, always hiding it behind everyone's back. There was no hiding the effect it had on her, though. Sober, she was normal, affectionate, and had her shit together. But her flings with alcohol drove her over the edge, made her into a depressed and angry addict. It was her struggle with alcohol that finally took her away.

Some blamed John. They fought with great fervor in those last few weeks. Even more people blamed Ti's real father, who left when Ti she was quite young. Ti only had faded memories of him, memories tainted with his strange behavior and his fights with her mother. Momma said all she needed was a drink to get her back on track. John disagreed. Momma's final "fuck you" was a self-inflicted gunshot to the head.

She was sick. She didn't get the help she needed. She never wanted it. But John still blamed himself, even years later.

Maybe it was the memory of her mother, or the heartache of what had just happened, but a lump formed in Ti's throat. It started off as a subtle knot. Then, the lump grew into a great mass. The lump made it hard to swallow or even breathe. The only solution was to sigh. A hot, iron ball of steel formed in her stomach, too.

This seemed familiar. It happened right before Momma blew her brains out.

"John," she said, gripping her stomach. "Something is wrong." John looked up at her over his coffee and opened his mouth to talk. The phone rang. They both stared at it, but Ti already knew.

John had hit the nail on the head, so to speak. Ti let Danny go, and off Danny went. She walked back home to borrow her dad's car. Then, on her way to Marcus' house, she skidded and slid the classic Lincoln Town Car into a concrete culvert.

Ti had always thought that car was a beast, but a great, friendly protective one. She couldn't imagine it being crushed into a mangled, metal jumble with Danny's blood covering the front seat. She couldn't count how many times she'd been in the passenger seat, twisting the tuner knob on the old radio, looking over at the profile of Danny's face as she drove through the bumpy streets of New Orleans.

Ti couldn't digest it. She thought about what Danny had been wearing that day, thought about that sad and thoughtful face twisted into deep rumination. That pillow retained her scent for months to come, and when it finally faded, Ti took its cue and got everything in order to leave town.

Something pulled her to the west coast. Maybe it was the off-handed comment John had once made—she had asked him where her real father was, and he mentioned he thought he was in the San Francisco area. Not that she ever hoped to run into him—her memories of him were not the fondest, and she attributed her mother's death to her father's careless ways. Or maybe she decided on California because it seemed so different to her, as if the ocean and the mountains could carve a new personality out of her, someone happier and bubblier. She could chase the sun right over the west coast horizon—the closest place she knew of where darkness came last.

John didn't blame her. In fact, he acted as if he was relieved for her.

"The west coast is a good place to go to get your head back in order. I'm always here," he told her as he leaned on her jam-packed car. That was comforting. If she failed in San Francisco, John and New Orleans would always welcome her back.

"And think about that name and number I gave you," he said in a fatherly tone. Ti grimaced and clenched the steering wheel. She started the car and gave John a nasty look. He laughed.

"I'm not about to move to San Francisco just so I can work in a coffee shop again."

"Yeah, smartass. This place isn't as crazy as Café Du Monde, okay? She's expecting your call, and you'll appreciate having that contact once you get out there and realize how expensive everything is. You can't live off your inheritance forever, and you'll blow through it in a month if you're not careful. Try USF. Take some photography classes. And call that girl at that coffee shop. She's from New Orleans, too. Don't just mope around out there, you hear me?"

She nodded. Acceptance. That was what she'd always felt with John. He never made a single comment about her sexual orientation and always pushed her further towards photography, encouraged her to join local clubs, photograph weddings, babies, graduates, anything to gain experience. He was more like an involved uncle or an older, bossy roommate than a stepfather, but since she didn't have any other family, she appreciated him more and more every day.

She smiled at him as she put her hand on the door handle to close it. He caught it.

"And remember. You can never really run away from your problems. They always come back to get you," he said. He walked towards the house and didn't look back.

* * * *

Ti hop-skipped on the slippery concrete, agile enough to avoid a fall. She knew the Sutro Baths like the back of her hand now, especially after they found that femur out here six months ago. It was already an interesting place because of the history, but now a strange aura hung around it. She peered down at the wells and watched as a foamy wave tickled the electric green algae that hung to the concrete in desperation. The powerful ocean sucked the wave back in, and the algae swayed in the other direction. Ti, always amused by this, snapped a close-up photo of the dancing algae.

Up the stairs, there was movement. Ti thought it might have been the blue-black whip of hair that caught her attention, but it also might have been the air of mysteriousness around the woman. As if on psychic cue, the woman looked back. Even at this distance, the girl could see the cold, grey fierceness in the woman's eyes. She stood watching her. The woman stared back for what seemed like an hour before breaking eye contact and walking away, pretending to look at the Golden Gate off in the distance.

Ti looked down, slightly embarrassed. She didn't mean to stare.

Wind whipped through Ti's short hair, freezing yet refreshing. She really had no idea why she stared so hard. _Then again, the woman had been unusually beautiful_ , she thought with a slight twinge of desire between her legs. She shook her head and then, almost as an afterthought, snapped a quick photograph of the mysterious woman. She packed up her camera as fast as she could, turned on her heel and headed for home.

She didn't exactly take the short way back. It was cold and rainier now, and as far as she could tell, she was only person out. That is, besides the woman. She wondered again if she was a tourist or a local. She thought it strange to see another female out on such a frigid day, alone. Maybe she did have an unseen companion off to the side. Or maybe she was just out for a moment. Either way, it was none of her business. She tried to forget about the woman, but those feral eyes haunted her for the rest of the day.

It was slow that evening at work. The coffee shop had a glowing, sleepy ambiance. Ti yawned and struggled against her drooping eyelids. She picked up a pencil and began doodling on slips of _The Daily Grind_ 's receipt paper.

Tamara, always the dramatic one, burst out of the back, looking relieved.

"I am _so_ glad to be finished with that inventory!" She blew out a breath and glanced at the receipt paper. "What have you been up to, Ms. Celestine? I see it's been pretty exciting out here this evening."

"Nothing," Ti muttered, bored.

"You do really good eyes," Tamara said as she began washing coffee cups. Ti didn't really realize it while she was doing it, but she had drawn the mysterious woman's eyes, perfect from memory, the little golf pencil doing a faultless job of capturing their intensity.

"Thanks. But don't call me Celestine anymore, _Tommy_!" Tamara rolled her eyes and flicked water at her, and Ti laughed. Thank God Tamara had a sense of humor.

"You should have stayed at USF, dear. Now you're working here full time, wasting your creative talents away. And what are you going to do with your life now?" Tamara asked in a news reporter voice as she held up an invisible microphone to Ti's face.

"You sound like my stepfather," Ti answered, waving Tamara's hand away.

"So I sound like a man?" Tamara asked in a low, baritone voice. "All that money towards a sex change and all that hormone therapy, and it didn't work. Shit."

They both laughed. Tamara was so passable, Ti was one of the only people in her life who knew the truth about her past identity. They'd grown pretty close since Ti's move from New Orleans and they had a lot to talk about—escaping the humidity by hopping in The Country Club's pool, good food they missed, and corrupt politics. It was a relief to Ti. She'd only made one friend at USF in her short time there, a quirky computer science major from Texas known as Maus, but she had lost touch with him.

"Go home. It's slow as hell and I see you're keeping yourself busy. I'll see you tomorrow."

Ti took her up on that. She went home and developed her photos, which came out okay...there were blobs of raindrops everywhere, but she was still glad she went. She came out with two pretty decent ones and kicked herself once again for not sticking with classes at USF.

She walked a few short blocks over to Tamara's place the next day before work, heading down Haight Street (which was always shrouded in the smell of weed, coffee and food) past an anarchist bookstore and around the corner to Page Street. Ti let herself in to find Tamara struggling to move an old portable heater.

"Holy shit, that thing is going to short circuit on you. You need a new one. Let me--"

Tamara looked a little taken aback. "Ha. Nah," she puffed, waving Ti away. "I barely use it. I like the chill."

Ti was still getting used to it. The short walk over left her shaking and feeling like she had been standing in a walk-in freezer. _If only I had known it'd be this cold,_ she thought.

They sat by Tamara's bay window overlooking Page Street while Tamara cut her bangs and trimmed her scraggly ends, giving her more of a hipster look. Ti thought it looked okay. She didn't care too much about her hair and clothes as she used to. At any rate, she felt glad for Tamara's company and the usual chatter about The Daily Grind's array of bizarre customers.

Ti looked down at the street, which seemed empty for the longest time until a somewhat familiar figure approached.

"I saw that woman at the Sutro Baths yesterday," she said, pointing down to the street.

Tamara stared for an inordinate amount of time before speaking. "Pretty. She looks like a high-class whore."

They both laughed. Ti thought the woman was even more beautiful than the day before. She was walking down the street, her strides quick and confident, and for some reason it made Ti think she might even live close by. Something about the woman's sleek clothing and slightly haughty appearance made her change her mind. _She probably lives in The Presidio—somewhere fancy._ Ti had a feeling she'd see her again. She thought it would be one of those things where they'd start seeing each other everywhere...they'd exchange that glance, like, "hey, I know you..." and not really say anything. Ti fantasized that she would start saying hello, and then maybe hang out. The woman seemed much more mature, but she looked young. Ti imagined that she was somewhere in her late twenties, but she carried herself like old, wise royalty.

Ti watched the woman walk away. _Hope to see you again_ , she thought, and focused her attention back on Tamara, coffee shop gossip, and hair. Ti finally left as the sun descended into the Pacific Ocean and the streetlights came on.

* * * *

It had been a while since Ti saw that woman from the Sutro Baths, but once again, she got that strange feeling, looked up, and there she was. Ti had arrived at work early and was waiting for her shift to start. She put down her paperback and quickly checked her watch. It was about three minutes until her shift started, so she hurried behind the register, clocked in, and prepared herself to take the woman's order, smirking all the while. She felt nervous for some reason, yet found it funny. She was usually so comfortable chatting up people, despite her lack of close friends.

The door opened and rattled the bells above the entrance. The stranger looked tired and a little confused. Ti tried to look welcoming, sexy and professional at the same time, and wondered if she looked creepy.

The woman looked totally unconcerned. She ordered a large house coffee, no, don't leave room for cream, thanks, and dug around in her jeans pockets for cash.

"Oh, don't worry about it. It's on the house," Ti said, hoping to sound casual.

"Umm...thanks." She dropped a couple of bills into the tip jar.

Ti took her time pouring the coffee. "You must live in the neighborhood. I see you around sometimes."

"Something like that."

_Maybe she's shy._ "Well, I just wanted to say, I am a photographer and would love to take some black and whites of you one day. I have a studio set up in my apartment. Feel free to get in touch if you're interested." It was the spiel she used on all models, but she felt better just getting it out. Ti handed the woman her business card. She regarded it for a moment and took a sip of the coffee.

"I'll think about it. Thanks for the coffee."

Ti still felt a cold place in her stomach after that conversation, but at least the woman had her number now. She would leave it up to her.

There was an extended lull in customers after that, which was good in a way. It allowed Ti to calm down. She yawned and fought off a nasty bout of boredom. Tamara stood by the espresso machine and filed her nails. They both occasionally glanced up as someone walked past the window, half hoping for some business. Tamara tensed up noticeably when the tall, handsome guy who was becoming a regular waltzed in through the door.

"Hi there. What can I get for you?" Ti said as she grinned, and Tamara rolled her eyes.

The guy ordered and flirted a little with Ti while Tamara steamed half and half. She made the drink as quickly as possible and set it down in front of him.

"Thanks, ladies," he said, and strolled out the door. Tamara said nothing.

"What's the matter with you? He's cute. Charming," Ti said, almost in a daze.

"I know that guy. He's from around here. He's kinda...creepy." Tamara wrinkled her nose.

"How so?"

"Well..." Tamara looked around. The café was dead. "I was out at that bar, you know? X. We were doing shots, just cutting loose. He came in," Tamara said as she gestured dramatically out the door. "He was really charming, like you said. Anyway, we ended up going home with him, and I will tell you this: if my friend wouldn't have been with me, I wouldn't have gone with him. No way. But I figured it'd be okay since she was with me. Anyway, his house smelled really funny and he wanted to videotape us."

"Wow."

"Yeah. He kept persisting and," Tamara shook her blond curls, "it was weird. I finally convinced her to leave with me and we called it a night, but we were polite about it. You ever meet one of those people who gives you the creeps, but you can't put your finger on it?"

"Yeah, I know what you mean. I think he's harmless though," Ti grinned. Tamara rolled her eyes.

"Would you let him videotape you?"

"Oh my god, I don't know about all that!"

# CHAPTER FOUR

Sophia: The Chaser is Chased

Sophia looked at the neat, bubbly handwriting once more. _Who puts their name and address on a card and hands it out to people?_ There were many social norms she just didn't understand at all. She stuffed it in her coat pocket and forgot about it. She definitely didn't want to call the girl and wasn't interested in posing for her, but wallowed in the compliment and the awkward affect she had on her.

She had about two hours to relax until Paul got off of work. Whatever it was that he did for a living kept him until around 8:00 in the evenings. She'd wait outside his apartment until he arrived, and then follow him if he decided to go out with Bubbles again. Bubbles...that was the nickname she'd thought up while watching the animated blonde bounce around in her seat the other night.

She needed to relax. Her mind was still occupied with the news article about the femur, even though months had passed. She remembered throwing it out there in a panic, thinking the strong Pacific tide would suck it up like a great hungry mouth and swallow it down into its depths. That was back when she hadn't quite gotten the temperature and the concentration of caustic soda just right: it didn't dissolve bones like it was supposed to. She just hoped they wouldn't find anything else. She'd thrown a lot of partially degraded bones down there.

That had been weighing heavily on her mind, but part of her always wanted to be caught so she could blame it all on Claude. When she first started, she would go to the Baths early in the morning with a backpack tossed over one shoulder. She supposed she looked like a student to the few onlookers milling about the area, but when they were posing for photos or jogging off down the paths, she would casually throw the semi-dissolved bones off the ledge. It felt good, knowing this control and power she had while looking like an innocent woman. She picked such a popular place because discarding the remnants felt almost as ballsy as stabbing them while they were in the bathtub.

She fiddled with the lock on her apartment and it opened easily this time. She swung the door open and stopped as if slapped in the face.

Something was not right...someone else had been in her apartment. She could smell it. It was a strong feeling, almost the same as being followed or stared at from across a room. She quickly locked the door behind her and checked around the living room, ready to act if she found someone in her space. She opened the bedroom door and Argie bolted out, his meows repetitive like an alarm clock.

Nothing missing. Nothing out of place.

No, no, someone was in here...

Paranoia.

She downed the rest of the coffee she was holding and checked the old sewing machine, where she kept her hunting supplies. All there. It looked like the sewing machine had been untouched.

How did the person get in? What did they want? Her mind flooded with discombobulated thoughts as she searched for the answer. It was likely that they picked the lock, came in, found nothing and then left. Then again, they could have taken the stereo at least.

Or, they could have been snooping on me.

She thought about the girl at the coffee shop, and how curious she'd seemed. It might be time to move again. She thought about Claude and how brief and terse their interactions had been over the past few months. Her heart sank a little. _What about Paul?_

She pushed the weird incident at the apartment aside and decided to find Paul. Following or stalking people always made things right again, made her feel primal, in touch with her true self. She supposed it was part of the reason Argie chased strings around. It was all part of animal instinct, something that was impossible to repress. She wondered what Paul would be up to tonight.

Paul did, in fact, meet up with Bubbles again. Sophia followed him to a cozy café, sat across the room and ordered a tea. She damn near dozed off when she got a familiar funny feeling. She looked up and he was looking at her, dead in the eyes. His lips arched into a smirk. His date twirled her hair and talked, her movements exaggerated.

Instead of returning the smirk, she was alarmed. He wasn't supposed to notice her. She downed the rest of the tea, left a five for the waitress, and gathered her things. She felt Paul's eyes on her the whole time.

This was no typical hunt. This was not like luring a dumb, unsuspecting boy off the streets, wining and dining him, getting him in the bathtub, cleaning him up and stabbing him in the heart. She was following this particular man because there was something so different about him. _How was he able to spot me? Has he always known I've been watching him?_

She thought about just approaching Paul and saying something cheesy—maybe, "hey, I've noticed you around."

It all seemed so ridiculous. She thought about her past life in New Orleans and her few attempts to connect with men without attempting to get something from them. Those incidents had not gone over well.

No. No, I'm not ready for him to see me yet.

* * * *

From Sophia's Journal

Thomas disappeared. I never knew exactly what happened to him, but I have always had my suspicions. After about one week of not being able to find him, I gave up and decided (or hoped) that he didn't want to see me anymore.

I remember a conversation we'd had. It still bothers me to this day. We were sitting on the banks of the Mississippi, just outside the French Quarter. It was a warm, windy day and the sun was dipping behind the St. Louis Cathedral. I stared at Thomas' profile, sad and pensive in the fading light. Something was bothering him.

"What is it?" I asked, but I feared my tone was too flat and uncaring. He didn't look over at me.

"You wouldn't understand. I don't..." He paused and looked up at the sky, as if holding back tears. "I don't feel like myself. This body, this life, it doesn't make sense to me. Not at all. I've thought about moving out to the west coast and starting over, but I don't think that will help. Nothing will help."

Then he did look at me. His eyes were wet and sad. "You flatter me. But it isn't enough." He got up. "I'll see you later." Then I was there on the bank, the smell of the rancid river forming a suffocating veil around me. I watched a rat weave in and out of the rocks. A homeless man murmured in his sleep behind me.

Sickening places, cities. I couldn't blame Thomas for getting frustrated with New Orleans. It was only a few weeks after Katrina, and things were still so fucked up.

I never saw Thomas again after that. I was pissed. I just knew Claude had something to do with it. He'd gotten increasingly jealous and didn't like me dating guys. I confronted him about it, but got nothing out of that conversation but a bloody lip.

Anyway, he said, we had a new business venture to concentrate on.

Claude led me to a bar located just outside the French Quarter. He said he had owned it for a while. He said this was our new cover to find "suppliers." It would be perfect because we could run it at night, drunk rejects would come in, and we'd make extra cash. I could take clients upstairs to a bedroom and there was a large kitchen with a deep-fridge where we could keep leftovers.

I explored the bar on my own. It was dark, dank, like a cave. I liked it. As I looked around, I noticed a ladder off to the corner. I heard a faint din. Scratching on the ceiling. I followed the ladder up to a dark room where I noticed an abundance of odd stains. A cat lurked in the corner of the room...Josephine! Perhaps it meant Thomas was nearby.

I was confused, scared, but called out to the cat. She approached me reluctantly, her ears back. As I picked her up, her fur prickled and she hissed.

"Quiet!" I barked, but her hiss soon morphed into a yowl. I grabbed her by the neck, clasping it harder and harder. I could feel the tendons roll and pop under the fluffy fur. Josephine opened her mouth, but only a small peep emerged. Her eyes bugged. She slumped slightly, so I let her go. She hissed again and disappeared into the shadows.

For some reason the room took on a new life. Without another living presence, my senses intensified. I realized that the stains on the floor were blood and body fluids.

A deep, disconcerting feeling filled me. Claude had been killing for a long time. I slowly realized he did not just kill those who he deemed "suppliers"--it pretty much could be anyone. The faces of random victims flashed before my eyes. I remember thinking: _I am turning into the same kind of person as Claude._

I started to leave, but Claude nipped right on my heels. I burst out of the bar, looked at the moon's luminescence and longed to be with Thomas. To be free. Claude caught me from behind and cackled in my ear. His embrace told me right then and there that he would never let me go.

I felt trapped.

"You're untamable," he murmured. "You're savage. Just like me. You're not going anywhere."

That's when I knew I could never change.

* * * *

"Hey!" Sophia heard the familiar voice ring from down below. She had been sitting on the fire escape, writing. She quickly searched around to see who said it.

"What are you doing up there?"

"Who is that?" Sophia already irritated.

"It's....Ti...from the coffee shop?"

Sophia frowned. _Oh. The photographer. Shit._

"I was just walking home and noticed you up there. Sorry to bother you," said the girl, and began to walk off.

Pathetic overkill.

Sophia sighed and looked up to the sky.

"It's okay."

The girl smiled and looked back. "Are you a writer?"

"Not exactly. It's just a journal."

"Oh, so...did you give any thought to the shoot?"

"Shoot?"

"Yeah, doing a photo shoot with me. What do you think?"

"I'm not into that kind of thing. Sorry."

There was a long pause, and the woman picked up her notebook and pen again, hoping to deter the young girl.

"Can you at least tell me your name?"

Sophia sighed. _Just what I need_. "Sophia."

The girl furrowed her brow. "You have a bit of an accent. European?"

"Something like that."

"Cool. I'm originally from New Orleans. Where are you from?"

That was too much for Sophia. "I have to go. Goodnight," she said.

It was abrupt, but Sophia didn't care. The girl looked deeply hurt, but Sophia was not interested in getting up close and personal with this young, curious little thing.

"See you around," Ti said, turning on her heel.

_Hopefully not_ , thought Sophia. _But now she knows where I live._

Sophia had never killed another female, but she often thought about it. Claude was the one who killed girls. Her victims were mostly people she was sexually attracted to. It was just more satisfying that way. The act of killing someone was like a climax in and of itself. She would often have wild sex with her victims, climax at the same time as her man du jour, and then kill him. It was really gratifying that way. She thought, at the very least, she was making them happy before they died.

Sophia thought she could make an exception to this rule. That little Ti girl was far too curious.

# CHAPTER FIVE

Black: The Dark Buried Past

Robert Black peered into his bare refrigerator for quite some time.

"Goddamnit," he said. He was tired. He grabbed a beer, cracked it open and wandered through a maze of unopened boxes and into the living room. He plopped down on his favorite recliner, the one that Rita insisted he get rid of because of its offensive pea green color, and sipped his beer.

The chair was still there. Rita was not.

Black still felt distracted by Rita's absence. They moved into this apartment together. They had barely unpacked when he came home to the note. She had taken her unpacked boxes elsewhere. That was six months ago. Black frowned and looked at his own unpacked boxes. He couldn't even remember what was in most of them, except the box in the corner with the photographs. He wanted to burn that particular box. He was afraid to look in it.

Black swilled the beer, which was a bit warm because he couldn't get the setting on the fridge just so. He thought some more about Rita.

Rita told him she was leaving because he was pushing fifty and had no chance of a work promotion, but he suspected there was someone else. Of course there was. Things hadn't been right since Jason disappeared. That was two years ago. Black looked at the box in the corner again, knowing the photographs inside would bring up a world of hurt. He and Jason shared the same eyes, the same sandy blond hair, and the same tall, lumbering build. Looking at those pictures would remind him of his own past, the mistakes he made, the pain he caused his so-called family.

He thought he and Rita would grow closer after their son disappeared. Pain could either tear a relationship to shreds or bring two people closer together, but their problems just got worse. He thought he could finally marry her after all those years together. Be responsible. Be a better man. Grow up. She said no.

For the first time in a long time, he admitted to himself that Rita probably blamed him for their son's disappearance. Wasn't she partially responsible? _I had to work long hours. Why wasn't she looking out for Jason? Why did it all have to fall on me?_

He swilled the rest of his beer, wincing at the warm froth at the bottom. _Why? Because you're the man, Robert. You were supposed to be teaching Jason how to be a man, too_. But he hauled ass at age fifteen, right when boys are on the cusp, right at the point when they're becoming men.

Something like that wasn't supposed to happen to a cop. Cops protected their families. He felt too fucked up to marry the mother of his son, though, and too sucked up into his own little world to pay attention to Jason. Now, two years later, Jason was still missing. _He'd be seventeen now,_ Black thought.

Something beeped off in the distance. Black was confused until he realized it was his cell phone. He still wasn't used to the little annoying gadgets. He cursed while he tried to locate it.

"Yeah?" he said gruffly.

"It's Wong. You sleeping or something? Get down here. You need to see this."

_Shit,_ he thought. His partner always called at the worst times. Black hung up, cursed again, downed the beer and threw on some clothes to head down to the station. He caught sight of himself in the mirror on his way out. Five days' worth of dirty blond stubble, hair that looked like he'd stuck his finger in an electric socket, bags under the eyes. His once clear blue eyes were bloodshot. A beer gut had gradually taken shape.

"No wonder she left, you slob," he said to the Robert in the mirror.

His partner was looking at some paperwork when he arrived.

"So, it's definitely a human bone."

"What?" Black needed some caffeine. He fumbled with the coffee maker.

Wong glared at him. "Robert! The bone that kid found at the Sutro Baths."

"I could have told you that. Is that why you called me all the way down here?"

"Yes and no.... they found more. Tons. They did a search down there and found an underwater graveyard. Most of them looked partially dissolved. We had labs run and it looks like it could be from sodium hydroxide."

"You're kidding," he said as he nearly dumped coffee grounds on the pristine kitchenette counter. "Lye?"

"I'm not kidding. Caustic soda can dissolve bodies. Mexican mafia uses it all the time. Looks like what was out near the Sutro Baths are male human bones, but we haven't placed all of them. We found a few pelvises. Make some extra coffee."

"How many bodies we talkin'?"

"I'm not sure. Quite a few."

"Interesting." Black mused for a moment. He chewed the inside of his cheek pensively. This could be a good case. Good enough to get him promoted. And good enough to get his mind off of Rita and Jason. He took a seat next to his partner.

"What else we got?"

Hours passed before Black realized the sun would be up soon. He hadn't worked this hard on something in years. Combined with the seven cups of coffee he'd had, the feeling was strangely exhilarating.

"Shit," Wong sighed. She looked tired and haggard, yet oddly beautiful as the early morning light from the small office window illuminated her face. Black continued to stare as if listening to her thoughts. Her black hair was peppered with grey, but her skin was still golden and smooth—she was only ten years into homicide, so it wouldn't be long before the stress caught up to her. _As it has with me,_ he thought, glancing down grudgingly at his gut.

"You're thinking of something. Share."

"Who would be ballsy enough to dump a body out there? Why are we finding so many bone fragments that match up with male skeletons? Could be male prostitutes or something like that," she mumbled as she flipped through files.

"It's the Pacific. We're lucky to have found as much as we did. I'm surprised most of them haven't been washed out by the tide."

"It's strange...it suggests that they were just dumped right over the cliffs or something."

"Well, they were." Black poured more coffee and thought about it. "But there's really no consistency. There are a few women here, too. All different ages. Maybe it's a gay serial killer, like what's-his-face..."

"Gacy?"

"Yeah. But who knows. Let's see which dental records match up with missing persons reports and dig up what we can..." Black trailed off. _Missing persons._ Jason would be on that list. _Are you here?_ He thought as he looked at the tagged bones lined up like soldiers on the table.

"Robert, it'll be fine." Wong looked at him with a clearly defined look of sympathy spread across her face, the same look he got from most of the people in this department when they couldn't locate Jason. _I'm sick of people feeling sorry for me._

Wong huffed and swiped up the records. He guessed his lack of response left her feeling disgruntled. _Who cares?_ He thought as he watched her plant herself at the computer across the room, switch on the monitor and squint at the screen. They'd been partners for about a year now, back when Black started showing up to crime scenes with his shirt untucked or on backwards. On his worst days, he'd show up completely hammered. So he got a partner. A woman. He knew Wong could tell he resented her, and he felt like he had every right to resent her. _She's a fucking babysitter._

Black chewed the inside of his cheek as he thought. Lots of tourists constantly flowed in and out of the Sutro Bath area. It was a busy spot. There was no way. He thought about stationing himself up there to watch. _No, stupid._ The papers were already out about the femur. No one would be dumb enough to dump there again.

Or would they?

He walked over to Wong's computer and lurked over her shoulder. She clicked through the missing persons database.

"We don't have much to go on until the dental records come back."

"I'm going down there. I seriously doubt we'll see anyone else dump anything after that news article, but it's possible some of those kids who hang out there may have seen someone. Can you stay here and keep looking, see if anything stands out?"

He saw her head move up and down. She didn't say anything else. Neither did Black. He grabbed his coffee to go and hit the slick San Francisco streets.

# CHAPTER SIX

Ti's Visitor

Ti's pink sock-covered feet bobbed on top of the coffee table as she watched an old Elvira movie. She'd seen this one too many times but always re-watched it as if it were brand new. She watched it when she needed a diversion from life. It was a good movie to get her gears switched. The rest of her body had comfortably sunk deep within the depths of her old green Papasan chair.

Today was one of those days. Danny had been popping in and out of her mind all damned day. She refused to let the memories wash over her. It had been almost three years now. She needed to get on with life. Danny's face was now frequently replaced with Sophia's. That didn't make Ti feel any better—much worse, in fact. She felt that Sophia was too far out of her reach.

She was so lost in thought that it was a shock to hear a knock at her door. With her nerves still glued to the chair, she wondered who on earth it could be. Tamara was her only regular visitor, and she was at work today. Mail delivery? The wrong pizza? She wondered if it was worth getting up for.

Ti got up and smoothed her hair and tugged at her clothes. She hoped it would just be the mailman, but a small twinge of desire hoped it would be Danny, back from the dead, or Sophia. Neither was likely.

It was true, though. Here stood the woman she had been obsessed with since day one, even though they had only exchanged about ten sentences that weren't about coffee. She had been fascinated with the feral, gaunt look framed by Sophia's lustrous, black hair. Ti had masturbated to burned-in images of Sophia's face and lithe body, all while hoping she would randomly call her or show up at her doorstep.

"May I?"

"Um...what?"

Sophia laughed, and it sent icicles down Ti's spine. The sound was eerie and detached somehow.

"I'm sorry. Please, come in."

The woman's lips stretched out into a strange smile, and Ti furrowed her brow for a moment. The woman entered the apartment cautiously, as if looking for something that might attack her. Her grey eyes darted around the room.

"I'm here to talk to you about those photographs after all."

"Oh? Interested in modeling?"

"Not quite. I'm interested in architecture. I was wondering if you could take a few black and whites of the neighborhood for me, if you're into that sort of thing. I need something new to dress up my place. I'd pay you."

Ti was disappointed, but she agreed. She wanted lasting images of Sophia, something to replace the once-faded images in her head.

The woman seemed a bit skittish after the agreement, as if she wasn't sure what to do next. It dawned on Ti that she might be similar to her in personality, and then she quickly tried to empty the thought out of her mind. Sophia was way too attractive to be a loner. She probably had five dates a week and men falling all over her. Maybe she was acting fidgety because she wanted something else. At any rate, the experience was giving Ti a strange feeling.

"Do I make you nervous?" Ti asked, although she was surprised to hear herself say it. She was thinking it, but hadn't meant to say it out loud. The woman stared at her as Elvira undulated on the television next to her. Sophia's face was expressionless, quite the contrast against Elvira's flirtatious, suggestive body language.

"It's not just you. People in general make me nervous," the woman responded. Ti wasn't even sure she saw her lips move. The comment hit home, familiar like the movie playing in the background.

"I know what you mean," was all Ti could muster. She wanted so much to verbally resonate with Sophia, to make her feel more comfortable, to show her that they were alike. Sophia stood up.

"What is this you're watching?" she asked.

"You've never heard of Elvira?"

"No. I don't own a television."

Ti was confused, but got up to walk her guest to the door.

"I'll call you and explain what I want in detail. Enjoy your movie."

Ti watched the woman walk down the stairs.

"Goodbye," she called out faintly. She felt unexpectedly drained, exhausted, as if she needed caffeine. It was only 6 o'clock in the evening, but she felt like turning in. She crawled into bed and dreamt of Sophia, but when she woke up, she felt oddly embarrassed and unable to face the world. She mostly just wanted to crawl under a rock and die after that visit from Sophia. She was starting to really understand where that phrase came from. But she really wanted some validation from Sophia, some minute sign that she was interested. The only thing she could gather was that Sophia only wanted the pictures: strictly business, nothing more. That disappointed Ti tremendously, but she was grateful for the opportunity to interact with her on some level. She'd take anything, even a business relationship. Any opportunity to talk to her was good enough.

Still, she wondered if seeing her was only making it worse. Ti was starting to wonder if she should move away, back to New Orleans, then quickly negated that idea. _No_. Memories of Danny still lingered there like a heavy, suffocating fog.

She didn't remember this much pain with Danny, probably because she had eventually won Danny over and had slept with her. This thing with Sophia proved itself to be a much different animal, one that Ti felt she wouldn't be able to cage. _She most certainly doesn't like women,_ Ti thought as she slowly edged herself out of bed and rubbed her eyes.

_Here we go again._ A day didn't go by where Ti didn't think about her. It was torture, but a strange, bittersweet one.

_Love,_ she thought.

# CHAPTER SEVEN

Sophia: Sated and Stalking

Sophia was pleased. She looked forward to seeing that girl again. She licked her lips and smiled now, feeling much better just by being in the girl's presence. She had so much nervous energy! Perhaps it was her youth and abundance of curiosity, but it didn't take long for Sophia to feel rejuvenated after the visit.

She knew it wouldn't last for long. Just long enough to carry her through the rest of the evening, until she could find another supplier. A huge order had just come in from Frankfurt, and she was running low on fat.

_Tonight_ , she thought. _It has to be tonight._

Something about the commotion at the Sutro Baths unnerved her, scratched at her psyche like an unfiled fingernail. It was irritating and left her faintly marked.

She felt weak, as if she needed to kill again to get a fix. She often made a blood mask from her kills, and she swore it made her skin feel more supple, detoxed. She imagined someone like Ti would have dark red, untainted blood that would give Sophia a whole new semblance of youth and vigor. Perhaps Claude was right. Perhaps she should start thinking about using girls as suppliers.

From Ti's apartment, she hiked up the streets back to her apartment to prepare for her ritual. No club hopping for her tonight. Tonight, she'd lure a young street punk of some sort with promises of food, sex, and money. This was one of her favorite games. By filling little punks' hearts with hope, they took on a new outlook on life. Their emotions grew deeper and appreciation ran thick. They were also eager to please her.

Transporting the bodies back to the warehouse from her apartment was always an interesting challenge, but doable. Especially if they'd been on drugs for some time.

She dressed in a form fitting black dress with black stilettos, painting her face thickly with lavish makeup. She adorned her pale neck and bony wrists with eye catching, antique jewelry. She remembered Claude buying it for her at one of the shops out here in San Francisco.

The clouds in the sky, pregnant with rain, threatened to burst at any moment. Sophia knew this would only help her. Punks always wanted to get out of the rain, no matter how tough they seemed.

Sophia maintained a love/hate relationship with the Haight District. Every weekend, tourists flocked like lemmings to this area to gawk at the Haight Ashbury intersection, as if it was still something to marvel at. True, some of the original shops from the sixties were still there, but it wasn't the same. Sophia's mother lived in Santa Cruz in the sixties. She always told Sophia how news of the happenings in this area trickled down the coastline, but she kept her distance from San Francisco in those days.

Her first stop was near the grocer just past Ashbury. As usual, she saw him hunched over inconspicuously, a thin figure cloaked in black who just looked like he might have been waiting for a ride.

"Maus," she said. She kept her voice quiet.

He jumped and turned to her. "You're late," he quipped, but winced just a little after the comment, as if he expected her to smack him. "I'm sorry—it's just, I have other clients, and Roofies are always hard for me to get."

"Right. Here." She held her hand out, palm down, and passed him the money. He eyed it with a creased brow.

"It's all there, plus a tip. Do I ever short change you?"

"No," he said, his voice barely audible as he handed her the bag of pea green pills.

"Good. I'll call you when I need more."

She felt his eyes on her as she continued down Haight.

At the very end of Haight Street near Golden Gate Park, the smell of potent cannabis, green, piney and tangy, hung in great heavy puffs in the night air. Many of the punks in this area were transients in the city: they were usually friendless, hungry, drunk and/or strung out on a variety of the strange drugs that flowed up and down the arteries of the coast.

One young boy, probably only twenty, instantly made eye contact with Sophia as she approached. He looked near starved. His bones jutted out in strange angles through his clothes, his green Doc Martens looked too large for his chicken bone legs.

The boy was probably handsome at some point. He had long, golden blond hair and brown eyes that looked like they had seen too much, and downturned lips...beautiful and sensual, like a feline's mouth. Sophia approached him and smiled slightly. She crouched down so she could meet him at eye level. The boy smelled faintly of soap tinged with greasy food. Sophia's nose detected a slight indication of some kind of chalky pill coursing through his veins. Probably pain killers. Sophia guessed he hadn't been out on the street very long. He had hunger written all over his face, yes... but it was a hunger he was not quite used to just yet, a hunger that suggested he had only been away from the warm comforts of a roof over his head and a cooked supper for a short period of time. Sophia liked that. That meant he'd be desperate, and that some meat and fat still clung to his muscles. He hadn't been on the streets long enough for his blood to acquire that drug-tainted, medicinal taste.

"How would you like to come home with me?"

The boy's eyes flickered with hope. Sophia's heart fluttered with anticipation. She curled her right hand up into a little ball, her sharp fingernails creating delicate little half-moons into her palm.

"I'll give you something to eat. A place out of the cold and the rain." By now, the other punks were on to her and were whooping and hollering. The boy eyed her necklace.

"You rich or something?"

"Or something. Come with me," Sophia's voice sounded gruff and pushy, but she guessed the boy didn't notice or care. She held out her hand. The boy took it, and she helped him up with a strong arm.

Back home, Sophia watched with interest as the boy wolfed down fine loaves of fresh sourdough bread, rich cheeses and meats that she had just purchased earlier that day. He gulped down half a bottle of red wine.

"Where are you from?" she asked, not really caring.

"Portland."

"I used to live there."

"Yeah? It's boring."

The boy inhaled the last bit of food, and with a still full mouth, asked her, "So, um, what is it you want me to do for you?"

"Do for me?"

"Um, yeah. That's why you picked me up, right?"

Sophia couldn't help but laugh. "Let's get you cleaned up first. I like my boys to be nice and clean before we begin."

That should have been a hint for the boy, but he wiped his hands, picked his teeth, and followed through the living room.

"I thought you said you weren't rich," the boy said, still sucking bits of cheese and meat off his fingers.

"Depends on what you mean by rich."

"You have a lot of nice shit. Where did it all come from?" the boy asked as he marveled at the lush, baroque-themed room. The primary colors of the room were gold, off-white, black and dark blood red, creating a warm, turn-of-the-century Gothic vibe. Sophia had collected paintings from around the world, which she'd had framed in elaborate imprinted vegetation and flowers of brassy gold.

"Is that you?" The boy nodded to one particular painting of a woman sheathed in a velvet black drape, her burgundy red lips standing out against the off-white backdrop like rubies.

"That's me in France," she answered, amused at the boy's impressed reaction. "This way."

Sophia gently cuffed the boy's bony wrist with her fingers. She glanced down and admired the intricate little blue and lavender networks of veins underneath the taught, pale skin.

Sophia looked deep into those brown puppy dog eyes and smiled.

The boy was attractive. Sophia really noticed this as she watched him bathe. He did indeed have muscle still clinging to his bones. His long hair was still shiny and silky. She watched as he wrung it out, a thick, strong damp rope of dark blond. His wet skin looked delectable, the color of it in and of itself was so inviting: rich, dark maple. Sophia licked her lips and moved to uncross and cross her legs. As she did so, she could feel her panties shift between her legs, a slight little tease as the thin strip of fabric pressed up against her clit.

"You look like a surfer kind of guy. You sure you're from Portland?"

The boy laughed, revealing an even line of white teeth. "Yeah. I swam. Maybe that's what you're picking up on."

"Maybe." Sophia moved to taste his lips and the boy cooperated. They tasted like soap and remnants of the sandwich and wine.

The boy definitely did the trick. She slept like the dead, despite Argie's occasional after-dinner commentary.

Awake and still satisfied, she could now re-focus her attention. With dusk settling in the air, she set out onto the sidewalk, rounded the corner, and headed down to watch Paul entertain his latest date.

It was a brunette this time. She seemed much less animated than Bubbles...actually, almost lifeless. Paul could sense it too. He yawned when his date was not looking.

Sophia had positioned herself where she could see Paul's full face and about a third of his date's. Sophia sipped her wine and tried to focus her keen ear on their conversation.

"I just don't know what to do now," the date said. Sophia thought she saw the woman's bottom lip trembling a little. Paul's brow furrowed in concern and he cocked his head.

"You'll be just fine," he said to her. He reached out and covered the woman's hands with his own.

Sophia looked on, curious. Paul seemed genuinely concerned about whatever this woman was going through. Sophia felt a bit jealous. Empathy. She wasn't sure she had an ounce to give to anyone. She couldn't remember feeling it for someone...maybe Thomas to some degree, but that was something different, not quite empathy. It was more as if she didn't want to share Thomas with anyone. He was one of her obsessions, but as far as her concern for his well-being, she wasn't sure it was there. Thomas was more like a prized possession to her.

Maybe Argie, too. She did care about the cat. But she was more interested in keeping him around as a companion and fulfilling his basic needs. She didn't feel sorry for him, but she could understand he had basic needs and wants. Argie was easy to relate to. People were not.

What was the brunette to Paul? How was it that he could feel so much concern for her well-being? He must. His facial expressions told her so.

Paul and his date weren't even close to finishing their meal. Sophia got up to make a quick restroom run.

There was no one else in the restroom. Sophia looked at her emaciated, pale reflection. She furrowed her brow and cocked her head, imitating the gesture she saw Paul making earlier. Instead of looking concerned, she looked angry and intimidating. She smiled at her reflection and noticed her eyes did not crinkle around the edges. They did not change at all. Irritated with herself, she went back to her table.

They were now preparing to leave. Paul helped his date into her coat and put his arm around her. That was another thing. Paul was touchy feely with all of his dates. Sophia couldn't stand being touched unless she was in the mood for it. Paul couldn't seem to get enough of it.

She waited until they left the restaurant to follow them. Outside, light rain came down in a misty, cool curtain in the chilly San Francisco evening. Sophia pulled her hood over her hair and stayed far behind the couple. They were still talking softly. Paul's voice sounded calm and soothing, and the woman sniffled every so often.

Crying. That was another one she didn't get. Sophia felt a mangled barbed wire cut through her heart when her mother died, but the tears never came. She felt too dried up and empty to express anything. Besides, Claude moved in right after her death and began to "take care of things." Sophia grimaced at the memory and looked at the damp sidewalk. When she looked up, Paul was peering over his shoulder, his blue eyes locked on hers. Sophia became alarmed. She thought about stopping and staring back, but her instincts kicked in, and luckily, she made herself keep her pace. She looked up at an intersecting street.

Fine. I'll make the block and go back to his apartment in a moment.

She turned down Geary and pretended to be on her way. In about five minutes, Paul would be at his doorstep, trying to convince the brunette to come inside. No matter. In the same amount of time, Sophia would round the block and be in a perfect position to spy on them.

Sophia mused as she rounded the corner. Maybe she could approach Paul with some problem, or pretend to look sad and hope that he'd approach her. From what she could tell, he was interested in helping people out. Many of his dates looked as if they were in the midst of emotional crises.

Sure enough, the two were standing right outside Paul's complex. Paul had his arms on the woman's shoulders, and her head was down. She was crying now, and Paul had that same look of concern on his face.

Sophia wanted his arms around her, wanted him to look at her that way. She stayed still. Watching this scene was absolutely necessary. If she wanted him, she'd have to know about him, and she'd have to keep her distance and watch him carefully.

He won't see me. I can go out on my own, unnoticed most of the time. I can observe people and drink their energies from afar. People are curious creatures. I do wonder how someone can be so empathetic, so caring, but have the same heightened senses as myself. How do they care? How can it not be superficial?

She lingered in the shadows and watched them talk. The woman's voice rose and fell in pitch, unlike her own flat, ineffective voice. She supposed that was why she observed people. _I don't know. I can't care. I think I did at one time, sometime before Claude showed up in my life. He made me not care. I really think he made me the way I am._

Paul's date contorted her face in strange ways and Sophia made a mental note to try them out in the mirror later. Deep inside, she knew this made her strange, an outcast. _I still do not know what I am. Or who I am, really. I know I am good with my business: it's been lucrative, passive income for me for a long time now. I know I have a need to control others, but it's also for business. It serves many purposes. I still don't know why I allow myself to obsess over certain people and want to control others._

They say you're obsessed with certain people because they have something you lack. Paul's got charm. He has a heart.

# CHAPTER EIGHT

Tamara and the Tall Order

Tamara drummed her nails on the countertop and waited for the little snot nosed brat to order. Tamara guessed she was from Marin and that she probably drove a Jetta, bought by Daddy. These kinds of girls set Tamara's teeth on edge. _Order a latte. With skim milk. You know you want to._ Marin girls always ordered skim milk lattes.

Tamara wanted to laugh when she finally did order the latte, but she bit her tongue.

She hadn't noticed the guy she was with—he fell in step behind the Marin girl, but it began to register when he smirked and locked his eyes with her. That sadistic little grin told her that he enjoyed the fact that she was having a hard time placing him, and then a familiar chord struck her. Chills ran up her spine in little icy spikes of adrenaline. The same penetrating eyes that stared at her from behind a video camera. She had to hand it to him. He blended in very well. It was as if he became a different person every single time she saw him. But it was him all right. Tamara cursed herself for not remembering him right away.

He ordered a plain black coffee. She hated the way his fingers brushed her palm when he handed her the money, and she hated the way he looked down at her. Most of all, she hated the fact that little Ms. Marin didn't seem to have a clue about what was going on. In fact, she seemed absorbed in her own thoughts, unsure of what to do with her latte, and on the verge of a meltdown.

Tamara watched the pair interact. The guy talked animatedly and Ms. Marin smiled a little more each minute. Tamara tried to ignore them as much as possible, but it was hard not to eavesdrop on their conversation. It was pretty clear that Ms. Marin, despite her good looks and the fact that cute guys wanted to buy her expensive coffee drinks and make her smile, was depressed about something. And this guy, whoever the fuck he was, was trying to make her feel better. _More like trying to get in her pants,_ Tamara thought as she occupied herself with dishes.

Ms. Marin left with a satisfied look on her face, still carrying her skim milk latte. Tamara prepared herself. She knew the creep would come over and talk to her, but when she made eye contact with him, he just held her gaze and sipped his coffee. She felt a little skittish since they were alone in the shop together now, so Tamara sighed and put her hands on her hips, raised her eyebrows in dramatic irritable fashion. The man chuckled and got up, walked to the counter.

"I already know what you're going to ask me. The answer is no."

The man laughed. "How do you know what I was going to ask? I respect that you've stepped away from your wild past."

"And I'm doing just fine now, thank you very much. I don't need your money."

"I see that. But don't forget what got you started," he retorted in a low, baritone whisper. He reached out and wrapped his finger around one of her curls.

"Don't touch me!" she hissed. He chuckled again.

"Where's your little friend?"

"You mean Celestine? She works here for me. And no, she's not an escort. So fuck off."

"I'm talking about Rikki." The man's tone was now husky, serious. He made a face as if he realized he slipped up. "I miss her, you know?" This time, sugar coated sweetness.

"I'm sure you do. Rikki still works. You can find her in the Tenderloin."

"The Tenderloin, huh? Is she with an agency or is she independent now?"

_Stupid jerk_ , Tamara thought as she bit her tongue. The question was loaded with sarcasm.

"Obviously, if she's in the Tenderloin, she's independent. She's....um..." Tamara paused, her mind bouncing back to a time when voluptuous Rikki had been bubbly and cute. The last time Tamara had seen her, she was somber and had lost her curves. She'd probably need the money. Tamara hesitated in telling the man Rikki's exact hangout, but she figured she'd be doing the girl a favor by sending her some business. The man was a creep, but he had money. Lots of it. His wealth had been absolutely evident that time she'd gone back to his place with him, and since she actually knew where he lived, she thought it wouldn't be much harm in hooking him up with Rikki's number.

"Here. I'll just write it down." Tamara thumbed out a clean napkin and scribbled down the location.

"Thanks, doll." The man fetched a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet and deposited it into the tip jar. He turned on his heel in a quick, practiced motion and nudged his way out the door. Tamara's mouth set into a deep frown as a steady and powerful wave of queasiness passed through her.

# CHAPTER NINE

Sophia: A Blood Bond

Sophia felt a heavy presence of paranoia tapping her on the shoulder. Something felt wrong. Argie knew it, too. He paced endlessly and frequently paused at the door, looked at her and opened his mouth, as if to say, "Will you please let me outside?"

Sophia didn't dare. Argie wasn't going anywhere tonight. Neither was she. Not for a while, anyway. It was dark with a sheet of mist in the air, but she still had plans to check on Paul later that evening.

Argie paced a tense circle around the kitchen table where she sat. She watched him for a moment to distract herself. His fur prickled, making him look about ten pounds heavier. She listened carefully for noises outside.

There it was. Something outside, just below the fire escape. Sophia looked at the digital clock on the microwave. 9:14 p.m. She tiptoed over to the balcony and peered out the window. _Yes_. Someone was definitely outside. A homeless person, possibly. Or maybe the person who broke into her apartment. Sophia could practically smell the same pheromones that lingered in her apartment the day of the break-in. It was as oddly familiar now as it was then.

She continued to keep her eyes locked on the area the noise came from. _There!_ She saw movement from the dumpsters.

She felt disappointed. _So it was a homeless person._ She sighed and started to leave her location at the window when she saw movement: a pair of black gloves, leather glistening in the moonlight.

They looked familiar. She puzzled over who she saw wearing them. The young girl's face immediately popped into her head, but she wasn't sure that was right.

Argie let out a concerned yowl and Sophia lost sight of the gloves and movement. She scowled at Argie, but felt confident she had enough information for the time being. She decided to leave it be and get dressed to go out.

* * * *

Sophia wondered what Paul could be up to this evening. She had never seen him take public transit. She hated it herself. It always left her faintly sick, as though some strange entity had sucked out her soul. The bright lights burned her already sensitive eyes, and the constant chatter and roaring, demonic sound of the bus accelerating made her feel overwhelmed. And the smell. The smell was like a toxic gumbo of body odor, strong enough to make her gag.

She shifted uncomfortably against the blue fabric covered seat and stared at the back of Paul's head. Following him on foot was much more comfortable. She had the shadows to veil her and she could get away quickly if she needed to. Public transportation was different. _What if he recognizes me?_

It was a short ride. Paul began to gather his coat and umbrella when the operator announced that the Civic Center was approaching.

Sophia kept him in her sights and made an extra effort to stay low-key. Her stalking would be much more apparent since they were both outside of their own neighborhoods. But part of the reason she was on this daring expedition in the first place was the hope that he'd catch her. If confronted, maybe he'd be flattered that a lost love sick puppy was following him around, totally enthralled by his every move.

Women don't like stalkers, but men are totally different.

All of her victims had blushed or smiled with a glint in their eyes when they noticed her staring at them.

A blast of cold air greeted her as she stepped off the train and followed Paul. The chilly, humid breeze provided relief from the stifling, stagnant air inside the station. Sophia wished there was a way to open windows on public transit without pissing off confrontational passengers. Public transit made her thankful she had her Honda, even though it was a piece of shit. At least she could roll down the windows.

Paul didn't go far before greeting some street musician with a guitar. They talked for a moment, and the busker pointed up the stairs. Paul thanked him, dropped a Washington into the guitar case and headed up the stairs.

_Where the hell is he going?_ This wasn't the best area. Paul often frequented lavish restaurants and trendy places. This area was run-down and sad.

Paul approached a young woman who was sitting with her back against the concrete wall. The young woman didn't move or say anything for some time, as if she was mulling something over, and then got up and followed Paul down 7th Street. Sophia's nose wrinkled at the smell of garbage and urine, so strong it stung her nostrils and burned the back of her throat. She gulped and quickened her pace to catch up with the suspicious pair as they disappeared into a dark alley. She hung back and crouched, using the shadows of the looming buildings as her cover.

They talked for a few minutes, and then Paul put a hand over the girl's mouth. His other hand pushed her back against the dingy brick wall, and her high heel crashed into a mucky puddle. Paul's face changed from soothing to venomous. She knew that look. That was the face she put on when she was attacking her own victims. Sophia licked her lips and shifted her weight, excited. The woman was nervous, and her pulsating energy was drifting through the air. Sophia lapped it up like a hungry pup.

Paul thrashed around with her in an attempt to pin her arms above her head, and the girl kicked and pushed against him. He slapped her. He reached down below and jerked her skirt up over her hips and ripped her thong off. The girl let out a scream, but Paul muffled her with his hand. He unzipped his pants and gripped his erection, then pounded it into the girl, taking a few strokes to get it in. Sophia watched the woman wince and writhe under Paul's weight. Sophia could practically feel the girl's energy fizzling out like a pathetic neon light. Was it the rape? Sophia guessed so, although she suspected that her nervousness would spike, not diminish like this.

She was confused--then she smelled it. Sourly sweet and familiar. Copper and metal, with a hint of rust and salt. Blood. Sophia squinted through the shadows. Yes, it was everywhere now, pooling around the woman's abdomen and trickling down her legs. The woman's energy was nowhere to be felt, either. It had finally faded out. She was gone.

Paul neatly wiped the knife off on the woman's shirt, and its blade shimmered, so bright it almost hurt.

_What just happened? How could this be?_ As a thousand questions swam around in her head, her body stiffened, like icicles had formed up the length of her esophagus. She felt a strange, intense need to urinate.

_Should I run? Stay here?_ He held the dead girl in place for some time before he moved away from her body. She slumped and collapsed, and Paul walked in the other direction, leaving her like a used up piece of garbage.

She was long gone. She was surprised to see Paul walk away from the body without disposing of it. This concept was foreign to Sophia. She always got rid of her bodies. She was paranoid that evidence would point back to her.

After she regained her composure, Sophia stood up. Her muscles felt locked into place in that crouching position for so long that they ached and she had a hard time standing up. The smell of the blood was getting to be too much. Her mouth flooded with saliva. Sophia was not sure if she wanted to throw up or take a closer look at the body, but the prospect of checking out Paul's handy work got the best of her. She tiptoed over to the slumped body, careful not to get too close. _No blood on the shoes._ The girl's lifeless body was in the fetal position, and Sophia could tell from the sheer volume of blood that Paul had stabbed her in the heart. _So, he does it just for fun_.

Footsteps in the distance startled her back into reality. She fled back to the main street, her mind racing.

As the bus crept back through the city towards the Presidio, the humidity felt like it spiked, making it harder and harder for Sophia to breathe. She felt like gasping for breath.

She did not sleep that night. Instead, she sat in her apartment, cozy enough, wrapped in an old blue quilt. The rain outside pattered against the windowpane, collected in neat little spherical pools, then trickled down in sparkling rivulets. Sophia watched them for a long time, fascinated, letting her mind drift to the events of the evening.

Paul had defined shoulders, a tapered torso, and tight waistline. She remembered seeing his body twist and contort perfectly while he fucked the girl, his strong, controlled movements when he plunged the knife into her, and how his body visibly relaxed when he finished the job. Even now, going back to the memory, she found herself as wet as she was before. She lay back on the loveseat, letting the threadbare blue quilt pool around her legs and shoulders. She wished she could have done this while watching him...if only she'd been able to, it would have provided the most intense climax. This was something she was positive of.

Now, she could only try to recreate the event in her mind. Deep in her skull, she formed his eyes, their intensity, and the sensual curve of his mouth, his dimples, and the genuine-looking mask he wore for the world. She found it fascinating, mysterious. How did he do it?

Her hand wandered down, gently pressed against the material of her panties. How was he able to look so normal, yet get away with something so abnormal?

Usually, it did not take her long to reach an orgasm if she was thinking about a particular fixation. She moved her fingers deftly, her clit already engorged.

She pressed harder with her index and middle finger, thinking of him easily overpowering the girl, the quick glimpse of his cock, how he had to pump a couple of times to fill her up all the way. Perhaps for a whore, she was tight. Sophia pushed her panties to one side and continued to stroke as she thought. Soon, she could almost feel him inside of her, and it didn't take her long to soak her own fingers.

At some point during her daydream, the power had gone out. The low electrical hum of the apartment was dead. Argie was somewhere in the bedroom, fast asleep. Sophia could hear the hustle and bustle out on the street. People were freaking out, honking and yelling at each other. But she had been through this many times before. She sighed and lay back on the loveseat, wrapping the quilt back around her. She remembered being without power in the past: cold rooms, slick city streets, the chill so harsh it seeped in right through your bones.

Something tapped at the door and Sophia jumped. It could have come from the rooftop. She glanced over at the window to see threatening tree limb fingers tapping on the glass.

There it was again, this time, louder, more urgent. She could not feel a presence there. Just her own pulsating fear. She heard a horn honking, then a loud thud. A wreck. Happened all the time on this street. It was the hill.

But the noise at the door, was it a knock? No one ever visited. Her mind flashed over to the glove digging in the dumpster. She decided to swallow her anxiety and check the door. Could be a neighbor checking in about the power. The Koreans who lived next door were polite but never asked questions. That was exactly the reason why she chose this place.

She crept over to the door, cursing herself as each footfall created a very audible squeaking noise from the aging floorboards. She peered through the peephole.

Well, it was someone. Or at least the outline of someone.

"Who's there?" The words sounded strange coming from her mouth.

"A neighbor."

"A neighbor who?" She certainly didn't recognize the voice.

"A neighbor who wants to ask you if you have power," came the reply. The voice was low and sensual, charming.

"I don't," she called out, still too reluctant to answer the door, yet amused by their little exchange.

"Well, I do, and just wanted to let you know that it'll be another four hours before they fix this side of the street. If you need anything, I'm in twelve...across the way."

"Thanks."

The man hesitated before moving on. He finally did, but certainly took his time. She watched him walk away, then descend down the stairs.

She sensed he was gone. _I'll just have a peek_ , she told herself. She slowly cracked the door open and looked over the edge.

Paul was stopped mid-way on the stairs, looking straight up at her as if he was expecting her. An abrupt feeling of guilt overcame her, but she tried to keep it contained.

"You do not live across the street." She kept her tone of voice flat and not too assuming.

"And how do you know that?" _Rhetorical question_. A devious grin spread across his face. It wouldn't work on her. She'd fight it off.

"How do you think I know?" He wasn't fooling her.

"Because you followed me."

"Like you're also doing to me?"

"I guess you know how it feels now."

She couldn't deny that. She and Paul weren't too different after all.

"Come up here," she muttered. She didn't want the possibility of her neighbors hearing any more of their exchange. Paul mounted the stairs two at a time, moving too fast for her mind to comprehend at the moment. He quickly appeared before her, but this wasn't how it was supposed to happen. He had caught her off guard. He had caught her at a vulnerable moment, and he knew it. He smiled wickedly.

"So," he breathed, "maybe we've been following each other."

"So that was you who was snooping around here."

"A bit. The same could be said about you."

She scoffed. "I never dug around in your trash or broke into your place."

"You can't blame everything on me," he said, the faint smile still there. Now he was backing her up against the door, so close to her now she could smell his sweat. She wanted to pull him inside. The hunger inside her was pounding, aching to tear out of her skin. At the same time, she was frustrated because she felt so defeated.

"You want me. I can smell you," he whispered. His breath danced on her collarbone, but she managed to break away from him.

"I don't appreciate you going through my trash. That's low."

"You're so tidy."

"Shhhh!"

"How do you do it? Let me in. We'll exchange art forms."

"No. Besides, you've seen the inside of my place," she said, trying to be as snarky as possible.

"Have I?"

She didn't like his lying and his attempts to be sly.

He sighed. "You'll warm up to me. If you want to see me again, you'll know where to find me."

With that, he turned and disappeared down the stairs, leaving her with just the smell of rain.

# CHAPTER TEN

Ti: Find the Girl If You Can

Ti had to do it. Tamara hadn't been to work in two days. She wasn't answering her phone, and that never, ever happened. Tamara would jump awake and answer calls at three in the morning, and if they were the wrong number, she'd still strike up a conversation anyway. This wasn't like her. Ti put a 'closed' sign on the shop's window, locked up and headed down the street.

Tamara hadn't said anything about leaving, being in trouble, or feeling ill. Ti headed up one of the city's gruesome hills as quick as she could, her old Converse sliding a little on the slippery pavement. _Damn rainy season_ , Ti thought.

She dug into her jeans pocket reassuringly. Yes, she still had Tamara's keys to the gate and apartment. She rounded the corner and unlocked the gate. It screeched like nails on a chalkboard when she pulled it open. She headed up the plant-lined staircase to 7. It was so dense with plants (Tamara loved them) that the tendrils tickled Ti's hair. She could feel icy droplets already creeping down her neck. She arrived on the doormat that read: 'Hi. I'm Mat.' She banged on the door.

"Her music been playin' loud for two days!" exclaimed Ms. Mona, Tamara's bespectacled, green housedress and hair roller-clad neighbor who had appeared from next door. The lady had rows of wrinkles on her forehead and a generally discontented look.

"She hasn't been to work," Ti said absently. She unlocked the door again.

"I'll call the police," Ms. Mona said, suddenly more forgiving.

"Wait...you hang out here, Ms. Mona, okay? If you hear me scream, call the police."

Ms. Mona nodded, the wrinkles on her forehead deepening.

Ti entered to the thumping beat of _A Forest_ by The Cure. Somewhere off in the distance, Jo, Tamara's cat, yowled in greeting. Ti continued down the hall. _She's dead, she's killed herself, and she'll be in the last place I look._

Robert Smith's voice lured her to the bedroom as Ti's stomach dropped and a slow frost crept through her veins.

And sure enough, there was a large dried puddle on the carpet, now a crusty, darkened spot.

"Call the police, Ms. Mona!" she said without turning around. She didn't want to give the old woman a heart attack by the look on her face. She was sure it was a mixture of horror, desperation ( _where oh where the fuck is the body?_ ), and sadness.

She heard shuffling behind her. _Damn you, you stubborn old bitch!_ Ti thought as the shuffling got louder.

A quick shadow zipped past her and her heart slammed in her chest-but a fluffed, 'fuck-off' looking tail told her it was Jo. The cat ran into the bathroom.

That was it. Tamara was in the bathroom-the one place Ti hadn't looked. Dead. Razor blade bubble baths, the brains left over from Mom--she wasn't sure what to expect.

But there wasn't anything. No Tamara. Only a hungry cat and Robert Smith's voice.

It didn't make any sense. Not with Tamara being so happy-go-lucky all of the time.

Yet the cops showed up, and some guy named Black had many questions.

* * * *

The concrete below made the soles of Ti's Converse feel incredibly worn and thin. She shifted from one foot to another, unsure of whether or not she should even knock. She had no idea if Sophia was even home. Ti had only seen her out and about in the late afternoons.

As for Ti, she hadn't slept in what felt like eons—Detective Black's questions were still swirling in her head, and there had been no news about Tamara. Caffeine soared through her system, the extra-large latte with mounds of sugar still coursed through her veins.

She'd been hanging around the apartment for a while now, pacing up and down the hill until her feet ached. She'd passed Sophia's place a few times, each time slowing to peer inside the courtyard. It told her nothing.

_What am I doing here?_ Ti was not sure. She needed some kind of comfort. She didn't know where else to go. She'd been dreaming about Sophia for a long time now, waking up longing for her smooth, cold hands, her lanky frame wrapped around her own body, that lush hair tickling her flesh. She yearned for some kind of connection with her. _What is it about her? Why am I here? Death's a catalyst for everything in my life._

She wanted to feel the heat of someone alive. They didn't even have to talk that much. The events of the past few days finally caved in on her. She was beyond tears. Who would want to hurt Tamara?

Ti looked up at the overcast sky and choked back more tears. A thin drape of mist and rain fell down to the ground, coating everything in slickness. She closed her eyes and felt tiny icicles of raindrops gathering in her lashes.

Limerence. The term was now very familiar to Ti. She even read and re-read the definition a thousand times: "an involuntary state of mind which results from a romantic attraction to another person combined with an overwhelming, obsessive need to have one's feelings reciprocated." She always fell head over heels for these people who didn't give a flying fuck about her. Sophia was her new limerent object, and while it was helping her finally get over Danny, it was still just another obsessive infatuation.

Sophia was all Ti could think about. All the signs for a destructive, forthcoming event were in place. Ti's thoughts about the woman were intrusive, coming whenever they wanted, like unwelcome visitors with muddy shoes. Ti found herself analyzing every one of the woman's actions from their few interactions, desperately digging for an interpretation in her odd behavior. Ti also felt shy and awkward in Sophia's presence. That was the part she hated the most.

There were other warning signs, too. Ti wasn't really enjoying her other hobbies. Ti abandoned photography, an old friend, so she could focus her thoughts on Sophia. The worst part of it all: Ti could find absolutely nothing wrong with Sophia.

She knocked again, longing for just anyone, especially Sophia, to hold her.

# CHAPTER ELEVEN

Sophia and the Divine Council

From Sophia's Journal

I can't lie. Claude and I had a connection on some level. He sated this deep need within me to be a deviant. It could have been because he was ten times the devil I was. He was spontaneous and a great lover. But like all intensely wonderful lovers, there was something inherently wrong with him.

Claude was a manipulative fucker. And he had little regard for other people. He was mean. Abusive. But just like anything bad, he was irresistible to anyone with a lack of self-esteem or self-control. That included me.

I remember venturing down to New Orleans many, many times, even when we didn't live there. Our old stomping grounds. Claude's idea, of course. He said I needed to go back to my childhood days, to remember, to reflect. I remember drinking loads of neon green absinthe and smoking grass that was a close palette match to the drink, then consuming a few caps of mushrooms. Somewhere along the way, we picked up a pretty brunette who was dressed in a bright pink, filmy sheath. Claude whispered in my ear, his breath hot with drink and drugs, that he couldn't wait to see what was underneath that dress.

Our feet pounded on the old brick walkways of New Orleans for quite some time. I don't remember how we got there, but the towering peaks of graves and the curly tendrils of Spanish moss were soon all around us. Names from tombstones swirled in my head.

I climbed up as high as I could, which wasn't very high. I perched on top of a bone-white grave and watched, bored, as Claude dry-humped the girl in pink. I was soon enchanted with the snake-like tufts of moss growing in the crevices of the tombs, and wandered off to get a closer look.

Bugs busily whizzed in and out of the grass while the girl groaned and grunted behind me. A furtive glance over my shoulder told me Claude had finally removed the pink dress and was having a go at her. Her dress lay in a small heap on the blinding whiteness of the tomb, and it struck me there how much it looked like a rose.

As I roamed the old cemetery, I was pensive. Here, the water levels were so high, they stacked people on top of one another. City of the dead. They only opened tombs once a year to make room for new coffins. They bagged the old bodies and pushed them to the back like forgotten leftovers, ready to make room for the new arrivals.

The girl was squealing and struggling now. I looked back and noticed I had roamed away quite a bit. I could only see a peek of the girl now, the slabs of grey and white tombs obstructing my vision. I saw her nipple, as bright pink as her dress, and her nearly concave stomach. I could tell Claude was pinning her down now in an attempt to kill her. I sat and watched the end, passive and stoned.

She was stronger than she looked, not as bird-thin as I had originally thought, either. Maybe it was the cocktail of drugs that was holding Claude back, but the girl managed to fight him off and get away.

I glimpsed portions of her body though the tombs again as she screamed: a thin leg, her dark whip of hair trailing behind her, the nearly indistinguishable trickle of blood running down her neck and clavicle.

"Oh Sophia!" she cried, as if I was her savior. I almost laughed. I felt pity for her. I remember thinking right then: _At least I can still feel something_.

When I held my hand out and forced a smile, I could feel the last little bit of that feeling, that empathy trickling away, as faint as the crimson rivulet of blood on the pale girl's skin.

Claude soon joined us, and as much as I struggled to resist, I could not. It had been days, and being in the cemetery reminded me that the dead just keep stacking up anyway. It doesn't matter if you contribute to it or not. Humans ultimately kill themselves in some way or another.

Before we left, I made a pit stop. On a worn grave, marked three X's, bowed my head, and tossed a rain of copper pennies onto the crowded concrete below. I hunched my shoulders and followed Claude, hoping my wish to become more human would come true.

It hasn't yet.

* * * *

Sophia dropped her pen when she heard the incessant rapping on the door. _Fuck_ , she thought, _who could this be?_ Every time there had been a noise or the old apartment settled, Sophia nearly jumped out of her skin. She even started at Argie's questioning meows.

_I won't answer it_ , she thought. _I'll just look through the peephole and then go back to what I was doing_. She crept carefully over to the door and looked out. The shaggy hair and sad looking eyes told her it was the photographer girl. She swore and thought twice before opening the door. She nudged it open just enough to peep out and ask what she wanted. Not responding might look suspicious.

"Please," Ti pleaded. Sophia stared at the girl for a long time before she spoke.

"What's the matter with you?" The question came out dry and crackled.

"Something terrible happened. My friend is missing, probably dead. I..."

"You what?" Sophia was getting annoyed.

"I thought maybe we could talk for a while. I don't really know anyone else here."

Sophia glanced back over her shoulder. "Come back this evening."

"You must have company. I'm sorry. I'll leave you alone," Ti said as she dropped her head and spun on her Converse.

"No! I...want to see you and discuss the photographs. Tell you more about what I want. Just come back this evening, okay?" This time, Sophia caught her own tone—it was dripping sweet with honey. Ti just furrowed her brow, nodded and slowly headed back down the hill.

Sophia filled the afternoon with frantic scrubbing. Ti's assumption had been right. Sophia did have a guest, but most of the body was still in the bathtub, seeping fluids and reeking like necropolis. Sophia drained and retracted what fat and useful bits she could, so the corpse was now a dried up looking hull, gray and sickly with only a mop of blond hair. Sophia stared longingly at it for a moment before whisking her way to the kitchen for cleaning supplies.

She spread out the San Francisco Chronicle all over the bathroom floor as Argie watched, his eyes large and green with curiosity. He would occasionally rev up his purrs or rub his face harshly against the doorway. As long as he stayed out of the way, he could watch.

She straddled the body, cursing herself and Ti for the unexpected company. Sophia had to admit she wanted to attract the girl and bring her into her web, maybe to share with Paul, but not this way. Not while she was still enjoying the company of this guest.

She'd have to hurry. Normally, she liked to enjoy the rigid, morbid pleasures of rigor mortis until her pubic bone ached from humping, but she'd have to enjoy as much of him as she could as she dissected him, cut him up and parceled the rest of him away in large, black trash bags. With her outer thighs pressed against the sides of the tub, she used her scalpel to trace a pink line starting from the victim's chest, down through the tummy, nearly reaching the groin.

She loved this part a lot, especially when the victim was male and had dark hair. She loved the sooty contrast of body hair against the deathly pale pallor of the skin in that sweet spot, beginning right below the belly button and trailing down to the pubic hair.

Sophia's scalpel cut through the now toughened skin. In some places, she had to saw a bit more than she would have liked. She used her fingers, wriggled them inside the layers of flesh, and pulled. She inhaled the ripe aroma of the body's innards, a grisly concoction of rot and putrefaction.

Quickly, she scooped out the innards, using the knife when she needed to. She had this down to a science and could move as swiftly as a fox if she was under a time crunch. This would be a challenge during broad daylight. She usually saved clean-up projects for early morning.

Soon, she had every part neatly cut and packaged in the black trash bags. She put those in her old suitcases, arranged them by the door and scrubbed everything down with her usual bleach and hot water solution. As she cleaned with the strong solution, Argie hid under the bed. He hated this part.

Soon, she was clean and incense smoke hung in a heavy grey curtain all over the apartment. She trundled the suitcases down the stairs, heaved them into the Honda, headed back upstairs, and then waited. Normally, she would have reveled in the body, carving the skin away and coating herself with thick blood before boiling the silken fat down in the warehouse. But she wanted to see what was going on with this curious girl. She thought again about drugging her and bringing her to Paul, and how much he'd appreciate such a kind gesture.

As soon as Ti had returned, Sophia wished she hadn't.

"And I don't know where she is," Ti said with desperate eyes. Ever since she had come back, Ti had been like a teakettle, talking and babbling and crying and looking like she would explode at any moment. Sophia watched her and tried not to cringe.

How exactly am I supposed to react to this?

Sophia sat motionless on the couch, watching the strange girl explain what had happened to Tamara. Sophia was a statue compared with the animate Ti, her stone cold eyes watching. She only moved every so often to casually sip her tea. The girl hadn't touched hers.

"Had she been acting strange before she disappeared?"

Ti sniffed and looked down at the rug. "Not really."

"Do you think she had a fight with someone? A lover?"

Ti looked over at Sophia, seeming to study her. "She would have told me about that."

Sophia sighed, resolved. She couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't sound too cliché.

"I'm sure they'll find your friend," she said, not sure if her statement offered any comfort whatsoever. She wanted to be charming and lure the girl into her web effortlessly, like Paul. How did he do it? How was he so good at manipulating and wooing? She frowned as she briefly thought of him hanging around on her doorstep. She still wasn't sure if she wanted to see him again.

"It's strange," Ti continued, her brow furrowed. "She's very intuitive, so I don't think she could have been dragged off just like that," she said, snapping her fingers for emphasis.

Sophia stared blankly, still unsure of what to do. She supposed Paul would have gone over to the girl, folded her up in his arms, and made comforting sounds. Sophia couldn't really do that without giving in to the urge to drug her, drag her to the bathtub, and then stab her in the heart. She thought how nice it would be to bite into the flesh or pile-drive her nails into the skin.

She simply couldn't do that. Not with the girl's friend missing. It would be entirely too suspicious, and Sophia felt she must err on the side of discretion these days.

Argie tracked a tense, stealthy beeline into the room. He nudged up against Sophia's foot.

Ti gasped, enamored. "What a cute cat!"

"His name's Argie," Sophia said while the large tomcat arched his back, stretching into Sophia's touch.

"I'm taking care of Tamara's cat until she gets back. She's very...moody." Sophia only gave a tight smile, sensing the conversation might turn to more personal questions.

"Do you have any roommates?"

"No. It's just me and the cat."

"Don't you ever get lonely living alone? I do."

"I don't."

"No boyfriend or anything?" Sophia's mind quickly flashed over to Paul.

"No."

"Really? No one?" Sophia could feel her annoyance beginning to trickle out of her ears. She held her tongue.

"All I really care about is the cat. I don't need people. I have a few friends around, but I don't really feel like I need them," she said, and shut up before saying too much.

"Everyone needs people. Humans are social animals. Don't you think?"

"I disagree. I'm perfectly content on my own."

"I'm not. I wish I were more like you...content on my own. Whenever I'm out and about, I'm usually by myself, but I always keep my eye open for others. Maybe others like me."

Sophia looked at Ti out of the corner of her eye. Ti was gazing back with intense fascination and it made Sophia feel like she was an animal under observation at the zoo.

"I don't. I find a lot of freedom in being alone. I can be myself. No one's around to judge."

"What would anyone judge you for? I wish I could be like you. I envy you." She grazed her hand across Sophia's velvet black drape of hair and moved it away from her face. Sophia flinched and moved back.

"Sorry. I'm just interested in being friends, that's all."

Sophia sat in silence. She wished Ti would go away. Why had she come here, anyway?

The rain trickled down outside, cutting through the silence like little metallic knife stabs.

"I guess you aren't. Sorry to bother you. One last thing..." Ti rummaged in her shoulder bag and produced negatives. She fumbled with them, her hands shaking and awkward, and handed them to Sophia. "Tell me which ones you want."

"Fine. Thank you."

"I guess that's it. Call me when you've decided." Ti gathered her things and headed out the door. Sophia didn't look up, didn't watch her walk away. She wanted to call after her, tell her she wanted to pass off as normal, that she wanted to shed her old lifestyle and become human again, but the words didn't come out.

# CHAPTER TWELVE

Black and the Breaking Point

Two weeks had passed since they'd found the femur at the Sutro Baths and Black had no real leads on the case of the disintegrated bones, the missing girl from the coffee shop was still an open case, and he needed a beer.

The only thing they were able to determine was that most of the victims—at least, the ones they found with teeth—were down and out types: prostitutes, missing persons, drug abusers. He sat in his patrol car on Point Lobos Avenue near the Sutro Baths, drinking coffee and thinking.

The coffee tasted like shit, probably because he had been consuming large quantities of it in an attempt to focus on his work and wean himself off of the booze. Every time he opened his mouth to talk, he caught whiffs of rancid stale brew and he noticed his teeth looked more stained than usual. A wave of longing passed through him, and he craved the strong bite of a cold beer or the warm comforts of whiskey. On top of everything, sleep was not coming to him very often, and when he did drift off, he woke up in a film of sweat. He was glad it was nighttime now—it sucked to work during the day. Even with all the cloud cover and rain, his sensitivity to light was so astounding it caused him to double over with dry heaves on a regular basis.

Oh, the stomach issues. It felt like the whirling depths of the ocean were trapped inside him, ready to crash on the nearest inappropriate shore. He felt like he could deal with everything else. Nothing settled his stomach. He rolled down the window of the patrol car and dumped the rest of the coffee out onto the street.

Wong had been keeping her mouth shut, but Black knew that look. She was likely on the verge of telling the higher ups, which might mean a stint in rehab. He had never actually been to AA, but he received plenty of threats from Rita and work over the years, enough to quit for a while, go through hellish withdrawals, then secretly pick up drinking again. Rehab seemed like hell on earth. Rita and Jason would come up, and that was the last thing he wanted to think about—but the thought and memories came anyway.

He barely remembered anything from two years ago—an alcoholic haze shrouded the past. He did remember Jason stealing Rita's car and wrecking it in some shitty neighborhood way out on the East Bay, and that had been the final straw. Robert Black always threatened to punch everyone into next week for one thing or another during his drunken tirades, but this time he followed through.

"You're fifteen, for fuck's sake. You think you're getting a license now? I ought to lock you up in jail right now, you ungrateful piece of shit!"

"That would be a whole lot better than living with you," Jason had said, his voice strangely deep and unemotional.

It was meant to be a stinging little backhand. Instead, the slap landed on Jason's cheek so hard it knocked him onto the floor.

Jason left that night and Black flushed all his beer and whiskey down the toilet. What a way to leave home. Crash a car to get your parents' attention and get so much of it you end up with a bruised face and nowhere to go.

This time was different. He quit drinking because it crossed his mind that Jason's disintegrated bones could be floating around out there in the depths of the frigid ocean. _What a lonely way to be buried,_ he thought as he placed his hand over his grumbling stomach.

Wong was probably right: the semi-dissolved bones could have come from some drug gang. They would probably never really find out what happened. Not without more evidence. He needed something else to go on.

Black headed back up Point Lobos until it turned into Geary, then onto Castro. One more cup of coffee, then he was going home. It was unlikely there would be any activity near the Sutro Baths since that article came out.

Whoever was chucking bodies out into the whirling, chilly seas of the Pacific was killing in highly erratic patterns. Mostly men, a few women here and there. No one was safe.

He drove past Tamara's coffee shop. Still closed. But there was a faint light glowing in the depths of the shop, and a black Honda parked right in the front. He took note of the plate number.

He wondered about this Tamara. _We found these bones, and then she disappears._ He spun it around in his brain over and over.

Then he remembered filing the reports at the station. Tamara had a rap sheet.

Prostitution. Obvious fake IDs, no records of her past life as a man. He remembered the case because she was one of the many Hurricane Katrina escapees—many of them arrived with nothing but the clothes on their backs. No birth certificates, no driver's licenses, no nothing. But somehow, she had cleaned up her life quickly and was managing a coffee shop of all things, a stark contrast in comparison to her previous life.

Tamara, where are you? Did you know something?

# CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Sophia: Worlds Collide

"I've been waiting for you, you know."

Something about the way he turned up just one side of his lips sent a strange, electric chill down her spine. The smile was almost fake, but she wasn't sure what element about the whole thing was phony. However, she set aside her doubts once she noticed the glimmer of lust in his eyes. Sophia could smell his desire intermingled with her own as she crossed the threshold. He smelled musky and also emitted something enticingly coppery, and she wanted to suck it right out through his velvet pink tongue.

Was this why she came here? Was it to solidify the fact that she was stalking him, was fascinated by him, or did she just want to lose herself in someone? The whole encounter with Ti had thrown her off kilter, left her feeling vulnerable and exposed.

She didn't feel like she had control over anything anymore.

She wanted to see him stripped down, way down to his core, wanted to explore his innards under a magnifying glass. But she knew she'd never understand him. He was a totally different monster.

That's what spellbound her.

Without saying anything at all, she found herself drawn further into the dark blue pools of his eyes, which were cool and unusual. The smell of his musk was almost too intense and drew her in further, further into his poisonous embrace. As her tongue mixed with his, she tried to put that thought out of her head. So what if he was a demon? So was she.

But as he slid her clothes off, the voice kept nagging and clawing at her brain. It was still there when she felt the hardness of his cock up against her thigh, his hands all over her, gliding up and down her body. It felt so primal though, so unlike anything she'd ever experienced with her victims or even Claude.

For a while, they tangled and wrestled as if trying to assert who was the dominant one, with him eventually winning out on top. She let him. Even through the darkness, he instinctively knew her every spot and wish. Even if she wanted to get away, she felt completely bound by her own pleasures.

For the first time, she let herself go and trusted someone to her body.

From the edge of night on, everything ran together in sex-sweat and red hot, fleshy desires. It wasn't just the sex that felt amazing. Being in his arms, feeling his warmth up against her was fulfilling in ways she had never known before. She wondered if he understood and accepted her. Really, she thought that was all she was looking for. With acceptance and understanding, she wouldn't feel the need to suck her victims dry, to prey upon their souls, to build them up and break them until they came crashing down, to turn them into something cleaner and more useful.

They lay together and Sophia became wrapped up in her sleeping fantasies, Paul's hot embrace interweaving with her dreams. Except in this world, she shut her eyes tight against the real world and the blinding daylight and reminisced. She could feel the fading warmth of a newly killed body up against her skin, its body stiff and positioned like one of those wooden artist's figures. The dead could do anything: snuggle, serve as passive sex partners, serve as non-judgmental friends, or just hang out and fill a void.

"Tell me why you were following me around. Were you planning on killing me?" Paul's voice sounded slightly muffled by the pillows and scrunched up sheets.

She thought about it for a long time before she turned over to face him. "I found you to be different, I suppose—I mean, different from the rest of society. There is a reason I do the things I do. I take all those disgusting and worthless people and turn them into something clean, something society wants. I'm saving them. It makes me feel powerful. I don't know why you do the things you do—maybe it's to have a sense of control. I know that is a big part of it for me. I found you fascinating. You were definitely not disgusting and worthless. Maybe it's because we are one in the same, maybe it's because I recognized something in your eyes." She reached out and caressed his brow with her thumb and marveled at the cold intelligence behind his blue eyes.

"You should help me do it. We could still do what we do and make a lot of money in the process." She declined to tell him about Claude. _I'll save that for later,_ she thought as she drifted off.

Sophia snapped out of it when she felt Paul move. She sat up and rubbed her eyes.

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

She watched his tense movements as he got dressed. _Fuck_ , she thought to herself, _he knows he made a mistake and is disappearing on me!_ He barely made eye contact with her as he hurriedly dressed. It was all she could do to keep from pouncing on him, driving her long fingernails into his throat, and dominating him. She grit her teeth instead.

"Going to see someone else?" The question was brimming with sarcasm.

"If you must know, yes." This time he did make eye contact, but it was cold and void. She knew that look. She was familiar with his mood now. She had been his appetizer and he couldn't hold out for the main course any longer. She supposed she should feel special for not dying at his hand, but it left her feeling strange and empty for some reason. She sat up and hugged her knees for comfort.

"Who?"

"Her name is Beth. She's having a lot of problems lately."

"Uh huh. I'm sure you'll be her knight in shining psychotherapy."

Her jealousy was raging. Especially because she knew that the girl was so unlike herself. Even though she was sure Paul was doing it for the sole purpose of getting a reaction out of her, it worked. The mere fact that it had such an impact on her set her teeth on edge. Even though she didn't really want to, even though she knew it'd make it all much, much worse, she parted her lips to speak.

"I want to watch."

"Do you?" There was that half-smirk again, the one that was beginning to make her second guess everything that was going on with this man. She nodded slowly, hoping she came across as confident. He didn't say anything else. He cocked his head in a 'follow me' gesture, and she quickly got dressed.

* * * *

Fuck, it was frigid that night. It wasn't so much the cold as it was the wind and the rain. Especially up here in Marin County.

That girl, Beth, had a nice place up here. One could go out on the deck and gaze at the chopping current of the San Francisco Bay, dark and dense as a mystery, as well as the vague bluish peaks in the background. In fact, the deck was where Sophia posted up, but she wasn't looking at the water or the hills.

Inside, Paul looked as though he wanted to die of boredom. She could see him through the foggy, rain spackled window, his image distorted. She could see the back of the girl's head, which moved slightly as she talked. She couldn't care less about the girl, though. She wanted to see how Paul did it. She wanted to watch him again.

She wished she could be inside with them now, just a fly on the wall, listening to their conversation. She could not make out a word of what they were saying, only a vague murmuring over the patter of the rain.

Then it came. The passing glance. The knowing, sly smile. Paul brought his hand around the back of the girl's neck, a gesture that nearly looked kind, but Sophia knew it was the move of a predator. She leaned in, watching carefully for her cue.

She could see all too clearly now. It was as if the rain took a hint and cleared from the sliding glass door. Paul's hand was no longer a comforting presence. She sensed the moment of the intensified grip before it even happened.

_That's how deep our connection is now_ , she thought to herself. A faint glimmer of reluctance passed through her mind, but when she saw Beth's body stiffen, she knew she'd been correct. Although she didn't see the knife go in, it must have. Sophia heard a faint gurgle, a near-death rattle. If Paul stabbed her in the stomach, it'd be a few minutes before she processed what was happening to her. It'd take quite a few more stabs for her to pass through to the other side, but that's exactly what Paul wanted. Each plunge was like a thrust of his cock, the knife his phallus, and Sophia found herself with her hand snaked up underneath her parka and the thin material of the t-shirt she wore. Without even touching herself, she knew she was already wet for him. His tight, controlled muscled movements were what did it for her, and the fact that it was so calculated and well thought out.

His rounded shoulders twisted as he plunged the knife in and out of her body. Beth swayed with each driving force, her body moving limply to the beat of her own undoing. Sophia felt that same sense of wonder and excitement. She felt the life-force drift away from the girl, and she let her eyelids flutter against the raw, powerful force of energy that flowed out of Paul's victim.

Then, the energy was gone. So was Beth.

The next day was a gloomy Sunday. The clouds hung in a heavy grey curtain in the sky and a frigid wind cut through the air. Despite the cold, Sophia felt energized. She walked away from Paul's apartment, shoulders hunched against the wind, a sly, super-sexed smile on her face. They hadn't slept at all. They had just finished dissecting Beth's body, reveling in the dark purple ribbons of organs and flesh, the thickening pools of syrupy blood.

Not feeling tired in the least, she slipped down Haight Street towards the smell of coffee. This place would be devoid of any annoying punky lesbians, would be like a dark cave, and would most likely be playing The Cure or Sisters of Mercy faintly in the background.

She didn't come to this one very often. It was a little out of the way and a bit too close to Golden Gate and Buena Vista Park, two places she loved to go to pick up young guys. She didn't worry too much. She suspected she was doing both the boys and the local community a favor by picking them up, loving them and disposing of them later.

She supposed she liked this place because of its dried blood-colored interior. That and the Ms. Pac Man machine. It was always fun to navigate around a mindless maze, chased by ghosts. Much different from real life.

As she frantically toggled the controls in an attempt to get away from Blinky, someone behind her cleared his throat. She ignored him and sipped her drink during the intermission.

"I usually see you go into the one over by the Castro Theater," said a male voice. Sophia stopped her game and let Blinky win. She felt frozen to her spot.

"Excuse me?"

She turned around slowly and met blue, cold eyes set into a reddened, round face. Something about him instantly disturbed her.

"I said I usually-"

"No, I heard you. I'm just wondering how in the fuck you knew that." She could feel the temper rising in her brain.

The man laughed. "Don't worry. It's what I do." The man fished in his trench coat and produced a wallet.

Her temper dropped to anxiety when she saw the badge.

"I'm Detective Robert Black."

# CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Ti: Fragmented Memories

High tide, and the ocean thundered through and against the narrow rocky tunnels. It was calming as usual for Ti.

She had never felt so alone. She'd even called John and had gotten his voicemail. Rejected by Sophia and with her best friend gone, she turned to the comfort of a semi familiar place. In all honesty, she yearned for the familiarity of New Orleans and John. She didn't want to make up her mind too soon, but she was sure she'd go back home to get away from all this, to rebuild her life again. However beautiful and vast San Francisco was, it was not the best place for her mental health.

She thought about her stepfather and wondered if he was lonely. Sophia wasn't, that was for sure. How could she isolate herself like that? Ti tried to put herself in the strange woman's shoes. Pain welled up in her heart like a spreading ink stain. _That must have been it. People who are that guarded and alone were hurt in the past. That's why they close themselves off_. It hurt Ti to think about it. She understood how Sophia felt, but the older woman was so far gone that Ti did not think she would be able to reach her. It was no use. She lay back on the beach, closed her eyes and lost herself in a fitful dream:

A few reddish brick buildings with white trim... nice at first, but upon closer look, it's a housing project in near shambles. Up ahead, an impatient donkey stamps his feet and shifts. A jingle-jangle sound cuts into the deep bass that's emanating somewhere from the housing project. The donkey looks none too pleased about wearing ridiculous bells and trinkets. The buggy driver takes a deep drag off his clove, long and languid. He holds the smoke in too long and upon exhaling, a fragrant, almost sickly sweet odor fills the air. He looks ahead, and his face is brown and wrinkly.

To the left, strange structures stretch up into a hazy blue sky.

Ti recognizes this place. It's the oldest cemetery in the city of New Orleans, but why is she here?

In her dream-state, she trudges through and runs her hands along the stone white wall until she comes to the entrance. She rounds the corner.

She sees his eyes, eyes that pierce her soul. Black, heartless eyes that woo and manipulate, but she can see right through these eyes. A crack of the knuckles, and the stranger gives her an appreciative smile, and her eyes follow the popping noise. Worn, leather black gloves....

* * * *

Ti's eyelids fluttered as she shook off the remnants of the strange cemetery dream. It was dark, and a deep veil of panic swept over her as she realized she was not in the cozy confines of her studio apartment.

Where am I?

The watery crashing sound gave it away. She had fallen asleep near the Sutro Baths while daydreaming. The more she thought about it, the less it surprised her. She was exhausted. A pang of anxiety shot through her as she reached for her bag, but as her hand landed on the soft canvas, she was relieved. All sorts of strange people roamed through here late at night, and she had no doubt they would steal her shit if given the right opportunity.

The anxiety came back as she saw an ominous figure off in the distance.

Why? People come here all the time at night.

But there was something different about this one. Maybe it was his quick, precise movements, or maybe he just emitted an odd sense of guilt. Whoever it was, he was tossing strangely shaped objects into the ocean. Ti quickly had a sense this was something she should not be witnessing, so she froze herself to her spot and held her breath.

The figure finished disposing of whatever it was he was getting rid of and stood gazing out at the navy blue depths of the tumultuous sea, as if enchanted by it. Ti understood that. The ocean was a lot like the realm of people: dangerous, unpredictable, a constantly changing environment—but still fascinating.

She was so bleary-eyed from stress. The edges of her mind were fuzzy like bad reception. Had she really seen that? What did he throw down there? As thoughts raced and scrambled around one another like bumper cars, the man vanished like some kind of weird vapor. Her eyes tried to follow him, but she could not make out his silhouette in the foggy ambiance.

She was afraid to get up and walk away. What if he saw her? She was pretty sure she faded in with the rocky surroundings, but one could never be quite sure. If he were dumping something he shouldn't be, surely he would be on high vigilance.

She waited for what seemed like hours before standing up, gathering her bag, and walking back to her apartment.

# CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Sophia: Memories Clear as Ice

"What is it that you want, dude?" Sophia was trying not to show too much annoyance or guilt. Instead, she tried to portray a neutral, semi-charismatic air. She could often pull it off if she tried.

"I just have a few questions. Some folks are missing and we may have a serial killer in the area." Robert Black kept his hands in a steeple formation, elbows on the rickety table as he waited for his coffee to cool. Perhaps he was not even a coffee drinker. He had ordered the shit and the twisted hot fumes were now fading. Sophia recognized his posture as one of power.

"Am I in some sort of trouble?"

"I wouldn't worry. But that's contingent upon the information we receive from you."

Sophia sipped her own coffee. The shop was still quiet. "What do you want to know?"

Black produced a small, glossy black notebook and an expensive looking pen. "Are you local?"

"I'm from New Orleans originally."

"You seem to really know your way around. How long have you lived here?"

"Off and on for about ten years or so."

Black smiled as if she'd confirmed something.

"Tell me what you mean by 'off and on'," Black said, his tone casual. He sipped his coffee and never took his eyes off of her.

"Well, I was there in New Orleans for Hurricane Katrina, but I obviously came back here after that," she said, trying to remain articulate, vague and devoid of nervousness.

"You know Tamara, the girl who runs the coffee shop you frequent?"

Sophia hesitated a beat too long. "Only because I run in there to get coffee."

"Really? Funny," Black said as he rifled through some papers in his briefcase. He pulled out a file and flipped it open. "Because I spotted your car there after Tamara was reported missing. I checked into it and it looks like you co-own it with someone else."

"I'm an entrepreneur. I own several businesses: bars, coffee shops...our most successful one is a cosmetics company. I put all my time and energy into the cosmetics company and the others just run themselves. No one was there, and I thought that was pretty odd. I assumed my partner had approved some sort of closure. I stopped in and decided to double-check the books. My business partner hired Tamara. I don't know her. I go in there to get coffee every once in a blue moon and play customer, and to sort of check up on things."

"Any boyfriends back in New Orleans? Or here?"

"I don't see what that has to do with anything."

"It has to do with everything. So, boyfriend or lover here?"

"Yes, sort of. It's nothing serious."

"What about back in New Orleans?"

"Yes, but he's not really worth mentioning."

"A douchebag?"

"You could say that."

"Uh huh," Black said, writing everything down. "Did you have any problems with him hanging around? Does he come up here to San Francisco to check in on you?"

In Sophia's brain, images flashed like a camera's burst setting: Her childhood. The old cemetery in New Orleans. Her mother. The black gloves. She still wasn't sure if her little visitor was Paul, Ti or someone else.

"I think so, yeah. Although I'm not one hundred percent sure of it."

Black looked up from his notebook, his forehead now full of quizzical wrinkles. "What's his name?"

"Claude Moreau." As soon as she uttered the name, acid-like adrenaline shot through her and her arms broke out in gooseflesh.

Black shuffled through the file again. "He's listed as co-owner on all these businesses. So what happened? Did it end badly?"

Sophia wriggled in her chair. She was acutely aware of how hard the seat was, how cold the table felt, and how Black's gaze drilled into her. But this could be a prime opportunity for her to direct the police's attention to Claude instead of herself and Paul. All she had to do was tell the truth.

"It's awkward to talk about," was all she could come up with at first. But Black didn't push. He sat patiently, waiting for her to continue. "He was actually my mother's boyfriend, and when she died, he sort of focused his attention on me."

"Were they ever married?"

"No. As a matter of fact, I don't recall seeing him around all that much when she was alive. She, um..." Sophia shifted in her chair. "She actually had a lot of boyfriends."

"He ever do anything inappropriate?"

"You could say that, yes."

A shade of reality draped itself over Black's face, and for a moment, she felt a hint of camaraderie pass between them.

"What does he look like?"

"About 6'3", thin, kind of shaggy black hair, pale now but used to be more dark-skinned...so I guess you could say he's lost his color. He has a scar under his right eye."

Black looked up. "From you?"

Sophia realized he was trying to be humorous. "No. From my cat." She didn't tell Black how Claude had gotten that scar—he'd set fire to a trailer where one of the escaped models was hiding out, and out came one distressed and angry cat.

Black scribbled in his notebook with intense concentration. "I'm sorry to hear about all this, but I have to go ahead and tell you that we'd like this Claude guy to come in for questioning. This is a good opportunity for you to get back at him. All you have to do is let me know if you notice anything suspicious. I can have a patrol car outside of your apartment for your safety, if you wish."

"No, thank you. I think that would set him off. If he presents himself, I'll be sure to get in touch with you. I don't think he'll actually harm me, I just think he wants to try to get me back."

Black stood up and pulled out his wallet. He produced an off-white, tattered business card. "Here's my card. Keep me updated on what you see so we can bring this guy in for questioning."

She forced a smile. "Thanks."

She thought of Claude again and felt like puking. The acrid coffee bubbled up to her throat and she swallowed it back.

She had to see Paul.

* * * *

From Sophia's Journal

I mentioned I did not have much recollection of Claude. The more I think about it, the more the memories are as clear as ice. The lines of my mother dying and Claude arriving feel blurred now, as if someone had taken a rubber eraser to ink.

I was twelve years old when she died. I remember walking into her room in the middle of the day: the breeze was blowing, but I had a slight slick of sweat from playing outside in the humid (but cooler) weather. Mother had the French doors open so she could catch a glimpse of the bustling activity in the Quarter that day. The curtains blew into the room, and my mother's eyes looked sad. They only lit up the slightest bit when she noticed me standing in the doorway. She smiled, and I remember her looking beautiful that day. I went back outside and learned from our maid that not more than an hour later she passed away. Claude was one of the first mourners to arrive at the house on Dumaine and he sat me in his lap and stroked my hair as strange acquaintances drifted in and out of the house.

My thirteenth birthday was only weeks away, but the things Claude taught me began that very day.

* * * *

"Where did you put Beth?"

Paul smiled faintly, as if hiding some secret. He didn't answer. He only folded his hands together, placed them in his lap, and leaned back deep into the hard cushions of his couch. Unlike Sophia's gilded, womb-like apartment, Paul's was sleek, modern, cold and steel all over. _Anyone could have lived here_ , she thought. It was hard to ascertain where he'd been, what kind of person he was like, or even what he ate. She glued her eyes on him so she wouldn't think too much of the differences.

"You fucker! Some cop followed me this morning!" She hadn't really meant to explode, but his cool calmness bothered her.

"Sophia," he said through clenched teeth. "You do not yell in here, and you do not yell at me. Understood?"

His voice was even and controlled. She could only nod her head.

"Whatever happens, we stay calm. Remember that family that got sucked out to sea after they tried to save their dog? What happens when you panic and struggle?"

"You drown," Sophia answered, barely over a whisper.

"You drown," he repeated, as if to drive the point home. "We're working together now. And if one of us cracks, it's all over. Let's start from the beginning. What did this cop say to you?"

She inhaled and began explaining, being careful to illustrate the detective's focus on Claude.

"So they think he did all of them in?"

"I think so. Unless it's some kind of bait."

"You never told me about this guy," he said. It was clear to her that he would be fixated on the relationship between her and Claude.

"You've never told me anything about your past. It doesn't matter to me. I'm not as jealous as you are."

"You're just interested in how I do it. How I'm programmed."

She didn't say anything for a long time. She supposed it was true. Paul was basically an extension of Claude. She was probably attracted to him because she didn't know any other way.

"How are you programmed? How did it all start?"

Paul did not look at her. He rose and walked to the bay window. He put his hands on his hips and stood still for a long time.

When he finally did speak, Sophia jumped.

"My dad was an accountant. My mother was basically a slut. A slob. She had two kids with my father...the man I called my father...before reconnecting with an old boyfriend. I'm the product of that affair." Paul turned his face to her and she could see only a hint of twisted agitation in his cold face.

"You'd think my stepfather would be this great savior. After all, he tolerated mom's affair. But I watched him, and he fucked my sister while I watched. I was about 11. My mom started living out of the basement. I found out about her affair when I was 16 or so.

"That's it. I guess it's kind of typical. I was cute and charming, even as a kid, and I used it. I milked it."

He paused for a while, smiling in a strange, nostalgia-dripped absent way before continuing: "I started this early, and by the time I was in college, I got fairly good at it. But I haven't killed as many as _you_ have, you sick little bitch."

"Where do you put them? Are you going to tell me about Beth?"

"I don't have a consistent spot. Some are in ditches. A lot are out in the Pacific. Beth was dismembered, as you recall...or do you?" Paul sneered. "Don't worry about what I did with her. She's taken care of, no thanks to you. Quite the chore. Good thing I work out."

"Did you kill a woman named Tamara?"

Paul wrinkled his nose. "No. I told you I only like girls. I'm not gay, Sophia. I know who you're talking about. She lives over in the Haight District. I did have her over here once...she was with some friend. I only planned to tie them up and scare them a little. If you have those kinds of fantasies, you're on your own. Why are you asking?"

She shook her head and stared off into the distance.

"Sophia. What?"

She hesitated. "We may have a little bit of a problem, then."

Paul didn't say another word. He only glared at Sophia, waiting for the answer. When she failed to provide it, he strode across the room, quick as a flash, and jerked her up out of her spot. She yelped, powerless. He shook her.

"Talk."

"I think Claude is following me."

"Oh, you wish, Sophia. You're way too pathetic to follow. Why do you think he would, huh? Tell me." He shook her again to make his point and she winced. The grip on her shoulders was getting unbearable.

"Claude's always used me for something---sex, starting up his little business, cover-ups—but it's just us. He's come up here to check on me before, and it's possible he knows about you and is jealous. It's happened before."

Paul let her go and paced up and down the steel grey rug in his living room. Sophia had a brief flash of him wearing it down quickly, as if in a cartoon. She felt like she needed caffeine or pot. She didn't know which. Just something to fill the hole again. She could feel it in her stomach, burning like acid.

Further and further down the hole. Sophia thought about what started this new turn of drama in her life and frowned when she thought about spying on Paul. How had she come to be so obsessed with him?

The beach. That's what started the flood of the new cycle. She was sitting on the beach when she saw him, enjoying the quiet. She went to that same spot every day she thought he'd surf, always blended in well, yet somehow catching a glance or two like she'd hoped. Or so she thought. Apparently he'd also noticed her, so she wasn't really spying so much as blatantly admiring him. How embarrassing. She was supposed to be in her own veiled and undercover world, where no one could see or notice her. She might as well have put on some obvious costume that screamed, "Here I am, look at me" while she waved some kind of flag. Her weakness, something that she had always used to pride herself as something she kept under chains, was slowly breaking free from Pandora's Box and rearing its ugly head. How she wanted to crush it and stuff it away, but the spring was broken. It just kept popping back up. She felt like she had lost control.

Fueled by that thought, her mind shifted to her childhood.

Her mother had given her a toy. A doll that was supposedly worth a lot of money.

"Mommy spent all this money because she loves you, you know that?"

Sophia's memory was fuzzy, but she distinctly remembered that part of the conversation. She couldn't take the doll out of the package. She very badly wanted to.

"See how perfect she is?"

Sophia remembered that part, too. _Don't break her._

She had, though—but she'd figured out how to put her back together again. That's when the lies to Mother began.

# CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Ti: Ghosts from the Past

Ti lit a cigarette. She had quit several years ago, but as she passed a shop on the way home, she decided to start again. She missed the feeling nicotine rushes gave her and decided she needed some sort of comfort now. Besides, it felt good holding on to something.

She'd called John and told him what happened and he begged for her to come home. She said she would once things settled.

As Ti smoked the cigarette, she paced around her apartment, thinking about what "once things settled" meant. Finally, she decided to put on some coffee and think about it some more.

Tamara was missing. That much she knew. Ti's mind had been running in circles trying to think of who might have a motive to break in, kill her and drag her body away. She thought about the first time she'd met Tamara and tried to come up with a list of things she knew about her.

They'd met not long after Ti signed the lease on her apartment. John had given Ti Tamara's name and number. If he knew her or the owner well, he didn't mention it. Why had he insisted she come home after she telephoned him and told him about it? Ti had never met the owner. Tamara said that as long as things ran smoothly, he wouldn't be making any surprise visits.

She had an impromptu interview with Tamara and they both agreed that Ti could start as soon as possible. Coffee shop work was easy enough. She'd worked at Café du Monde in the French Quarter. She was used to juggling several tables and utter mayhem. Working behind the safe barrier of a counter almost seemed like a vacation. Ti started just after New Year's Day and she and Tamara became quick friends.

Several months had passed. She knew that Tamara had had sex reassignment surgery years ago, and she had said something about leaving New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. Tamara didn't talk about life before that, but Ti got the impression there weren't many positive things to chat about. She also got the impression that Tamara's life before opening the coffee shop was rather dramatic--she told Ti about working in the "sex industry" which mostly meant she was paid to be in S&M shows and was a dominatrix of some sort who had a substantial list of clients.

"I'm too old to do any of that shit now," she'd often say, with the flick of a wrist like she was throwing something away. Ti assumed she now managed the coffee shop to get away from a dramatic life beating up prominent lawyers and doctors.

She supposed she could call detective Black and tell him about Tamara's past, but for some reason, she dismissed that thought. Even if one of Tamara's old clients had the red ass about something and decided to get revenge, would the police really do anything?

Probably not. Especially if the police were anything like the ones in New Orleans.

Ti lit another cigarette. She sat in her bay window and looked out onto the street. It was about 1:00 in the morning. The streetlights glowed like strange yellow orbs. She wasn't the least bit tired. She thought about the police in New Orleans again.

She thought about how many times she'd had run-ins with the law. She frowned at the thought. The last time was when she had first met Danny.

They met at a party held by some local dyke. The party was in the French Quarter and Ti went although she didn't know but maybe one or two people there.

She had a great time nonetheless. Got trashed. She'd noticed Danny across the room and in a near instant, they were all over each other, kissing and groping.

The party was wild--so wild that a fight between two ex-lovers spilled out onto the muggy blacktopped streets. Somehow (and she could never remember how), Ti and Danny both ended up in the depths of the street fight and Danny had a busted lip. Ti pulled her to the sidewalk, stripped off her t-shirt, and tended to the wound.

She nearly pissed herself when the two shadows appeared. Before she even looked up, she knew they were cops. Danny was drunk and blubbering, not making much sense. The cops wanted to cuff Ti, but a well-meaning partygoer cut that short. Ti clearly saw her slip the more arrogant cop a Ben Franklin and was in awe. The cops backed away, shouting something about breaking it up.

She could not believe how easily they backed off. She'd heard stories all her life about police corruption in this city, but had never witnessed it firsthand. She always thought those stories came from would-be criminals who had sticks up their asses about the law. What if she'd actually beaten the shit out of Danny? What if anyone had beaten her up? What then?

Needless to say, the incident left a bad taste in her mouth. Cops were not helpful. They hadn't been helpful at all so far in Tamara's case, either.

Ti had her mind made up. She looked at her alarm clock across the room. It was 2:30. She could be at Tamara's apartment before 3 a.m.

The streets were dark and slick with rain and oil. Ti felt she could slip at any moment, always in a precarious situation with her worn Converse. It was strangely quiet, but this was San Francisco. Everything damn near shut down at midnight. It wasn't like New Orleans, where one could grab a po'boy at 4 o'clock in the morning or more beer. Thinking of New Orleans made her think of Danny again. She let her fingers grasp the contents of her pocket for comfort's sake.

Electric yellow caution tape roped off Tamara's apartment, but it didn't deter Ti. She had a brief flash of Robert Black (she felt her lip curl in disgust as she thought of him) spying, but put it out of her mind. From what she'd noticed so far, he mostly drank himself into an alcoholic infused coma when he wasn't on the job.

During all the excitement of Tamara's disappearance, Ti had been dumb enough to leave the key in the lock. She supposed someone else had it, maybe Black, so she decided to put the contents of her pocket to good use. She pulled out a shiny black lock picking set, slipped on gloves and plastic booties over her wet Converse. Every drop of water caused her to turn her head, but it only took her about thirty seconds to pick the lock and swing the door open.

The apartment hummed with electricity despite Tamara's absence. She crept through the living room. Tamara had decorated the apartment in a kaleidoscope of wild colors, now nearly opaque in the dark. To the left was a worn pink chair, and to the right was a fish tank providing the only light in the room, its contents still bobbing with various colorful specimens. She absently wondered when Tamara last fed them.

Ti didn't dare turn on any other lights, but she knew where she was going. She headed past the kitchen and bathroom and straight down the hall to the bedroom. She tried not to think about finding the bloodstain.

An old portable heater stood proud and stout under the bedroom window. These archaic things were all over California apartments. Few people used them though, especially in San Francisco, where the temperatures were usually mild. Ti had one in her studio but didn't even know if it worked. Ti stared at it, remembering the time she came over and offered to help Tamara move it. _She had this look on her face, sort of like I busted her for something._ She had a feeling Tamara used it to cover something up. _I hardly ever use it_ , she had said.

What are you hiding in there?

It was really just an inkling, but Ti's inklings were usually spot on. She lugged the heater to the side.

Bingo.

A trace of a faint outline from the heater. A small piece of wood that was obviously not part of the floor. Ti pushed on it. It wiggled in response, so she carefully pulled it up.

Stacks and stacks of letters, papers and hand written pieces of paper greeted her. It would take a while to go through all of this. She scooped up as much of it as she could and began stuffing the paperwork in her backpack.

She was ready to put the piece of floor and the heater back into place when she noticed an envelope she'd dropped. The name. The return address. From New Orleans.

The name. It made her stomach clench. Fear gathered there like a festering cesspool.

She hadn't seen that name in nearly a lifetime.

Claude Moreau.

She heard John's voice: _You can never really run away from your problems. They always come back to get you._

# CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Sophia: Big Fun

Paul had finally stopped pacing and was sitting upright on the couch next to Sophia. She could feel a huge, steel wall between them now.

"I think I know just what we need."

She looked over at him. His expression was completely different. He grinned ear to ear now, but there was something so practiced and controlled about it.

"I think we need a trip out of state. Just for a few days. To get out of here and take a break. Do you know what I mean?" He was still smiling. For the first time, Sophia noticed his eyes were the same as when he was angry. Sophia often had a blank expression when she wasn't trying to get something she wanted. Did her eyes crinkle around the edges when she smiled? She'd been practicing. She made a mental note to check later.

"Pack some clothes. We'll go to Las Vegas for a few days."

"I don't want to go."

"But _why_ not?" She could see him subtly clench his teeth. He was getting pissed off again.

"Because there's no point. Because it would look suspicious to that detective if I just up and left. I have a real chance to put all this off on Claude. Let me handle things."

"Cops are dumb, baby," he replied, and that strange smile was back on his face. _Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde._ "If you're innocent as apple pie, why wouldn't you go on a trip? For your own safety, of course." He smiled wider.

The highways from San Francisco to Las Vegas were scenic at first, but as one descended deeper and deeper into the desert, the scenery looked almost mind warping. Joshua trees lingered, their nubby fingers reaching up in the air, and fairy-like sand swept the asphalt. As night descended on the earth, faint, the subtle outline of hills faded into the distance. Las Vegas was a smoldering fire of lights in the distance, its light pollution visible for miles around.

Sophia yearned to write in her journal. There were plenty of things she was now remembering about Claude. They weren't quite to Las Vegas yet when Paul stopped for gas. She reached into her bag and began frantically scribbling.

"What is that?" He startled her.

"I just write stuff down in it from time to time. How long are we going to be staying?"

"I don't know. A couple of days. Maybe more."

"Paul. I have to get back and feed my cat."

"Who cares about the fucking cat? It'll be fine. We'll stay as long as I say, alright?"

She already resigned herself to find some way back soon, but she nodded her head. They sped off down the freeway and towards the light pollution of Las Vegas.

"I have something like that. I'm not dumb enough to keep a journal, but I keep...things. From the girls."

"How do you know keeping things isn't dumb?"

"Because I don't parade that stuff around for everyone to see. Whatever's in there, you ought to get rid of it. If you mention me anywhere in there and someone finds it..."

She rolled her eyes but was glad it was too dark for him to see. "It's mostly childhood stuff. Don't worry. If anything, it'd help you. And no one will find it. It's always with me."

He looked over and smiled. She knew he was thinking about reading it or destroying it. Or both. Why was she beginning to distrust him so much? They were so much alike. She'd let herself analyze the situation over the weekend away. She was beginning to think he'd kill her in a heartbeat under the right circumstances.

"Anyway," she sighed, trying to change the subject, "are we going to gamble or something? What is it you usually do when you come here?"

"It's a surprise. I guarantee we're going to have a lot of fun this weekend. I have it all taken care of."

She couldn't have cared less. The closer they got to the city, the more she wanted to jump out of the car and find a way out, just out, anywhere. Even running amongst the towering Joshua trees and desolate rolling hills seemed satisfying enough. It didn't matter where.

Paul knew exactly where to go. He'd been here many times before. She could tell. Paul pulled up at a hotel that was off the main strip. The motel had one of those walk-up windows where you could slip your money and license through a drawer while the front desk attendant handled everything behind the safe bubble of Plexiglas. Sophia watched from the car while Paul paid in cash. The sound and background of a flickering fluorescent light ripped into the dry night air like lightning, consuming all her thoughts while Paul chatted bullshit with the front desk attendant.

He came back and motioned for her to follow him to room 213. Once inside, he immediately picked up the phone and punched numbers.

"I'm calling to see if Mercedes is available tonight. I'm a regular customer. William J. Dutton. If you don't have my card on file, I have it right here."

Sophia stared at him, but there was no question behind her eyes. Her stare was one of disbelief and anger. This fucker was ordering a hooker with a fake name, or possibly with a deceased person's name. He looked pleased as he hung up the phone. She didn't.

"What?"

"What do you mean, 'what'? You get on to me about writing in a journal, and you're having a fucking hooker over here to do hell knows what. Why aren't we just picking up someone on the street?"

"I meant to discuss that with you. Your habits are..." Paul wrinkled his nose. "Unsanitary, to say the least. I'm surprised you haven't picked up AIDS or something like that. These girls get tested. I only pick classy girls." That smug look again. She wanted to rip it off his face and stuff it down his throat.

"What about that girl in the alley? She didn't look so classy."

"You shut up," Paul said through his teeth as he strode across the tiny hotel room. She didn't see his hand, but when it connected with the back of her skull she was just as dazed as before. Her eyes swam in their sockets and the blow nearly knocked her off the bed. "I knew about her background." Sophia almost asked how, but part of her didn't want to know.

"You'll enjoy it. Don't worry."

A knock on the door. _Must be Mercedes_ , she thought as she rolled her eyes. The girl had an expectant grin plastered on her face when Paul opened the door. The smile still stuck as Paul pulled her in.

"Where's William?"

"I'm William for tonight, honey. Mercedes," Paul grinned again, same old smile. "I'd like you to meet Gina. The three of us are going to have a lot of fun tonight." He turned to Sophia. "Aren't we? Come here, Gina."

Still reeling from the blow, Sophia got up slowly and braced herself on the nightstand. She walked over to the other two with careful steps.

"What's wrong with her?" Mercedes asked.

"She's kind of slow." Sophia scowled. _Asshole_. Sophia could see the look of dumb trust in those vacant green eyes and the way she coquettishly touched her blond bouffant hair. Why hadn't she said anything more about the fake name? Couldn't she see what was coming to her? No, Paul had already charmed her. Sophia wanted to shake her and slap her, send that too-skinny frame of hers reeling into the cheap motel furniture.

"I want you two to kiss," Paul said in a dark, commanding tone. Sophia had heard it before. She thought of the night at Beth's, where she could see everything but could barely hear what they were saying. She had definitely picked up on his tone of voice, though.

"I'm really not into girls," was all Sophia could manage to choke out. Paul looked at her through narrowed eyes. She couldn't believe it had come this far. She was letting this fucker dominate her. And why? Because of her obsession with him? It was starting to fade fast. At first, she thought having someone so similar would be exciting. But lately Paul's arrogance and bossiness overshadowed the excitement.

She let Mercedes kiss her. It felt weird, but Mercedes didn't seem to mind.

_She's getting money for this. Of course she doesn't mind_.

They tumbled down on to the bed together. From the corner of her eye, Sophia noticed Paul rummaging through his suitcase. He produced a small, lightweight video camera, turned it on and held it to his eye.

The girl trailed wet, sticky kisses down Sophia's belly. Sophia could smell hints of sugar, vanilla and cigarette smoke on the girl's mouth and filmy saliva residue, but stayed still. She decided it would be better to go along with things for now and leave when she had an opportunity. Her head still ached from the blow, and now things were swimming in a strange, sleepy daze.

She felt Mercedes' slippery tongue swipe her lower abdomen and felt her jeans and panties slide off simultaneously. Sophia kept her eyes closed. The thought of having a woman do this and having Paul videotape the whole thing was revolting to her. She felt like gagging...or at least, kicking the girl away.

Mercedes licked around her cleft, up and down the slash, dipped her tongue deeper inside. Sophia did not react, but she felt her body going against her mind. She felt a wet surge build up inside of her and crash through her like a wave. She kept her eyes closed tight as she rode through the orgasm.

The wetness that followed seemed...unnatural. It continued to flow down her legs, warm and sticky. Sophia opened her eyes.

Blood poured from a gaping wound on Mercedes' neck. The lower half of Sophia's body was slick with a deep crimson sheen that speckled the dingy hotel sheets. The smell of blood mixed with the salt of her orgasm hit her like a bat. She whipped her head over to Paul, who was calmly wiggling his fingers, wrestling them out of a pair of large rubber gloves. Mercedes gagged, blood foaming at her once-pretty little pink mouth, and hit the floor with a light thud. Her body was out of sight, but Sophia could hear her convulsing, thumping on the cheap thin carpet.

"What the fuck kind of fun was that supposed to be?"

"Fun for me. This should keep you occupied while I figure out what to do next." He carefully stepped around the body on the floor and over to Sophia's bag. He pulled out her journal, carefully pinched between his fingers. Sophia's mind searched frantically for a solution, but Paul was already grinning and waving to her at the doorstep.

"Later, baby!" His fake grin disappeared behind the door. She heard the car start up, tires squeal, and gravel crunch under the tires.

"Fuck!" she yelled, and instantly regretted it. She didn't need to draw any further attention to the motel room, and she couldn't run after Paul. She was naked and blood-streaked. She had the feeling the motel staff had seen their fair share of crazy shit, but she wasn't about to push the envelope.

_I should have just bailed at the gas station_. Her intuition had flared then, and she could have kicked herself in the ass for ignoring it. She looked at her blood-streaked thighs. She knew for sure that if Mercedes didn't call in or return at a certain point, someone would come looking for her. Hell, it was even possible she had a bodyguard standing around somewhere. Paul had been an expert. She hadn't noticed a single drop of blood on him. She sat up to look over the edge of the bed. The girl's lips were blue and her eyes were vacant. Sophia could see now that she'd had her neck sliced open. That explained the blood coming out of her mouth. Paul must have stood behind her and cut her. That's why he put on rubber gloves.

She began doing the only thing she could think of: cleaning up. She had to be quick. She figured it was possible that Paul had called the cops or told someone at the desk about his crazy girlfriend. Either way, she had to get out of there.

She heaved the girl into the shower, scrubbed her, soaped out her mouth, and then scrubbed her own body while looking down at the hooker's gaping red neck. She'd leave the shower running all night, which would hopefully wash as much evidence as possible away.

She wadded the bed sheets up and stuffed them in the motel's courtesy laundry bag. She'd take those with her and dump them elsewhere, maybe set fire to them somewhere. She meticulously checked for hair, prints...anything that would trace her back to the scene. She left quietly and slipped out into the hot Las Vegas evening. No bodyguard waiting around for Mercedes. _Strange and stupid_ , she thought.

It had been around 11:00 o'clock when she left the motel room. She had a couple hundred bucks on her, but she knew a typical bus ride would take her first to Los Angeles, then up the coast to San Francisco. The whole process took longer than 24 hours, and she'd have to ride with a bunch of smelly jackasses, crammed into an uncomfortable bus seat. She thought about flying back, but that required her flashing her ID around and she didn't want to go through the trouble. She had stashed her alternate, fake IDs she'd collected over the years at home. There had to be a better way.

Her head was still pounding from Paul's blow and her vision was blurry. She wanted to lie down and sleep, but she knew that was a bad idea for several reasons. Her first instinct was to leave Las Vegas, but for what? To go back to a city with a pissed off boyfriend, a suspecting cop, and possibly Claude on her heels for hell knew what reason? Then again, what about Argie?

There was a payphone situated at the edge of a 7-11 across the street. Sophia was surprised to see it there. She reached in her bag and pulled out her wallet and fingered the card she'd stashed away eons ago.

She crossed the street, picked up the phone and listened to the dial tone, wondering if there was anyone left in the world she could trust.

# CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Ti: Out of Focus

The last couple of days since the visit to Tamara's apartment had been hazy. Ti could not remember if it was Tuesday or Wednesday. Either way, she hadn't been to work in forever and rent was coming up. She kept pushing that worry out of her mind, kept focusing on all the letters and paperwork she had picked up from the floor space under the heater. She hunched over the paperwork now, pouring over the material as she drank coffee and ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She couldn't remember the last time she slept...she had had a constant supply of coffee and sandwiches since she came back to her own place.

She jumped when the phone rang. The screen displayed the name "Robert Black" and she swore. _Pompous ass._ The last thing Ti wanted to do was talk to Black, but it would look suspicious if she didn't.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Celestine. It's Detective Robert Black." He said it with an air of great importance.

"I know. I programmed your number into my phone while you were sitting there. Remember?" _God, he's out of it,_ she thought. She was glad she decided to keep the information about the mail she'd found a secret.

"Oh. Um. I'd like to speak with you in person if you have some time this morning."

"I guess. Although I'd like to take a nap beforehand if that's all right. I've had to kind of..." her mind swam for an excuse. "...take over Tamara's business, paying bills and stuff for her, if you know what I mean. I've been up all night."

"Sure. We'll meet for lunch. I have some work to do over by the Cliff House, so be there at noon."

Ti looked at the clock on the wall. That would give her about four hours to nap.

"Fine. See you."

Ti took off all her clothes, climbed into bed, and instantly focused on the rain hitting the windowpanes outside. _Cops. Rain. Obsessions with other women. How many reminders of the past can one person take?_

Before Danny, there had been Kim. Kim—the one with the long black hair, almond Asian eyes, and full lips--had been distant. Ti wanted to know who had been taking up all of Kim's attention. She'd asked over and over again, but Kim kept telling her it was no one. Everything was fine.

Ti wasn't having it. She followed Kim everywhere. Did Kim notice? Not at all. By then, Ti had acquired enough camera equipment to zoom in on things and people from across the street. She had gotten good. Really good.

It wasn't enough. Kim had been way too careful. Sure, Kim had a lot of friends she went out with, but Ti couldn't figure out whom to focus on. But she thought she knew how to focus. All one had to do was be patient, to twist and turn that lens another way to make things come into view. Since Ti couldn't get that view from any other angle, she decided to get up close and personal and break into Kim's apartment.

She thought the rain would serve as her cover. Who would want to stand out in the rain and look for criminals? She paid cash for a lock picking set, wore black leather gloves, and let herself in while she knew Kim was out.

If only she'd known one of Kim's neighbors liked to sit by the window and watch the rain...

The cops were amused and rude as usual. She waited outside Kim's apartment in cuffs, listening to a phone ring.

She was confused. Was this a dream? The ringing phone seemed very realistic. Part of her consciousness tapped her on the shoulder and told her the ringing was interweaving with her dream.

_Wake up_ , it said.

Ti scrambled for the phone. "I'm sorry..." she immediately began.

"You're late." Robert Black. He sounded pissed.

"I'm on my way now." She hung up, pulled on jeans, an old punk t-shirt, Converse, and headed out the door.

* * * *

Ti jumped when she heard her phone buzz, but remembered who was sleeping next to her. She edged carefully out of bed, grabbed her phone and tiptoed into the living room. She blinked several times to get the sleep out of her eyes. Confused, she stared hesitantly at the strange Las Vegas number on her phone. _This could be interesting._

"Hello?" Her voice sounded like she'd been eating broken glass. _Too many cigarettes._ She coughed.

"Ti, it's Sophia."

"Oh, God," Ti muttered, and quickly glanced back towards her bed. She tried not to think about running out of Sophia's apartment like a complete moron that last time.

"I'm sorry to call you so late, but I'm in a jam and I can't get in touch with anyone else right now. I had to go out of town on emergency and I really need someone to feed Argie. Can you do it? I'd pay you." She sounded a little frazzled and emotional. Ti's curiosity was instantly spiked.

"Sure. I'd be glad to," she said, trying to sound casual and not at all excited about being in Sophia's apartment alone. Sophia explained where the key was and how to handle the supposed menacing lock.

After hanging up, Ti felt wired. She crept around the corner, and, ensuring Robert Black was still asleep in her bed, went to her bay window and lit a cigarette.

Her mind wavered between regret and the desire to get back in bed with him. They had met and talked extensively about Tamara. She hadn't said a word about the bills she found, but she had a feeling there was a connection between Tamara's disappearance and what she'd found. Tamara never said anything about being involved in a cosmetics company, but the name "Everlasting Beauty Cosmetics" had been printed all over the envelopes she'd taken from Tamara's apartment. The statements inside were from the time she was supposedly a call girl. This clearly indicated to Ti that the cosmetics venture was some sort of cover-up.

But that name...

Why was Claude Moreau involved?

_My own fucking father. I should have known_. She ground her teeth and crushed out her cigarette with extra emphasis.

Black snorted, rolled over and his breathing quickly returned to normal. She lit another cigarette. She supposed she'd asked him back to her apartment because there was some desire to get over Sophia by being with a man. Maybe she wanted to control the situation with Tamara and have a one-over on a cop for old times' sake. Who knew? It felt good. But not good enough to keep him around.

He said he'd had a suspect. She wondered if it was Claude.

She looked at the clock on the wall. Two hours had passed. In another four hours, she'd try to kick Black out and get ready to go to the university library. Her own privileges were expired, her pursuit for a bachelor of art in photography cut short by boredom, but she had a workaround. She needed access to a couple of databases, but couldn't get in unless she had a valid university email address and password. She had something that she thought would solve that problem.

Ti sat by the bay window, dozed, and thought about her father and how he used to take her to Saint Louis Cemetery by the projects. How he would wear those obnoxious leather gloves and crack his knuckles with a grin of satisfaction after he stole little remnants from the graves: flowers for Mom, Mardi Gras beads for his little princess. What fun. She hated going with him. She often wondered if that was one of the reasons he left.

_Fuck him,_ she thought as she drifted off to sleep.

# CHAPTER NINETEEN

Paul: Cracked Reflection

The desert tended to swallow people up. Cars and even roaming people always looked like part of the landscape. If you saw someone, you wouldn't even really notice or care.

Paul supposed that's what he liked best about the desert. He giggled. He could camp out here for a few days, just relaxing and waiting.

He also had a bit of entertainment. He turned Sophia's journal around in his hands. Fine leather, worn and soft, almost alive. It had a little flap and a string you could wind around to close it. He opened it again and thumbed through the pages, making a little _ffffliiiippp_ sound. The paper was thick, ivory white and textured like a piece of bone. High quality.

He turned on his lantern and began to analyze the journal closely under the safe dome of his tent.

The journal started back when Sophia must have been about sixteen or so. He wondered if she had any more from when she was a kid. He flipped through it again. He didn't notice the slightest change in handwriting. He found that unusual. For her, at least. He could modify his own handwriting at the drop of a hat and had been forging signatures for as long as he could remember. His own real handwriting had gotten progressively larger and bolder over the years. Sophia's was the same: neat, loopy cursive crammed in to each page, as if she thought she might run out of room.

The first entry of the journal was no, "Wow, a new journal! What should I write?" No. Sophia immediately launched in to an angry tirade about that guy Claude. She had been hiding from him in a cemetery of all places. She called it "the one in the bad neighborhood" and Paul guessed that could be anywhere in New Orleans.

_He grabbed me and pulled me into the car with him,_ she had written. _There was an older guy waiting there for me, and Claude got out of the car while this older guy began ripping my clothes off. I tried to fight back. The guy was like 300 pounds and he crushed me-I lost my breath-and he put it in me. I've done it before but it hurt today._

I'm getting so sick of being used like this. I never get any of the money. Claude takes it all.

_So_ , Paul thought, _she was right about the Claude guy_. Apparently, he did make her a prostitute herself. _Stupid shit_ , he thought. She deserved it. But the thought of Sophia as a young girl, crushed under some older, dominating man was making his cock ache and strain against his jeans. He pulled it out and began stroking it as he thought.

He was right on the border of California and Nevada. There weren't a lot of people out here, but he was sure he could find someone young who resembled Sophia. He could...what? Go to a school? May be too risky. If Sophia was anything like he thought, she'd be trying to get revenge on him now. It was possible, however, that the episode with Mercedes put her in her place a little. Somehow, he doubted it. That made him nearly lose his boner, so he thought about an underage Sophia again, innocent and almost virginal, right on the cusp of evil. Choking her breath out, crushing her small, slight neck in his hands until he could feel little tendons roll and pop. Slamming his dick so deep inside her, she screamed.

He came, his release like the strongest sleep aid, and drifted off into a fitful dream.

* * * *

Paul scratched the scruff growing on his chin. He'd keep it for a while, even though it was annoying him. He rolled up the tent and sneezed. He felt like snorting water through his nose. His sinuses were so cracked and dry he could feel a nosebleed coming on.

He got in his car and drove until he reached a gas station. He'd have to fill up here and he hoped he'd think of some idea before he got back on the road again. He finished pumping and slipped into the men's room.

He wondered what Sophia was doing and why she hadn't called. It was making him paranoid. He was angry with himself. He felt like he was cracking at the seams, like a piece of old pottery. He stared at his reflection in the filthy mirror. Fixed his hair. Ran his hand through it again to mess it up. Punched the mirror. Now, that was more like it. He felt better. The Paul in the mirror looked more like he felt. His reflection split off into jagged angles where his fist had made contact, cutting his face up into bizarre pieces and proportions like a Picasso portrait.

A burly man with glasses and an overflowing belly walked in and stopped, stared at Paul's hand, then the mirror. Paul ducked and blew past him hurriedly.

"Crazy fuck," the guy muttered.

Paul walked briskly to his car, spitting obscenities through his teeth. He didn't like the way the guy looked at him. He didn't like interruptions. He decided he would wait until the guy left the gas station. Then, Paul decided, he'd follow him.

He didn't need any planning at all. He was past that. He'd planned the first three carefully, taking his time, following them, introducing himself, sizing them up, grooming them to get what he wanted, and then tearing them to pieces. But he was so good now. He didn't need to plan anymore. He had this down pat. He could just pick any pretty girl he wanted and get her. It was that easy.

Paul sang along to The Beatles in the car as he pounded on the steering wheel. He felt calm and elated now that he had something to go after. It wasn't necessarily the bearded man. Paul was interested in the bumper sticker that said, "My Child CHEERS at Southside Junior High!"

A cheerleader! They never gave him the time of day when he went to school. He'd finally have a chance. It would be just like a high school fantasy. The charming jock deflowers Daddy's little all-star cheerleader, Daddy gets mad at jock, everything turns out in jock's favor.

He followed the man at a distance so his vehicle was about the size of a bee. He liked this part. He was in control. The man didn't know someone was following him and Paul felt like a cougar crouched down in the brush, calmly waiting for an opportunity. His blood pressure never rose and his heart rate was slow and steady. In fact, a great sense of calm and euphoria washed over him like a deep meditative state. He was focused and precise with his methods programmed into his system. He always did everything right.

The man drove deeper into the suburbs and slowed his vehicle. Once Paul approached, he noticed they were in a school zone. He was ready to speed up, but became interested when the bearded man pulled over to the curb. Paul slowly eased his car into a U-turn and parked across the street. He watched with interest.

Two girls bounded into the van. One looked about eleven years old, but he was more interested in the older one, maybe about age fourteen. She resembled Sophia a little. Her hair was a little lighter, but it would do. He waited a bit for the man to pull away. Then he followed him into a cookie-cutter neighborhood.

The neighborhood zigzagged to and fro, and it made Paul wonder if the man noticed he was following him. Paul hung back and parked. The van was distinct enough. He hoped he'd be able to recognize it if it was parked in a driveway. He hoped the bearded man didn't have a garage. Most of the houses in this neighborhood didn't.

He started the car again and drove in the direction the man drove earlier. The street was nearly a mile long, but after some careful hunting, he was able to spot the van.

He'd need to get rid of his car, but he was sure he could get the girl in under three days, maybe even sooner if he acted quickly.

# CHAPTER TWENTY

Sophia: Phoenix Rising

Her nerves felt bundled up in the pit of her stomach. That sensation combined with the burn of not eating was making her ill. It was as if she could feel the weight dripping off of her moment by moment. She felt disoriented and wasn't quite sure where she was. How was it possible for a woman such as herself to be this lost and confused?

Sophia picked a direction and walked. She had no idea if this led her to more trouble or to a solution. She told herself she'd find out when she got there. Ideas usually came to her the quickest when she was walking anyway.

She swallowed hard and tried to clear her head. The dizzying lights and whizzing cars made it hard to put her thoughts in order, but she knew she had to at least get out of Las Vegas. She'd called Ti, so at least Argie had a food and care plan. She ran through the catalog of her apartment's contents. She couldn't think of much that Ti could really get a hold of, nothing that seemed outright suspicious or glaringly obvious. Unless, of course, she dug around enough--but she could explain any suspicious findings very easily.

At least Paul hadn't taken her bag. She still had some cash.

_A drugstore._ She had a shopping list forming in her head. _A lighter, a disposable razor and a pair of tweezers._ It was a hell of a lot less conspicuous than buying a knife. It just looked like she needed a bit of grooming, maybe just forgot a couple of things. She asked for a pack of cigarettes too, just to be on the safe side. Flirted a little with the pimply guy behind the counter. Used an American accent.

Her boots feeling like iron weights, she slogged in to one of the casinos. She'd have to find a bathroom with a single stall or at least one that locked from the inside. The smell of burning plastic would surely attract attention, but the cigarette smell might cover it up. Or so Sophia hoped.

Finally, she found a small casino café with a single stall bathroom. It had a ventilation system and a lock from the inside. She smiled. Luck was back on her side. Using the lighter to burn the plastic off the razor would take about ten minutes tops. That was enough time to figure out what to do with this small weapon. As the razor's plastic bubbled away in little pink blobs, Sophia thought.

She was a woman. People could trust her. She should probably go to New Orleans and take care of things since Claude might be after her, or the cops after him—or her. She was done with him. He was in the way and no longer useful to her anyway. Paul seemed smart, determined, and always knew what to do. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that the little episode with the prostitute was to test her. She could play this game though. She'd test him back. First, though, she had to be sure it was just the two of them.

Just as she'd made her decision, the razor popped out of the handle. She now had a small, portable weapon that she could whip out in the blink of an eye.

She started out wandering slowly around one of the casinos, the crowds swarming like mystified insects around the colorful, loud machines. Not one familiar face.

Sophia left and began wandering through a seedy section lined with several titty bars. She had a strange feeling this might be the place to be...strippers probably dropped off the face of the earth all the time. She walked around the outer edge of the parking lot and squatted beside the dumpster, the razor blade squeezed between the inside of her boot and her skin. It cut into her skin, just a nip, but she felt a certain strange comfort from it.

The acrid, sour smell of the dumpster and her crouching position reminded her of the night she'd first seen Paul kill someone. How she'd admired his prowess then, his sharp, clean movements...and how riveted she was by him. Maybe she'd known all along he was a killer, just like Claude, awakening some ancient, taboo sensual world she'd once visited.

She touched the back of her head. It felt as if there was a bump as big as her fist forming, but she wasn't sure if it was just her imagination. She tried to decide if she was angry with Paul for what he did and decided she wasn't. They were meant for each other. She'd do what it took to be with him.

Her thighs were burning from the crouching position. She was tired of the hot, sticky air. It felt as though she'd snorted sand. Several cars pulled in the back parking lot but none of the women who emerged from them resembled a skinny brunette with olive skin.

She thought about closing her eyes when a white Mazda whipped into the parking lot, its tires crunching on the gravel. The car thumped a rattling bass as its owner lingered inside. Sophia crept closer. The interior light glowed and the owner was all open-mouthed, eyebrows raised: that awkward putting-on-makeup face.

She was a brunette. Fake boobs spilled over the top of her tank top, but it would work. Good enough.

She walked even closer and popped one of the cigarettes in her mouth. She knocked on the window. The girl's face was a little fuller, but it was still passable.

"Hi there. You got a light?" She used a slight southern accent to come across as friendly.

The girl smiled and fished a lighter out of her purse. Sophia tried to take a quick inventory of the purse's contents, but the car would be enough. And she still had cash.

Sophia lit the cigarette and had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from coughing. She dropped the lighter.

"Sorry," she mumbled as she bent over and removed the razor from her boot.

She stood up and slashed fast, reached in, opened the door and popped the trunk open. The girl slumped in the direction of the open door, which was good. It minimized blood splatter all over the car. Sophia felt a flash of concern about the white exterior, but that could wait.

She grabbed the girl under the arms and dragged her to the rear of the car, the girl sputtering and gurgling along the way. A couple of dead lift pushes got her in the trunk.

According to her driver's license, her name was Denise Valentino and she was from Phoenix, Arizona. Denise had gas cards, a Visa and about $450 in cash, plus a small bump of meth. There was also a .25 pistol in the glove compartment with the serial number scratched off. Enough to get to New Orleans. She'd keep the meth for later, go to the car wash she'd seen on the way in and fill up using Denise's gas card before leaving Las Vegas.

She'd get as far as she could, but she'd have to dispose of the car at some point and probably hitch the rest of the way. She figured it wouldn't be long before someone noticed Denise hadn't shown up for her shift at the Crazy Horse.

Sophia was exhausted. The only good news about this escape was that she'd be taking Highway 40 instead of I-10, so there was a bit more scenery to take in whenever morning rolled around. She figured she'd try to get to Albuquerque before stopping for some rest.

* * * *

Sophia passed a never-ending landscape of desert and cacti with the occasional deer or two. She'd heard of deer leaping out in front of cars and killing the driver. Suicidal, innocent looking things they were, those brown eyes soulful and vivacious.

She thought of her own eyes and how as a kid, a classmate said she'd had a cold, glass-like stare that was almost like a predator waiting to strike. Sophia singled out that particular girl and made her life hell from then on, stealing her homework and passing it off as her own, pulling her hair, pushing her down the stairs. She remembered how satisfying it was to humiliate and exert her power over this innocent little creature. And the girl deserved it. She was stupid, just like the deer. And she was asking for it when she said that about Sophia's eyes. Just like suicide.

She guessed it was true about people and their eyes. _Eyes are windows to the soul_ , said the old cliché. She thought about Paul's equally steely gaze.

Denise had a cell phone in the purse on the passenger seat. Sophia pulled over to the side of the road to see if she'd get reception. She scrolled through the list of numbers and dialed the number to the Crazy Horse. She was just past the Nevada state line near Kingman, Arizona, and was about to hop on the I-40.

She mustered up the best Denise voice she could manage. The voice message said that the Crazy Horse was open from 8 p.m. to 3 a.m. Come on by and get the wildest ride of your life!

"This is Denise and I'm sorry, but I can't take any more shit from everyone and I need some away time. I'm headed back to Phoenix. Later!"

It sounded stupid. She frowned and wrenched the steering wheel, jerking the car back onto the highway and swerving into the opposing lane. She narrowly missed an oncoming car. She heard the fading honk from the driver but it barely registered. Sophia frequently drove like a maniac, but it was just like brushing her teeth or putting on clothes. She thought nothing of it. She supposed her wild driving started as a need to garner some reaction out of herself, but it never happened and crazy driving was normal. Her thoughts shifted to the Honda and she wondered when she'd have to buy a new car.

Anyway, the call would hopefully buy her some time. She could dump the Mazda off in the middle of Texas and figure it out from there.

She stopped in Kingman to find a pay phone. It took some searching, but she finally found one at a particularly run down looking gas station at the edge of town. She dropped in some change and was surprised to see it still working. She dialed information to get a number first and had the operator put her through. A male Latino voice answered.

"Hello, I have something I wanted to mention to you because it made me very nervous. I was staying at your hotel last night and I saw something, but I want to remain anonymous." She didn't wait for the man to interject. "I was out getting something to drink when I heard some strange noises in one of the rooms, and a man dressed in all black left and got in a black Toyota Solaris. I don't know what happened over there, but I thought someone should know." And with that, she hung up. They could figure out the rest themselves. And it might even keep Paul busy for a little while.

She walked to the edge of the building and smashed Denise's cell phone on the pavement. She scooped up the contents and disposed of it in a trash bin.

Thinking about Paul made her think about Argie and she wondered if he was well fed and cared for. She figured Ti would do a decent job. She ran through the contents of her apartment in her mind again. Other than a few books, she doubted Ti would be able to find anything or piece anything together. Still, the girl was in her apartment unattended. That could spell trouble.

She had to get to New Orleans as quickly as possible.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Paul: Breaking Glass

Paul waited. If there was any part of the process where he felt the most excited, where his heart beat the hardest, this was it: the waiting, the anticipation. The sun was almost down, which meant he'd have the blanket of night to protect him.

He was already starting to fall in love with the lithe body of the teenager, her sleek lines, the taught little muscles developed from cheerleading, the virginal shininess of her hair...the way hair looked when it wasn't fussed with much: sleek, full, lively. He imagined her skin would be as smooth as glass, her lips ripe and full like a sweet berry.

Soon, the moon was full and shining in the sky like a brand new quarter. Paul decided it was time to slink over to the house and see what was inside. He felt like the big bad wolf when he did this, and it always felt so good that he felt like howling, especially tonight. He had to grit his teeth hard to keep from laughing out loud. From his car to the sidewalk, he walked with a casual gait, but when he reached the house he wanted, he looked around with great care, then whipped into the shadows with only the faint swish of his clothing as a hint. He crept up to the first window, and seeing it was the dark living room, he moved on. Second window: parents' bedroom. The third window was what he wanted. This was clearly a teenager's bedroom: posters of singers Paul didn't recognize hung on the walls, trophies and books were scattered around the shelves, and the room looked...lived in. There was even a Kandinsky poster, its purples and pinks, strong lines and perfect symmetric circles clearly visible. She had good taste, even for a young little thing. He smiled. The cheerleader wasn't there, but the bedside lamp was on. Perhaps that meant she was coming back. Paul crouched and waited.

When she finally entered the room, her limbs long and graceful as they were, Paul gasped. She shut the door. And what do you know, she began undressing as if she knew he was there, slowly removing her shirt, unzipping her skirt, stepping out of her little white tennis shoes. She moved around the room in her bra and underwear, bless her heart, and Paul barely noticed his hand taking on a life of its own, wandering down to his crotch. She was getting ready to go out. He heard her mother calling and the girl shouted something, pulled on a pink cotton dress, slipped her white tennis shoes back on and bounded out the door.

Now he'd follow her again. He hoped she'd return to the house tonight. He saw her get into a car with another girl. They pulled out of the driveway. Paul sneaked back to his car, started it up and followed at a safe distance. They eventually ended up at a movie theater and bought tickets for some horror movie. Paul smirked. He bought a ticket too and made sure to sit directly behind them.

How he loved this part of the game so much. It made him feel like a king, having this much control. This girl had no idea she had a secret admirer from afar. She looked like such a good girl. Not tainted like so many of those other whores who knew nothing about art or music or the good things in life...they just wanted stuff.

He had to have her, but how could he talk to someone like that? His best method was to just let girls talk and talk to him, to let them open up and pour out their souls after the bad had been sitting in there for so long. It always made Paul think about emptying a vase filled with dead flowers and dingy water. Even after you dumped the shit out, there was still a lingering residue, a strange leftover filmy grime that was hard to get rid of. Sometimes you just had to smash the glass to get rid of everything. Paul always thought of that analogy when he strangled someone or stabbed them: breaking glass.

He had been daydreaming. The movie was over. He followed the girls out, focused like a laser pointer yet deeply aware of his surroundings. So easy. His pulse never rose over 80.

* * * *

Despite closing his eyes, the kaleidoscope of colors continued to twist and twirl like an insane amusement park ride. Paul bit his tongue and tasted blood. He felt like he couldn't hold on to this ride. It was going too fast.

"Stop it," Paul blubbered, then promptly threw up.

That made him feel better. He'd been drinking with the girls. He looked at both of them, and then down at his own nude body where he'd thrown up on himself. The girls were also nude but unmoving, the straw from the barn sticking to them where the blood was.

"Sluts," he slurred. After the cheerleader, it wasn't enough. He'd found two community college students. One was willing to help him jump off his battery, and one was willing to give him directions. They were both surprised to see the other one in the car. They both screamed. They didn't know: he liked that sound. It made him feel like he reigned and he did. He was like God.

No. He _was_ God. God gave life, and these girls didn't really scream, didn't really fear, didn't actually have their pulses race until Paul came along. He made them feel life at its most potent, really made them feel every fiber of their beings. And he took their lives, too. It was like being the director of a huge stage, casting the actors, making them do what he wanted them to do, and yelling "cut" when it was all over. When it was all over in reality, it was like capturing them forever on film. He could own them. They were a part of him. He always thought about this when he took their lives. He supposed that's why he liked having the video camera around. He looked now at the two girls on either side of him and wished he had it with him now.

He'd picked up a saw at the hardware store, along with some rope and various other tools to finish the job. He often just took pictures of the girls after the deed was done, but today he'd take something else.

It took some time and patience to get the job done, but it was worth the wait. He admired the blonde's hands: her nails were not too long and very neat, with fire engine red nail polish. Her fingers were slim and delicate. He also liked the color of the brunette's eyes: greenish grey. They were a lot like Sophia's. He kept those things from the girls, one hand and a pair of eyes, and buried their bodies in the soft earth near the shed. He thought long and hard about burning the shed down. It was out in the middle of nowhere, but smoke might attract attention. He regretted it. It would be fun to watch it burn, the fire licking and whittling the old building down until it was nothing but hot ash.

He put the marble-like eyes and the pretty little hand in a huge Big Gulp cup he'd gotten from a gas station. It was still full of ice.

Paul was still drunk when he got back in the vehicle, which felt too big for him. He'd wrecked the Solaris right after he raped the cheerleader. He supposed he was so excited, he couldn't control the car. He set fire to it out on the highway and hitched. He tried not to think of it as being too big of a problem. He hoped that the car would burn and melt into an unidentifiable lump.

The man who had picked him up was old and crusty, and Paul thought he was exactly the type of person you wouldn't want picking you up on the side of the road. The guy had a mousy comb-over and glasses as thick as expensive granite drink coasters. His lips had that constant-wet look, as if he'd been licking them over and over. Paul wondered if the man intended to sexually assault him, but he didn't wait. It was no problem for Paul. Five miles into their trip, he slit the old guy's throat and took his suburban. He dragged him deep into the desert until he could no longer see the road. He took his wallet, which had a few hundred dollars. He was glad. It allowed him to buy all the materials to use on the girls.

As he drove, he thought more about those girls. Part of his mind fluttered, told him to cool off, go back home for a while and see how things were panning out with Sophia and that cop guy.

_Sophia_. Paul didn't know what to think of her. _The bitch._ That was one he could never get a handle on. It just didn't work with two dominant people, no matter which way you tried it. He thought of that night when they'd first fucked, when they were both trying to dominate the other. The sex was good, Sophia was wild, but part of it frustrated him. Part of it really challenged him, though. That was what the game with Mercedes had been all about. He needed to see if she was ready to submit to him now. He was in charge. She needed to know it.

His head bobbed. He blinked his eyes and slapped himself to stay awake. Rolled down the window. Turned on the radio. The dry chill of the desert bit into his face with pin-sharp acuteness, and the song on the radio pierced his ears: the twangy wail, the _waaaah_ of the guitar. Country. Paul winced. Country reminded him of his whore mother. She used to listen to it all day long during the basement days. He changed the channel to talk radio.

The show was about the childfree, those who had adamantly opposed having children. Several of the childfree (Paul really wondered about that term. It made them sound like ethereal fantasy beings from another planet) came on and spoke up in defense of their decisions. And many more people with children called in and argued. One caller said they were going to hell for denying their God-given rights as human beings.

"If you only knew," Paul snickered.

He'd thought a few times about how nice it would be to have a normal, Joe Job life with the 9-5 and the pretty wife and 2.5 kids. His own childhood was so.... _not_ normal that he strived for normalcy for a long time. But the fantasy prevailed. This was his life: driving drunk at 2 a.m. with a hand and a pair of eyes in a Styrofoam cup.

He tried to separate his thoughts from the radio, because there was a strange noise. It confused him. Then there were lights: a brilliant flash of red, a bolt of electric blue.

Paul cursed and beat his fists on the steering wheel. Then he cried. Then he tried to speed up, but the cop came over the loudspeaker and it freaked him out. The best he could do at this point was to try and charm the guy out of a DUI or a ticket.

He pulled over. The guy approached the suburban with his hat on. Paul rolled down the window.

" _Officer_! I guess you caught me speeding, huh?"

"Get out of the car."

The smile was still plastered to Paul's face, but in his mind, he knew.

Over. It's over.

* * * *

Paul's head felt stuffed with cotton. A hangover feeling. Except he couldn't remember drinking. At all. And this bed felt...strange. He was so thirsty. This place, wherever it was, was dry. Every drop of moisture felt sucked from his body. He put his hands on his head.

Where the hell am I?

He adjusted his eyes and gazed through bars.

Jail.

He clenched his teeth and his fists together. They arrested him for drunk driving. That was about all he remembered.

_The girls, the girls...what'd I do with them?_ He still felt sick from the toxic sludge of alcohol. The buildup of gunk in his teeth felt gummy and dry, and his tongue felt like it was stuck to the roof of his mouth. He gulped water from a sink and his mind raced. He took a long piss, zipped up and began to pace to keep from passing out.

He knew he was in jail. That much he'd figured out so far. He recognized the bars. Now he was thinking about what was in the drink container in the cup holder. The ice had probably melted and the eyes and the fingers were still probably floating around in a sea of blood, melted ice and a little bit of Dr. Pepper. He sat back down on the bed and put his head in his hands.

Paul was pretty sure he'd fallen asleep when the guard called out, but he wasn't sure. He'd been feeling slightly better since pissing and drinking a few gulps of water, but not really. His head was still swimming and he had been trying to choke back the vomit and the realization that they probably had him now, now after all those years, just as he was getting one over on that Sophia cocksucker.

The guard said, "Mr. Scivique." It was louder this time, and when Paul looked up, the guard was staring at him.

He almost said it _. But my name is Paul Bertrand. You have the wrong cell, jackass, thanks for waking..._

Yeah. He thought it all right. But he didn't dare open his mouth. He'd been drinking long enough by now to know when to keep his mouth shut.

"You spent your night. Your vehicle is in impound. Make a call if you have to. Your court date is in a couple of days."

Instead of yelping for joy, Paul thanked the guard and followed him out. The more he thought about the fingers and eyes in that cup, the more his stomach sank. But he could handle that. As long as he had Sophia's journal. They gave him the leather-bound book, his wallet, and a few other things he'd had in his pocket. Now all he had to do was get away and find Sophia.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Ti: Making Connections

It was still a little chilly outside, but the sun started to break through a little, offering some warmth. Condensation still hung desperately to a few plants and leaves, and birds chirped with a little hesitation, as if their noise would bring on more rain. Ti donned a black hoodie and matching black sweatpants. She was deep inside her own head as she walked down Fulton Street towards Gleeson Library at the University of San Francisco. Just for comfort's sake, she fondled the nondescript and unlabeled neon green CD case she had stuffed in her hoodie pouch.

She felt as though delving further into Tamara's world would save her from the desperation she felt from letting Sophia slip away. Her heart was hurting less, that lump in her throat was slowly melting away, but when Sophia called about her cat, it came back a little. The apartment smelled like her. She thought of that day she walked here from the rain and whined and cried and made a fool of herself. How Sophia must have thought she was an idiot.

She did feel like an idiot. She still couldn't figure out what it was about Sophia that made her so interesting. It was frustrating. Ti felt like she'd known her in a past life or that she'd met her before, but she knew Sophia didn't feel the same. It made Ti feel ridiculous.

Sleeping with that cop was a bad idea. She hadn't been with a guy in a long time. He was only her second. Now, she was even questioning her sexual identity.

Keeping the envelopes a secret was important to her—she knew there was a connection to Sophia, and she was hell bent on finding it. Maybe even more determined than Robert Black. He said he had a suspect, and Ti's glaring intuition spiked and she wondered if Black had found any information about Claude Moreau. All Ti did was tell Black how she'd met Tamara and the nature of their friendship. She didn't even tell Black about the weird guy who came in that one day. She remembered that day with crystal clarity: it was soon after she'd seen Sophia. The videotape guy, who she'd only known as "Paul", came in and Tamara told the creepy story about going home with him and the whole video camera debacle.

Ti always thought he was cute for a guy. She'd get with him if he wanted to. She didn't like Tamara's reaction to him, though. She didn't normally react to men that way, only snobby rich girls who happened to have cute boyfriends. Ti suspected that Paul was some bully client of Tamara's back in the day, but there was no reason to suspect that he was anything but a weird guy with bizarre sexual fetishes and a deep-seated desire to be some sort of porn director.

She wasn't sure why she didn't tell Black more about the envelopes. Part of her thought it might be in Tamara's best interest to keep it secret. She couldn't explain it. Maybe it was intuition. Maybe part of it was because she sort of liked Black and wanted to keep him out of it. Hence, the whole gender and sexuality identity crisis she was worried about facing.

Part of her supposed this was normal for her age. Maybe after all this was over she'd re-enroll in school. Maybe create more of a life for herself again. Get immersed in photography again. Find a job that didn't involve coffee. She was getting sick of it. The bitter coffee aroma loitered on her fingers and her clothes. She inadvertently sniffed her sleeve. She did the math in her head. She hadn't been to work in two weeks. She had no idea about what she was going to do for rent. The thought of calling John for money made her sad, and the thought of him sitting alone in the New Orleans house made her even more depressed.

Once inside the library, Ti got back to the business of the day: research. The building had just opened and there weren't many students yet, only a few assistants and a reference librarian behind the desk. The librarian smiled at Ti as she walked in. Ti smiled back. Even though she dropped out, she liked the idea of being a student and always felt at home in the library.

She chose a computer near a corner where no one could look over her shoulder and she wouldn't be disturbed. The login screen patiently waited for Ti to input her student affiliation information, but she dismissed it. She double-checked for roaming library workers. The librarian was busily reordering the ready reference shelves, her heel clicks echoing in the near-empty building. Satisfied, Ti pulled out the neon green CD case. The boot CD inside could create a total nightmare for any computer it happened to enter, but that was not Ti's intention. She only wanted to bypass the login and remain anonymous as she did her library research. She inserted the CD into the drive and the machine began to make strange noises. This part would take a while, so Ti pulled out a pen and a notebook from her old backpack. She began writing down things she remembered about her father.

He left home when I was three years old. That would have been in 1993. Mom married John in 1995 and died in 2000. Was Claude still in New Orleans? What was his occupation when he married Mom?

The computer beeped and Ti looked up to see it finally booting up. She'd obtained this disc from Maus, the one friend she'd made at school. They occasionally chatted about photography software and books and he seemed a little disappointed that she was dropping out. Before she had left, Maus handed her the neon green case.

"Here. It's a present. You can use it to bypass the university computer's login if you still need to use the library." He smiled. "Or for malevolent purposes. Whichever. It will basically allow you to login to any computer and browse anonymously."

She'd learned a lot about computers from that guy: how to wipe a computer clean, how to cover tracks—Maus could go on and on. She was glad she listened.

Ti began by accessing a few genealogy databases. She thought that maybe if she searched enough, she'd be able to figure out if Claude remarried or had more children.

She typed his name and suspected birthday into the fields. There was his marriage to Mom, as well as her own name sprinkled across the page: Celestine Grace Moreau. She'd since dropped the "Moreau" and had legally changed her name to Celestine Grace. She thought it gave her more of a movie star quality, not that she was ever interested in being in front of the camera. Still, it sounded like a cool name for a photographer.

Nothing else. Nothing about a marriage, children, or whereabouts. She wasn't exactly surprised. Although she never got a chance to really know him well, she figured he was the type to have multiple children and partners. She briefly wondered if she had siblings out there, but quickly dismissed it. There was too much already to worry about.

She opened a database that provided users with information regarding specific companies. From here, she'd be able to type in the name of the company she'd found on Tamara's envelopes: "Everlasting Beauty." Ti thought it was a strange name, like the "happily ever after" used in fairy tales. But fairy tales were never the truth, were they?

The database revealed that Everlasting Beauty, established in 1997 and founded by Claude Moreau, Chief Executive Officer, had a net worth of $7.6 million. That was not what made Ti want to fall out of her chair. It wasn't even Claude's salary, which was at an impressive $1.5 million a year.

It was the name of the Vice President, with a salary of $1.3 million a year: Sophia Victoria Varga.

Dazed, she left the library and wandered aimlessly, still trying to come to grips with reality. Thomas Morgan Fink was also a partner in the business, but Ti never found any documents with that name in Tamara's apartment. Ti knew that name...it had to be Tamara. Ti wasn't one hundred percent sure what other names Tamara went by, but she knew she was a Tommy in a past life. Thomas Morgan Fink. Ti laughed, then realized how inappropriate it was. She was tired. But the name sounded strange. "Fink" made her think of a guy in glasses playing Dungeons and Dragons. And it seemed so cliché to choose a name with the same first letter as her previous name. _Maybe she didn't get to choose her new name._ She stopped smiling. Who knew? They never talked much about her former life, but Ti made a mental note to double-check Tamara's apartment for any trace of that name.

Now she was missing, which most certainly had to do with this connection between Claude and... fucking Sophia. Ti shook her head. It didn't make any sense. She whipped out her phone and scrolled through her contacts, stopped at Robert Black's number. She held her breath.

_No._ Her fingers were still poised over the call button, but she was unable to make them move. _What good is this going to do? Why can't I call?_

Her thoughts could not connect to form a complete one. She thought of a jigsaw puzzle, its pieces falling and scattering on the ground. The logical step would be to call Black. But she just couldn't make her fingers do the right thing.

Why?

She let herself think. She thought about the ex-girlfriends, thought about her need to know, to control. There it was, but she didn't want to turn that particular puzzle piece over to see its full description.

She needed sleep. At least a few hours of it, then some strong coffee and real food. She needed to rest and heal up before she made a final decision, but the lurking, naughty part of her mind, the part that always prevailed in these situations, had already decided.

She needed to get back into Sophia's apartment and see what else was there.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Claude: Birth of a Monster

1965 was a rough year for Simone Moreau. She was fifteen years old and pregnant, but since she wasn't doing well in school anyway, this was a good excuse to go ahead and drop out. Her father, a minister, slapped her clean across the face and told her he had to resist kicking her in her belly, that if he didn't believe so much in the Lord above she should get rid of that baby. Did she know who the father was? Simone didn't. She'd been in the back of Jimmy Arceneaux's car with some other boys from Metairie, and they had some drinks and smoked a little bit of grass. It was what all teenagers were doing, but Simone didn't dare say that. She just decided to say it was Jimmy's.

Yeah, 1965 was a terrible year. Jimmy flipped out and flat out called Simone a liar, and the whole town got word. Even if you said something in Metairie, word would trickle down through the Mississippi and it would get to New Orleans fast. People liked to talk.

Simone was quick to get out of that house. She had a feeling that once her baby was born, things would go back to normal with Daddy. She never liked him sleeping in the bed with her, the way his whiskey breath smelled when he breathed all over her neck and tried to kiss her goodnight. And all the other things he did to her. She would have preferred Jimmy Arceneaux do those things to her instead.

Simone got lucky enough to get a little job in a Laundromat and lived with some other girls, and little Claude Moreau grew up poor as hell. By the time he was five, he was begging for nickels in the French Quarter so he could go and get himself something to drink. There were plenty of places where bartenders paid no mind to a little kid who couldn't even see over the bar just waltzing in and buying a drink. He started smoking cigarettes when he was eight years old and quickly moved on to marijuana, then cocaine, then junk and anything he could get his hands on.

But Claude was no dummy. He quickly learned that to support his growing habit, he'd have to do better than nickels and dimes from pitying tourists. He began slinging drugs in schoolyards, and that's how he learned all about business.

Claude dropped out in eighth grade, but he had plenty of street smarts. He had some tight connections, even a few black friends who knew him well and trusted him, so he had access to a few of the wards in New Orleans, which meant big business in the drug dealing game.

The seventies were an ideal time to do business. Everyone was smoking or shooting something, but Claude watched a few of his older friends get into the prostitution game. That, combined with drugs, he learned, would really rake in the money. Lots of girly runaways came to New Orleans. It was a transient city, and charming Claude won them over with his devilish grin and wise street smarts, offering to buy them coffee and beignets at Café du Monde while they made up their minds: did they want to come work for him and make some real money so they wouldn't have to go back to those asshole parents of theirs?

He remembered the first one well. She was fourteen years old and from Baton Rouge, and she'd taken the bus all the way down to New Orleans. She had a sweet southern accent, not the distinct New Orleans "yat" accent or the Metairie "Bostonian on Quaaludes" accent. Different. Claude met her in Jackson Square. The pretty little thing was looking around, clearly lost and afraid like a puppy. She had a mop of curly blond hair and blue eyes about the size of saucers with red lipstick smeared dramatically over her pout...a Nancy Spungen looking thing. She wore a black button down collared shirt with a leopard miniskirt and ripped up tights. Claude offered directions, then when she finally admitted she didn't know where she'd be going next, a cup of coffee and some beignets.

"Across the street," Claude motioned with his chiseled jaw. "You might as well get something to eat, yeah?" He didn't wait for her to answer. He was no Sid Vicious with his shaved head and dark skin, but Baby Nancy was already batting her spidery matted eyelashes at him.

"Whatcha doin' down here?" Claude watched Baby Nancy chow down an order of the little fried donuts, powdered sugar floating around like stardust and settling on her black clothing. Claude thought of the snow globe in PawPaw's house, the one he got from Colorado on his only trip out of state.

_I'm going to get out of this place_ , was all he could think as the girl talked about her parents, powdered sugar caking her red lips. _I'll put her to work._ He had friends who would pay to fuck her. Lots of guys had crushes on Nancy.

As far as Claude's mom...well, Simone didn't really seem to care. She was glad when the Reverend Sal Moreau finally keeled over from a heart attack. She found him crumpled on that old dingy brown shag carpet that blanketed the tiny crumbling brick house, his piss-stained tighty whities hanging off his ass. Simone barely reacted when she found him. Hell, she'd wanted to crush her cigarette out on his dead flesh, the bastard.

At least her son was bringing home color televisions and cigarettes. This was a bit better than the way things were in 1965, that was for sure. And with Sal gone, they'd have the house and a little bit of money from the church. Not too bad.

Claude was in and out of jail all the time, but it didn't matter much. There was so much overcrowding in New Orleans, they'd let a white boy go just to get another black in. As he got older and a little wiser, Claude learned that pimping was far more beneficial to him and less likely to get him thrown in jail, since it was all up to the girls.

He liked one of them a lot. Katalin, Kat for short. He liked calling her Kat, like it was a cutesy pet name. She'd come over from Hungary and could barely string sentences together. Really charming and willing to work all the time. She was smart, though. It didn't always work out really well if they were smart. They "aspired" to better things, as they said. She knew French and her English was getting better and better, so she worked a little as a translator. Freelanced a little, posed for artists here and there (that was way classier than prostituting, sometimes paid more too), lived a kind of bohemian lifestyle.

That really pissed Claude off. He guessed he kind of loved her a little, if he could call it that. When she had come over from Hungary, there was something about her. She wasn't one of those bra-burning chicks who wanted to stomp a man's balls into a pulpy blob...no, there was a certain feminine appeal to her, an innocence, almost like she was too pure for that kind of work, but she did it anyway. He loved that innocence, but being out in the Western world tainted her. She got a taste for money and 70s feminist style ball stomping and couldn't get enough. He tried to keep her in his bed, but her lust for money grew stronger, and she lapped every penny up like a starving animal. Those sex-sweat sheets always smelled of her, reminding him of her absence, her lost innocence, no more naiveté.

Every girl who turned a trick without his permission, every girl who smart-mouthed him, every girl who looked like the pretty young Hungarian got at least a slap. When they were worn out or too used up looking, he started slitting their throats and tying them to cinderblocks to be chucked off into the Mississippi. Once they were at that point, they were of no use.

Claude always felt he was on Katalin's trail, always felt as though he'd just missed her. Sometimes he'd get a whiff of the woodsy perfume she'd wear or see a whip of black hair disappear around a corner. Sometimes he even thought he'd heard her distinct accent in a crowd. She was so close, yet so far away.

Years later, he finally found her. Someone had scratched the name "K. Varga" in tiny print on the buzzer label for an apartment on Dumaine Street, right where he'd tracked her. Her daughter, too. He'd never forget the child's bloodthirsty eyes...those distant, deep pools of grey, like a summer rain storm cloud...

Those eyes, they drew him in, licked and bit at his soul, squeezed the arteries and veins in his body shut until he could not breathe.

Those eyes...they were just like looking into his own reflection.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Sophia: No Place Like Home

At night, the desert scenery melted into the inky sky. Only a faint line on the horizon was detectable, but only through strained eyes. Sophia didn't worry about it. She amused herself--she had extensive internal resources and could entertain herself for long stretches of time. She was free in her head despite feeling caged in the car.

Her inner world was rich with colors, smells, and sound. When someone spoke to her, she usually found herself analyzing the cadence and tone of the speaker's voice and not focusing so much on what they were saying. She didn't have to. She had a natural recorder in her head and could recall conversations with alarming detail. She liked to mimic accents, and could remember and repeat long paragraphs or even pages from plays.

Now she thought about Claude and what he always said they should do when things got a little sticky. She could remember every word:

"It's wise we're keeping two different warehouses, Sophia. If our cover is ever blown, getting rid of one will virtually eliminate the problem. You'll be the one to take care of that: a fire at the warehouse in San Francisco is the most logical solution, since we do most of the cooking and preparations there. We only store stuff at the New Orleans location and that'll be the best place to ship our product from. Not as many questions in New Orleans, you know what I mean? It's more laissez faire here, live and let live."

Live and let live. Claude never let her alone and just let her live. She had to get rid of that warehouse in New Orleans. The San Francisco warehouse was spotless. She always made sure of that. Sophia thought of it like setting a fire in a foxhole to force the critter out. If she got the warehouse and Claude, it could be like a two-for-one deal. She had to burn that bridge, that connection to New Orleans. It weighed her down.

Sophia thought for certain it was Claude following her. Her tingling instincts told her so. They had been tapping her on the shoulder like an insistent friend for a while now. Getting rid of Claude meant no more worries, and she would be able to focus her attention on Paul now. There could only be one. Claude was in the way. She was tired of him.

Also, she always wanted to cook and ship the products from one warehouse. She thought it seemed simpler that way. She knew why Claude wanted the New Orleans location: they got tax breaks from making little commercials for the products, so Claude did all the model recruiting (mostly desperate prostitutes or strippers, they were less likely to alert attention), got them to promote the product, then killed them for more raw material. To him, the whole process was like working with dolls: look at the pretty doll, come here and let me dress you up, now, let me take you apart and melt you down for some other purpose. Sophia thought about what little boys usually do to Barbie dolls. They usually burn or strap them to firecrackers in some gleeful, warped childhood experiment.

That was not how Sophia felt about the men she killed: they were not dolls. Sure, she liked to cuddle with them, but it was more than that. She loved them. Their blood made her feel something, little crackles of energy and real, raw life. And she could follow them for months, drinking up their lives, studying their actions and movements, learning how they lived.

She felt a zing of excitement and hummed a little tune to herself. That cop Black had Claude in his sights. If the warehouse went boom, Claude would be in deep shit. Black would know something was up. It would hopefully look like Claude burned it down to cover his ass.

Sophia continued to hum and even tapped her fingers on the steering wheel as she crossed the state line.

* * * *

Sophia was somewhere in Texas. She couldn't remember the name of the place, but its most defining feature was a giant roadrunner statue situated in the dead center of the town. She lay on the threadbare coverlet, which smelled like ten years' worth of sweating, drooling strangers and cigarette smoke. The carpet felt sticky when she walked on it with bare feet, so she kept her socks on.

The walls were wood paneled, creating a claustrophobic, suffocating kind of atmosphere. The air conditioner sputtered and spat busily, but it had yet to do anything about the heat and stifling humidity in the room. When Sophia looked towards the window, she noticed thousands of little specs of dust floating lazily through the room like snowflakes. Above the bed, there was a painting of an in-flight eagle in front of an American flag. The frame looked worn and frayed, as if something had been chewing on it.

Sophia turned on the television for some background noise... mostly to drown out the noise of her neighbors. She couldn't decide if they were fighting or moving furniture. On the television, a man in a cowboy hat and black cowboy boots shouted that everyone should come on down to Big Bob's Furniture Outlet, because they had the _biggest_ sale on the _biggest_ furniture brands in the whole state of Texas! The commercial wrapped up with Big Bob's family carefully arranged on a tacky red leather sofa, smiling cheap plastic "gimme my 15 seconds of fame" smiles. They were all just about as big as Bob.

Sophia thought about her own family. Again, she thought about that doll. That perfect little doll...but the family was not perfect. No father. Just Sophia and Mother in that lonely house. She remembered a picture that someone had taken of Sophia and her mother. Sophia had been holding that perfect little doll. No one smiled, like the Big Bob family. She wondered where that picture was.

How she'd wanted to crush that doll for so long, to smash its innocent, porcelain-smooth face into a million little bits. Although she'd never said so, Sophia got the impression Mother had wanted her to be as perfect as a doll. To stay beautiful. To be flawless.

To be quiet while Mother took care of business.

Sophia punched the doll in the face one day while Mother was with a "client." Then she set fire to the doll's clothing and hair. When Mother found out, she grounded Sophia for the entire summer, leaving her with only a stinging cheek and a set of encyclopedias to keep her company.

Sophia had conflicting feelings about her mother. On one side of the token, she wanted to be just like her. On the other, she despised her. To this day, she used her mother's accent for most day-to-day interactions, even though she spent most of her formative years in the States.

The States. She had been all over the world, yet part of her found it oddly amusing that she was in a random hotel in the middle of nowhere, Texas. Sophia twisted around to look at the cheesy picture of the eagle and the American flag. She wondered why it even existed. Who painted it? Why was it in this hotel?

She had no real concrete plan. So far, no one questioned her about the white Mazda. She figured someone knew about Denise by now, or was at least starting to suspect. Who knew? She didn't have any contacts listed in her phone for "Mom" or "Dad" or many people at all for that matter.

She'd found some plastic drop cloth at a Wal-Mart in Arizona and wrapped up Denise with it. She put what was left of the meth in Denise's jeans pocket and rolled her into some lake south of Flagstaff.

The next step was to get rid of the Mazda.

The next morning, bright and early, she drove to the town's only home improvement store. Just as she'd expected, several Mexican men stood around, drinking coffee and eating breakfast. She spotted an old Toyota Corolla next to them and hoped one of them owned it. She rolled down the window.

" _Hola. Quién es ese coche?_ " She pointed to the Toyota.

The men smiled and a few of them laughed. One guy pointed to himself.

"You want ride?" He said through a strong accent. The others laughed even harder. Sophia smiled.

" _Te comercio. Éste es nuevo_ ," she said through her best movie star smile.

The men just laughed.

"Please? Please trade. Mine is worth more. Please. My husband is crazy and he's looking for me."

She even let her eyes well up with tears.

Driving the little Toyota was a lot different. It smelled like weed and sweat and the clutch felt even more worn than the Honda's. She thought of it parked in the garage, its impeccably maintained engine and parts, its battered and scratched exterior, its utterly nondescript character. The car didn't really fit her personality. She supposed that was why she drove it.

She drove until she could not drive anymore. It was as if Texas never ended. She felt she could drive to the edge of the earth and there would be a damn cactus and the Marlboro man, complete with boots and hat and cigarette and trusted horse. She would still be in Texas.

She stopped in Beaumont. Supposedly, the Louisiana state line wasn't far away, but it felt like light years. Sophia imagined the little Toyota coughing and sputtering over the line, insane cowboys and bulls and animated Tex-Mex foods following them all the way. "You'll never get out of Texas," they'd chant.

She didn't sleep well in Beaumont. Not at all. It felt like her skin seared in that bed, despite cranking the air conditioning all the way up. She tossed and turned, barely coming in contact with sleep. It would come in furtive bursts and dart away, as if teasing her.

When the sun came up, a smattering of condensation covered all over the windows, creeping down in little ivy-like rivulets, collecting other unsuspecting droplets. Sophia could see her breath curling and twisting from her mouth like a grey tentacle. The floor felt like a sheet of ice under her bare feet, but she still felt as though her body was melting...maybe from sin, maybe from poisoning her body so much...the meth to stay awake, the cigarettes...it wasn't good to lose sight of important things right now. Whatever it was, whatever the bad thing was, it was now leaking from her skin, that sticky detox sweat that smells like a sour chemical soup.

Her head felt devoid of all traces of moisture. The air was parched. She envisioned her sinuses cracking like a dry sidewalk. Her throat felt like it was full of gravel. Things felt wrong, weird. This feeling was familiar and her mind flitted to recently, when someone broke into her apartment.

_No._ She looked around the room. Nothing. It was just Texas, swallowing her up into its giant vortex. Despite the lack of sleep, she checked out and drove the Toyota into Louisiana.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Ti: Information Overload

Ti sat in the bay window of her apartment, smoking cigarettes. The light outside barely kissed the earth, and a strange yellow tint covered everything it touched. The sidewalk outside was darker than usual, still wet from the rain. Birds began to chirp with more gusto. Rainy season was ending.

The staleness of life, the burning pit of fire crackling in her stomach, the unsettling feeling of forgetting something...these things all motivated her to find out what happened to Tamara. Especially because now, she knew her father had been involved.

She thought about the first time she saw Sophia, that gnawing feeling they were perhaps connected. Ti would have never dreamed it would be through her father. She wanted to reach into her guts and rip the DNA to shreds, to sever that tie with her dreaded father. The impact he'd had on her mother was undeniable. There was just something _off_ about the man.

Ti had always heard that little girls remember more than little boys. Ti had memories from when she was about two or three years old. She couldn't remember every detail of Claude's face, but she could remember some sort of haze, the dark features, the rail of a body. And the way he smelled: earthy, musty...strange. Ti always imagined him digging, digging, and then trying to cover it with some cheap cologne.

He left, but why exactly? Ti had a very distinct memory of watching him in the driveway, arguing with Mother. Ti had a kitchen knife in her hand and made four little slits across her palm, one, two, three, four, every time Claude slapped Mother in the face. They weren't deep, but they bled enough for Mother to scream and to take her to the hospital.

Now, Ti observed her palm. There was nothing there except her "lines" as Tamara always called them. The love line, life line, and so forth. Ti couldn't remember all the details, but she liked to trace her fingernails over them as if she could change things.

Her phone alarm buzzed and snapped her back into reality.

She locked her apartment up and headed over to Sophia's place to feed the cat. Sophia was still gone and Ti was starting to wonder if she'd ever come back. It had only really been a few days, but it felt longer. Ti wondered if Sophia would call again. What emergency did she have? Did she have family? Why the hell was she in Las Vegas, calling from a pay phone? Ti thought about John back at the sagging house on Tchoupitoulous and vowed to call him that evening.

It finally cleared up and the rain passed. Bus 33 went right by Sophia's place, but it came by every 15 minutes, so Ti stopped by Buena Vista Park on the way to catch a view. Several gutter punks lounged in the lawn to the right of the park, smoking pot and playing guitar. Ti wondered if they ever moved.

The walk up burned her lungs and the air seemed thin and tight. She began to sweat a little despite the lingering chill in the air, but was relieved to get to the top where she could cool down and catch her breath. The view of the city up here was a nice panorama, and Ti liked to come up here to think.

She still debated whether or not to tell Black about Claude. Deep within her head and gut, she knew he was somehow responsible for the murders Black had mentioned, but how? Was he even here in the city? Did it have anything to do with her? She couldn't imagine her father running a cosmetics business, but she could see Sophia being into it. She had ageless skin and Ti had never seen her with any blemish whatsoever. If she was using the products from her own line, it was a commercial in and of itself. Sophia could be a spokesmodel with that skin.

She shook her head and bit her tongue in response to the thoughts about Sophia. Now was not the time to lust over some woman who was potentially involved with her loser father, and who was also completely unattainable—though now, she had to go to Sophia's apartment to feed the cat. Ti decided that she would maybe take Sophia's money after all.

The apartment was still and a few minutes passed before Argie, sleepy-eyed and yawning, appeared out of the shadows. The apartment felt strange, as if it was sitting on a time bomb. It seemed so quiet, so abnormal. She sat down on the sofa in the exact same spot she'd sat in the day she'd found out Tamara was missing.

Tamara.

The reason she'd started all this tiresome research was because of Tamara. Now she felt she was in way over her head, drowning in too much information and stress. Her shoulders hurt from hunching over computers and papers, and she grimaced as she tried to rub out a knot. Still, she browsed through Sophia's books and looked in every nook and cranny of the place, but could not find anything new. If she knew what she was looking for, clues might be more apparent. She snorted with exasperation. _Clues_. This was turning into some ridiculous Scooby Doo cartoon. She looked at Argie and tried to imagine him as an animated talking cat. She felt like she was going fucking crazy.

There was an old book on the shelves with a black, battered cover. Ti opened it and saw that it was in another language, and there were graphic drawings of the entire autopsy process. Disturbed, she snapped it shut and placed it carefully back on the shelves. She paced around the apartment until she stopped at an antique sewing machine by the door. She opened the cabinet. _Nothing._ She almost closed it when she saw the glimmering blade, carefully hidden near the foot pedal of the archaic machine.

Ti cautiously treaded back to the bedroom. Everything was neat and orderly, as if she had carefully cleaned everything before leaving for her trip. _Looks to me like you didn't have any sort of emergency, Sophia_. The desk and computer caught her attention and the green disk immediately popped into her mind.

_Give up for today and come back tomorrow._ She decided to listen to this inner voice. She'd wait to tell Black. She knew it was wrong, but she'd wait. Especially after seeing what she was sure was Tamara's birth name on those records.

She gave Argie a pat and told him she'd see him in the morning.

As she walked up the stairs, back at home, a figure in the upper stairwell caught her eye. A man. He loomed there, looking sickly and pale, his features hollowed out by the afternoon light.

"Ti," said a familiar voice. Some strange magnetic force pulled her further up the stairs, but she didn't know quite why. She could feel her pulse in her ears, and the blood spurted in forceful jets throughout her entire body. She got closer. She recognized the face now: it was as if this person had died and come back as a different identity. But she knew the face, knew the eyes...those same eyes had crinkled with laughter on so many days in the coffee shop. She said the name without even really realizing it.

"Tamara."

# CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Black: Off the Wagon

Annoyed, Black scratched his chin for the thousandth time. He had to shave. Soon. He had been putting off little things like checking the mail or watering the little houseplant that Rita had left. It was now brown and shriveled. Black thought about how well it resembled his life nowadays. He frowned and threw the plant in the trash, then got a beer out of the fridge and sat in his chair.

He had been saving this "emergency beer" for when things got shitty. Things were shitty. The case with the missing runaways was getting to him, mostly because he wasn't sure where his primary suspect was. He thought Sophia Varga might know where the Moreau guy was, but he couldn't get in touch with her. He worried that she might be covering for him some kind of way. If Celestine knew anything, she was keeping it to herself. And he was having nightmares about Jason again.

_Fuck,_ he thought. _I slept with some hipster kid who may be involved in a case._ Black couldn't figure out what was so attractive about her. She was like an enigma wrapped in an enigma: one friend in the entire city, but strangely charming and witty. And dressed somewhat like a boy. Rita had been all high heels and perfectly styled hair, so tomboys were definitely off Black's radar.

Sophia did say something about a local boyfriend, didn't she? He wondered if anyone knew who that was.

Tamara was killed or kidnapped by someone who knew her, and Black had a hunch it was the same person involved in the disappearances of all the young runaway boys and trans women. Black was willing to bet that of those victims, Tamara knew at least some of the runaways and all of the other trans women. So that meant he'd have to chat with another trans to see if someone else in the community knew something. He dialed Ellen Wong.

"Do you know of any bars where, um, transpeople hang out?"

"Jesus, Robert. Yes, there are a few, but there's one in the Tenderloin on Post Street that I know of for sure. Why?"

Black told her about his idea.

"You'd probably have more luck going alone, but I'll be happy to go with you if you want. And for the record, you're probably going to want to keep an eye out for and ask for trans women. Not drag queens, transvestites, cross dressers...she had the surgery and probably hung out with other people who did too, and probably some people who want the surgery."

"Thank you for the lecture. I'm sorry, but this is fucking confusing. I mean, damn me to hell for not getting the terminology right or whatever, but that sounded like another language to me."

"Are you sure you don't want me to go with you?"

"I'll go alone, for fuck's sake. I'll call you if I need you to protect me, okay?"

"Good luck." Black could practically hear her smirking on the other end of the phone. How she'd love to be there and see his reaction and interaction in the bar.

"Screw you," he said under his breath. They would probably promote Wong first. He finished his beer and got dressed to go out.

* * * *

"That's the girl you want to talk to," the bartender nodded in the other direction as Black swallowed the last of his martini olive. He turned and recognized her right away. She'd been in for soliciting before. She was a little on the shorter side and Black remembered her from before, when she was really just a he in a dress. She was Korean with wild, teased out hair and she had real tits now. Her name was Jada. _Shit. Fucking exotic,_ thought Black.

"What?" Jada snapped as she tossed her purse down on the bar. "I haven't done anything."

"I know that. I'm not accusing you. But I would like to talk to you about someone I think you know. Tamara."

"Jesus," Jada sighed as she blew a tuft of the teased hair out of her face. "What'd _she_ do?"

"I'm not sure, but she's missing. Jada, there are other trans women who are missing, runaways, prostitutes--"

"Sex workers. You don't call them that anymore. It's like saying 'whore' or something." She tossed her hair back and popped a cigarette in her mouth. The bartender lit it.

"Okay. Look. I am not really PC. I have never pretended to be. Just call me totally ignorant if you want."

"Okay," she said. "You're ignorant." She tossed her hair over her shoulder and took a drag off her cigarette. Black could see the bartender out of the corner of his eye. _Mind your own fucking business,_ he wanted to scream.

"I just want to help. You seem to know her—did you know she's been missing?"

Jada didn't say anything.

"I know you don't trust me, but I really want to ask you about Tamara. She's missing and I want to know who she hung around with. Can you tell me that?"

Jada's wet red lips were parted in dramatic anticipation and shock. "Tamara's really missing?"

Black just gave a quick nod and pointed to his empty martini glass. The bartender twirled and pulled the gin and vermouth out, but kept her head slightly turned in order to hear. Black looked over at Jada, waiting.

She inhaled and stood up straight and stiff. "Okay. Tamara was always telling me about her bosses. She always sounded a little freaked out. She didn't tell me much, other than that they always talked about getting rid of all the filth..." Jada trailed off and Black knew what she meant. The prostitutes... _sex workers_ , he thought to himself. "They run a business and I forgot what it's called, but it's cosmetics. Tamara said that her boss likes to take the filth off the streets and turn it into something good. She told me this story about this like, model or whatever that they found, who was really just a homeless skinny girl who was really desperate for money. Her boss liked to record them for commercials. He would ask them about what they thought real beauty was, and this model said something like, 'well, it's what lies within...' And I remember that well." Jada flicked her ash onto the floor and sipped something pink the bartender brought over. Jada looked at Black.

"I have always thought about that line, but to me the "lies" really stuck out the most, you know what I mean? Tamara made some sick joke that they made soap out of all these dirty, "worthless" people and sold it to rich fuckers, but I thought it was some glimpse into her weird sense of humor. Anyway, I don't know who runs the business. Some man and a younger woman, maybe some others? I don't know."

Black sat there, dumbfounded, glued to his chair. The thought of actually using the bodies for something had never even dawned on him. He felt like a blithering idiot for being so blind. He tried not to show it. Jada must have seen something, because she laughed.

"They pay Tamara a lot just to manage that coffee shop. You know how much these surgeries cost? And the hormones? I think they helped her out with it, or that man did because he thought it'd be exotic or something. Jesus Christ. And now she makes an _honest_ living running a little dive coffee shop. Stick it up my ass. I think she was involved with one of those crazy fuckers—she's bisexual, you know, even if she won't admit it. And they kept her around and paid her so she wouldn't talk to the cops. I mean, she's from New Orleans...it's pretty easy to convince most people from New Orleans not to talk to the _cops,"_ Jada said as she crushed out her cigarette for emphasis. "Anyway. So she's missing. They probably killed her for blabbing. I thought she was just trying to fuck with me, you know? She told me some really fucked up shit. Did you know that?"

Black sort of did, but it was only a guess.

"Why didn't she go to the police?"

"And admit she worked for these people?"

Black looked at Jada, her eyebrows raised, that questioning look. He should know the answer to that.

"How about before she moved here? Did she talk about her life back in New Orleans? Her former name?"

"No. I think Katrina really fucked up her life, then she had the surgery and moved here. I'm not even sure it was a legit surgery. It's a big operation and New Orleans is still stuffy about all that shit. I wouldn't be surprised if it was an under the table sort of thing, then she left with the clothes on her back and came out here to start a new life. I never asked her about it. I didn't think it would be _polite_ , you know, to _ask her questions_ about some past traumatic shit—"

"Okay, I get it, I get it." Black held up his hands in self-defense. His phone buzzed rudely and he pulled it out of his pocket, annoyed. It was Wong.

"Yes?" He glanced at Jada, who was looking at him like he'd punched her in the face.

"I need to talk to you. The coroner found something you need to know about."

"On my way." He ended the call and turned back to Jada. "Call me if you think of anything else. Or if you hear from Tamara. We need to talk to her. She's not in any kind of trouble. Okay? I want you to tell her that if you see her."

"Fine. Whatever," Jada said as she took the outstretched card.

Black got back to the station in less than ten minutes. Wong was waiting for him behind a stack of papers.

"It's a woman."

Black howled with laughter.

"No way." He realized he probably had too many martinis. A presence to his left made him stop and turn. The pathologist. _Oh shit._

Darryl Camlin was in his fifties, short with a wild mop of grey hair. Black always thought he resembled Albert Einstein with thick glasses. He also thought Camlin never really liked him all that much, which was no good since Black was on homicide. Camlin looked at him the same way he always did, like Black was a pitiful, stupid drunk. _I suppose he's right_ , thought Black.

"I found some skip marks over a couple of different sternums which reflects your suspect was using something with a sharp edge. From the angle of the marks, the killer is either around Wong's height, about 5'5—unless your suspect attacked the victims when they were lying down, which is very possible. They were probably drugged—single homicidal stabbings involving the heart area are often associated with incapacitated victims."

"How the fuck do you know?"

"I'm a pathologist. I've seen this before."

_That little bitch._ He thought instantly of Sophia. But how was that possible?

"What did you find?"

"Some bones washed up near China Beach. We found two different sternums, and each of them was scraped," Wong explained as she pushed some photographs across the table towards Black. He saw what they meant.

"I'm conveniently unable to reach that Sophia Varga woman. I think she's left the state."

Wong smirked. "I have a feeling I know where she is. I did some research on her. She co-owns a business called Everlasting Beauty. It's--"

"Cosmetics," Black finished for her.

"Yes," she said, seeming surprised that he knew. "You talked to one of Tamara's friends?"

Black nodded. "Jada thinks they kidnapped transients and prostitutes and killed them for their fat and anything else they could get a hold of."

The pause between them lasted for what felt like hours. Wong just kept shuffling through the glossy photographs for a long time before she spoke up again. "She's likely in New Orleans. She owns a distribution center here in the city and Claude Moreau, the guy you've been trying to find, owns one in New Orleans. We set her off. They may be trying to cover something there. And we need to get in touch with this other person on the accounts, this Thomas Fink guy."

"I don't want federal involved in this unless it's absolutely necessary. We'll make some calls to New Orleans."

# CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Ti: Something Familiar

It was like seeing someone familiar, only with a Halloween mask on. The person in front of her didn't have on a stitch of makeup and had on jeans, a loose black t-shirt and a leather jacket. And Tamara had never pulled her hair back into a ponytail. At least she sat in her familiar pose, which always reminded Ti of how Oprah sat. Legs crossed, hands in lap, leaning forward. It looked so strange now.

"I can't go to the police because I'm involved. How can I get you to understand?" Tamara's brow furrowed as she asked.

Ti made Tamara repeat the story twice. She met Sophia in New Orleans before her surgery. Claude became her pimp. Her roles became more and more important and involved: he gave her modeling jobs, got her to recruit other models, got her help doing insider tasks. Helped her move to San Francisco after Katrina. The coffee shop must have been some kind of front, but the whole thing was perplexing. John hooked her up with the job, but how? Did he know Claude some kind of way? Ti now wondered about all the "inventory" kept in the back of the shop. _Hell knows what she was really doing back there,_ Ti thought as she stared at this person in front of her. She didn't ask any questions. She just let Tamara talk.

"I'm the only person who knows about the connection between Sophia and Claude. They say they help people who are struggling, but they don't. They use them and get rid of them somehow. Several people I know who have modeled for them are missing now. And I talked back to Claude—I called him up and asked him about it. So what does he do? He comes all the way here from New Orleans and beats the shit out of me, going ballistic because I didn't know anything about some boyfriend Sophia has supposedly been hanging out with. So do you really want to involve the cops or just let them figure it out by stepping back and staying safe? And besides, do you really want to reunite with your father? You'd see him if this went to court."

_Manipulative,_ Ti thought. "No, I really don't," was all she could actually say.

"At least he was looking out for you a little...you wouldn't have the barista job..."

Ti just put her head in her hand. "Stop."

The friendship felt artificial now. She looked at this person on her green Papasan chair.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Seriously? Your father scares me. So does Sophia."

"Sophia? Why?"

Tamara sighed.

"I think she must have had a thing for me before I changed. She followed me around a lot. Then Katrina hit, I had the surgery and wanted to completely reinvent myself, get away from New Orleans and all this gay prostitution Claude pushed me into doing. I tried to get away, but you _cannot_ get away from those people, Ti. Sophia followed me out here and they offered me a good deal of money to run Daily Grind as cover-up income for them. I didn't ever feel like I had much of a choice. That's what I'm saying—"

Ti cut her off. "Why did you come back?"

"Just let me finish. I did want to come and check on you. I really do care about you, Ti. I mean, that day he barged in and pummeled my face, I wanted to contact you so badly to tell you to stay away from him. He is nothing like you. And stay the hell away from that Sophia woman, too. This whole thing scares me and I think we should leave."

"What about the police? They're actually looking for you, you know. They think you're dead, or that you know something about this case and probably about Claude."

"That's exactly why I should leave. Come with me. If you have a passport, I know of someplace we can go. I have money and a really passable passport. They paid me a lot more than what you saw on that report. Cash."

Ti avoided that for now. She wanted to go back to New Orleans and John, but there were a lot of loose ends here. At least it was familiar. "I'm taking care of Sophia's cat. She's in...I don't know where she is. I think she said it's some family related thing."

Tamara looked puzzled. "You're what?"

"Taking care of Argie. She has a cat. I go over there twice a day to feed him."

"I can't believe you didn't tell me that right away. That's fucking crazy. Where is she? Did you look around?"

"I don't know where she is. Something family related, I think. And I did look around. I looked around your place, too. I found all the bills from the company. Maybe if we hand everything we have over to that Black guy, he'll nail Claude--"

"Why are you all of the sudden so interested in cooperating with the cops? Did you fuck that cop or something?"

Ti froze in mid-sentence. _Damn Tamara and her intuition._ The silence cut through the air like a knife. "I don't know what to say. It just happened."

"Wow. Okay. I don't know whose side you're on, but I'm basically an accomplice here. I can't just go to your boyfriend and tell him everything so you can live happily ever after with some dumbshit cop and my boss's possibly equally screwed up business partner. She's creepy and she'll come after me or the cops will find good reason to. Or Claude will come beat the shit out of me again. Or kill me, like the others."

Ti said nothing. She looked at the carpet and at Tamara's boots.

"I just can't believe everything connects so easily. You knowing my dad and Sophia."

"It wasn't all so random, honey. Your dad made me look out for you. I guess, in some weird way...maybe he loves you? I don't know."

"I think he's a murderer. I think he has something to do with the murders and the disappearances. I just have a feeling."

"Have you called John and talked to him about it?"

Ti surprised herself by laughing. "No. I don't really know why. He'd tell me to come back to New Orleans."

"So go. You're probably safer there."

Ti just kept looking at Tamara's boots. She felt like she had unfinished business here in San Francisco. She couldn't quite explain it. "What if I just confront him?"

"Claude? Why? Just let the cops figure it out."

"I think I should. I feel like I have old demons that need purging. You wouldn't understand."

Tamara gave her a long, measured look. "'You wouldn't understand.' Look, girl. I've been through things _you'll_ never even _begin_ to understand. Try getting people to take you seriously. Try getting your family to understand. At least John is _like_ a father to you. I can barely remember the last time I spoke to my parents. You're judging me because I worked with your dad. Well, I didn't have a lot of choice back then. I looked like a man in drag back then, and he gave me a chance at least. No one else did. I had to do some things I didn't want to do and I'm not even telling you the half of it, but at least I had work. Those operations are expensive."

"And you just had to have it done and had to work with my father."

"Fuck you," Tamara spat. Ti had never seen that look on her face before. It freaked her out. "You know nothing about what it feels like to be in the wrong body. It's scarring and traumatizing."

Ti said nothing. Tamara stood up and slung her backpack onto her shoulder. "The flight I want to take leaves soon—"

Tamara looked down at the floor and Ti thought she saw a look of guilt pass across her friend's face. "Ms. Mona says she'll watch Jo whenever. I'll give you her number. I'm sure she'll watch Sophia's cat, too."

Ti waved her comment away. She just wished she'd leave.

Tamara sighed but continued. "Thank you. I'm sure you'll tell that detective about our visit, so I'm not telling you where I'm going. Please be careful. I still think you should leave."

"I care about Sophia. I think I can save her from him." Now, she really looked Tamara hard in the face. "I want Claude's number. You must know how to contact him."

"She's not your mother, Ti. You owe her nothing."

Ti bit her lip and stared at the floor.

"You owe me Claude's number. You gave me a job, I kept you out of trouble and I guess I'm keeping your cat so you can go off and do...whatever."

Tamara hesitated. She grabbed a pen from Ti's cracked pink mug on the dining table and jotted something down on a sales flyer. "He won't pick up. You'll have to leave him a message. He's on his way back to New Orleans today, I believe."

Ti stared at the floor again. She just wished she would leave. She felt betrayed and a hole was starting to wear its way into her throat.

"I guess there's nothing else left for me to say. Goodbye. I'll send you a postcard."

And that was that. Tamara left.

"Great," Ti muttered after the door had closed. Celestine Grace, cat babysitter and protector of women she could never have. This savior/control feeling was familiar and it never actually _did_ work out in her favor. That accustomed feeling of emptiness crept up inside her. She wanted to go back home, but it was almost like doing so would be to admit failure. She'd come up here to go to school, to get over girlfriends, to get over her mother dying...and it had worked, to some degree. She'd toughed out school for as long as she could. She accepted she was the way she was: that need for control was ever so deep, too deep to dig out and crush. She'd just have to deal with it.

She wanted to warn Sophia about her father. There was no denying that Ti felt a connection to her, and she was ready to accept that Sophia most certainly did not feel the same way. But she could warn her.

It was a sick, sad feeling to sit there staring at her father's phone number scribbled on a sales paper for toiletries, as if it was just anyone's number. She picked up her cell phone to dial it, but her fingers wouldn't move.

I need to tell Sophia first. Then I'll call Dad.

_Claude,_ she corrected herself. John was more like her father. It seemed right. And with Tamara gone, she really didn't have anyone else to try to reach out to.

* * * *

"I'm trying to understand everything, that's all." Ti felt like this conversation with John was just as pointless as talking to Tamara. There was no resolution, and John would not explain how he knew Claude.

"It's something I'd rather tell you in person, Ti. I'm looking online right now to book you a flight, okay?"

Ti was beside herself. She didn't like this feeling of being in the dark. It made her feel like...like such a child. She nearly stamped her foot and let out a genuine whine.

"I don't know if I want to come home until you tell me what's going on!"

"Look, I owed your father a favor. He wanted to straighten out and see you again, show you that he had changed for the better. He needed someone else to help with his business so I sent you up there. I didn't think it was my place to tell you your dad was out there. He made it seem like he wanted to surprise you and I thought it'd be good for you after Danny and all."

_Danny and all._ How could John not know that something like this would inevitably lead to more fucked up situations? She wanted to slap him right through the phone.

"I can't come anyway. I'm looking after a friend's cat. Actually, there are two cats..." She trailed off, thinking about what else was hidden in Sophia's apartment. She didn't want to think about it anymore. She'd explain everything to Sophia when she called again. She'd tell her about Claude and how she needed to stay away from him. Then she remembered what Tamara had said about Ms. Mona. "My friend's neighbor will watch them. I'll come."

John made quick, business-like arrangements with her and told her to travel safely. Ti would have to pack up Tamara's cat and swing by Sophia's to get Argie, but she'd be on a plane in a few hours.

That feeling again. The one where she felt she shouldn't leave San Francisco.

_Or maybe you should_ , something whispered to her. She moved around her apartment quickly, packing and mulling over details in her head. She'd already made arrangements with Ms. Mona about the cats.

Jo's wailing all the way over to Sophia's did not help Ti's anxiety. So when she did finally open the door to Sophia's apartment and saw the strange man sitting on the couch, she wasn't too surprised. It was almost as if he had been waiting for her.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Sophia: They're Back

Am I in hell yet?

Cranes, oil rigs, grey skies...this was east Louisiana. The smell, too...the smell was like potent sulfur and oil, dirt and the sweat and tears of the overworked. Sophia had exited I-10 to get gas. The well-wrinkled, brown faces of blue-collar workers stared at her like she was an alien. This is how she imagined Earth would look like as it approached its end.

Her mind was getting the best of her. Her road-warped brain definitely could use a rest. She drove around to the edge of the gas station, leaned her car seat back, and closed her eyes. Here, she could hear only the occasional roll of thunder and the patter of the raindrops on the windshield.

In her fitful dream, it was night. The moon was pale and greenish, sickly looking. She was down by the Sutro Baths, looking out at the waves. Gazing. Listening to the rise and swell of the ocean.

Strange shapes slowly became more recognizable: several strange sea creatures began to surface from the depths of the Pacific: a frog man, his legs and body speckled delicately, his legs bowed, his digits fanned, and face...so grotesque. She instantly thought of a dead unidentifiable fetus of some sort she'd once seen on the beach. Then another being emerged, this one a creature with large, shark-like teeth and glazed, fishy eyes. Another one, a man's head attached to long, reaching, dripping tentacles...she backed away. All the sea creatures emerged and their skin began to...what? _Breathe?_ Now, there were hundreds of them coming up out of the black depths of the water. She could see them as far as the eye could see, down each side of the beach.

Their skin began to swell, rise, and swell again. It was as if they were one in some bizarre, synchronized symphony of green slime. They whispered secrets to each other, their fish-like lips expressionless and barely moving. They pivoted around and locked their piss-colored eyes on her, wondering.

Somewhere in the ocean, a woman screamed.

The sea creatures' skins began to split and crack, as if they'd been out of the water too long. That noise, the splitting and cracking...those were the sounds of death. The sounds of killing were always her least favorite part. She could do without the wet rip of skin, the gooey sloshing as she removed the organs...all of it. Now, the ripping flesh and the peeling were making her clench her jaw hard. She could hear her molars grinding, barely audible squeaks. Her jaw ached and she shut her eyes tight.

After a long moment, silence.

She opened her eyes. Dead bodies everywhere, washed ashore, or rather, _brought_ to shore by these things. Here was the hopeful transient boy, the swimmer. There was the dumb, delicious musician. Beth. She gasped. She stepped backward and fell, fell...

Into what?

It was a dream.

She wasn't quite sure if she was relieved to find herself awake and in an old Toyota Corolla out in middle-of-nowhere, Louisiana. She started the car and pulled away.

Memories from being back out here again. It's anxiety catching up with me. Everything will be fine. It always is.

She couldn't shake that dream. She hoped it would be okay.

She rubbed her eyes until she saw little geometric shapes. She started the car and drove straight through to LaPlace, Louisiana, just on the edge of her destination.

* * * *

The warehouse was technically in Kenner, a suburb of New Orleans. Sophia found herself staring at the warehouse now, finally, its grey industrial aura hazed by her grimy windshield view. From inside the car, it looked ethereal, and she supposed it kind of was. Some would say it was haunted. Many, many of the dirty had hidden out here, slept here, worked here...died here. This was where they came to clean up their lives, and this was where life could be clean without them. She smiled at the concept, but now everything had gone overboard: the business, Claude, all of it. She needed to move on without him. All he had taught her, all they had done, none of it mattered anymore. Now that she had Paul, she didn't need her old life with Claude. No need to feel tied down to his great master plan. She had her own.

Even though she had gotten away from this fetid city and lived in cleaner San Francisco, she could not stop. Filth was everywhere. You could exterminate all you wanted, but they bred so fast it was impossible to keep up with them.

Sophia got out of the Corolla and circled the warehouse. The ground sucked at the soles of her shoes as she walked through mud so thick and slimy, it was as though it was alive. It had been raining here, and since the humidity was high, it felt balmier than it really was. Sophia wiped her damp hands on the back of her pockets. It might be too wet to light the fire, but she was determined to get something done.

Would Paul think Claude had taught her to do these things, that she was so weak and brainwashed? Or did he think she was stronger and could do them by herself? She was about to show him, as well as herself. She could get rid of this place, she could get rid of Claude, and she could help Paul get rid of all the whores in the world. All the people like Mother.

No one thought twice about a woman buying loads of steel wool and nine-volt batteries at the Wal-Mart out in the desert. Any household could use something like that. Plus, they were the best way to ignite a fire when it was damp like this. Sophia started with gasoline and continued her way around the building, calm and organized.

She didn't stay and watch the fire. Instead, she drove to the airport and parked in the long-term parking lot. She caught a cab and went into the French Quarter to stay for a while. She had a place there, the same one she grew up in, a nice place where she could sit out on the balcony in the mornings and look down at the narrow street below.

The cabbie spoke into a radio with a thick accent and she wondered how anyone who wasn't from here would be able to understand him. She thought about her mother and she thought even more about Claude. This feeling she had about Paul, this all-consuming, fascinated feeling that filled the dark hole within her, she'd had it once when she was with Claude. Once. That was a long time ago. And she'd had fleeting moments of it with her mother, too.

Sophia reflected on a particularly important day from her childhood. She'd been upset that day. Not crying upset, just upset. She never cried. But she stormed in and slammed the door to her room. That girl in her class she'd so despised had fought back and the other kids laughed at Sophia's shocked reaction. It wasn't supposed to be this way. They were supposed to be with her, not against her.

How she'd slammed that door! She threw herself on the bed and beat the pillows until they were pulpy and shapeless. Her mother waited until the tantrum had subsided and entered, her movements slow and ghost-like. Sophia felt her weight on the bed. She didn't turn over to look at her mother, so it startled her when she began to speak.

"I can see a lot of myself in you," she said. They sat still for a few moments. And right there in that time, there was an uncommon intimacy between them. Sophia felt it, and it seemed almost tangible in that moment, and she almost put her hand out to try and touch it.

"You're a lot of things, though," Mother had continued, her voice soft. "You're so strong, and that's your own tragedy. You are either hunted or you're the hunter. And you'll always be both. I know you feel you have to take on the burden of murder or madness to be free of this place."

Those sentences were vague, but Sophia knew. Her mother had gone to the core and the implications had dazzled the young Sophia.

"I fantasize about murdering them all, about taking all the bad parts of them and shredding it, then stripping naked and bathing in the cleanest streams ever known to mankind, to purify myself." Sophia then looked at her mother. Her mother smiled and nodded, then raised her eyebrows as if to say, "I understand you." Sophia couldn't help it. She laughed out loud, and her mother joined in.

"I also think that's why I do what I do. Just lying there, taking those men one after another...there really is some kind of wonderful triumph in all of it. There is an absolute release where I don't have to worry about who is alive or dead. In that moment I belong to no one. I am myself, pure and simple."

And Sophia nodded and smiled back.

What a strange moment. At that time, she didn't hate her mother so much. She understood the implications of the doll she had given her. She understood the things her mother had done to keep them both alive.

The image of her mother's face and the dark hair that framed it was slowly fading back into memory. Sophia couldn't believe the day had gone by so fast. It seemed like she had arrived in Louisiana only hours ago, yet the sun was now hiding behind her as they descended into the city. The cabbie asked her for the address again and she repeated it as if in a dream. Creole cottages with colorful shutters lining the sidewalks, greenery creeping down and across wrought iron balconies: this was the French Quarter. She hadn't been here in years, it seemed, but it welcomed her back with a certain wet from birth feeling. Something gnawed at her stomach as she walked down the brick corridor, through the courtyard garden and up the stairs into the apartment she'd called home with her mother. Worry? Doubt? Sophia couldn't identify it, but it made her nearly double over in a bizarre combination of pain and nausea. She thought again about the dream, the one where the dead had come to get her.

She took out her old key and inhaled dampness and mold even before she opened the apartment. At least this place was familiar to her. She held her breath and opened the door. It was just as it was, but someone had covered the furniture in white ghostly sheets. But she did not make herself comfortable there. No. She pulled open the balcony French doors.

It was here she'd sit.

She'd wait for him.

Sometimes she wanted to vanish into thin air and live and be in a place just like this. Leave her apartment and her life and the business and walk right out the door. But she felt chained. Claude was right. She was untamable.

She hugged her knees close and stared up at the sky, which looked painted in the polluted Louisiana sunset. Birds dipped in and out of the airstream, and she thought about how much she envied them: prisoners of only the wind, free to go as they pleased. She wanted to disappear into the sky or the ocean and let the vastness swallow her. She wanted to leave behind memories of Claude, of him telling her what to do all her life. That was why she came here: to get away from it all, to carve a new path for herself. Now Claude was sneaking around, threatening to destroy things for her. He could not let the business be co-owned like that with her independence. It wasn't working for him anymore.

She hoped the fire would bring him out, make him admit his mistakes, teach him a lesson.

_Speaking of lessons_ , she thought to herself. _Paul is trying to teach me one right now. He wants to see what I'll do. He's jealous. That's good._ She smiled to herself. She was getting to be like her mother now.

She went for a walk to a pay phone (it turned out to be a long walk. Pay phones were scarce these days) and pulled out a card. She dialed Ti's number so she could check on the cat. And not look suspicious. It was good to check in on things, just in case that rat Black was keeping tabs on her. She was sure he was.

The line rang and rang and Sophia almost hung up, but Ti's voice caught her in time. Voicemail. She left a short one and said she'd call back later that evening.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Ti: Erase It All

Ti heard her phone ringing in her jacket pocket, but all she could do was stare at the man in front of her. _Who the hell is this? Sophia didn't say anything about someone else being here._

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice barely a squeak.

"I should ask you the same thing," said the man. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an impressive Glock 9. Ti had seen them carried around New Orleans many times, especially after Hurricane Katrina. "And I'll tell you more about myself, just as soon as you hand over that cell phone, sugar."

Ti recognized him then. It was the guy who always came into the coffee shop. He looked a little bit different now: blond hair slicked back, stubble growing out a little bit, but those intense blue eyes burned back at her, devoid of any hints of emotion and sanity. This was the guy who wanted to videotape Tamara and her friend. Hard, stinging icicles jabbed into Ti's spine and the hair on her arms stood straight up. This guy was bad news. _Why the fuck didn't I say anything to Black?_ She decided to keep her mouth shut as long as possible. She did as he instructed and slowly removed the phone out of her pocket and placed it on the coffee table in front of the man. Jo hissed from inside her carrier.

The man nodded toward the carrier. "So, who are you and what do you have in there? Anything that's going to kick my ass?"

"No. Just a friend's cat. The person who lives here has one, too. I was coming by here to pick him up and drop them both off at a friend's place."

"Oh yeah? The friend thinks you're coming by, huh? Why'd you bring the cat up here? Planning to stay awhile?"

"No, I—I didn't want to leave her alone."

"What are you, some kind of cat sitter?"

Ti knitted her brow. "No. I just got stuck with them." She carefully eyed the man. _What is going on here_? If he was some kind of robber, he wouldn't have been sitting right there on the couch. It seemed as though he was waiting for someone. _The boyfriend_ , she thought with a strange, sinking feeling. She had never seen Sophia with this man, so how were they connected? Or were they?

"Ha! So Sophia sends you to do her dirty work. Manipulative little bitch." The guy shook his head and considered Ti. He smirked. "I recognize you. You work for Tamara."

"Yes," was all she could say. The thought of fleeing the apartment crossed her mind, but this guy would shoot her in the back. _What did Tamara say his name was?_

"Paul," she said without thinking. Paul casually pointed the gun at her.

"How did you know my name?"

"Uh, well," she stammered, trying to think of a way to flatter him. "Everyone at the coffee shop thinks you're cute."

"And you?" He was teasing her. She wondered if she'd die here on the carpet tonight. Paul smiled at her. "Tell you what. You don't have to answer. Just start by taking your shirt off."

Ti felt her bottom lip tremble as she recalled the things Tamara had told her. She did not know how this man was involved with Sophia, but he had a gun and there was no way out. If she whirled on her feet and scrambled out the door, she would be shot in the back. _Someone will hear me scream_ , she thought, but it would be too late. Something told her that this guy was at his wit's end and was racking up the evil points before someone caught him.

"Girl, if you do not take that shirt off right now, I'll blow a hole in your head and take it off myself. _Now_." The angry clip in his voice made her jump.

Ti had been crying and she could barely see Paul now through the cloak of wetness. There was nowhere to turn now, and she could think of absolutely no solution since this asshole had a gun pointed at her. The only thing she could think of was to play along and hope she'd get a fair shot at his balls or an opportunity to bite his dick off. She took off her shirt, shaking all the while.

"You kind of look like a little boy, you know that? And you're too skinny. Sickens me, actually. Look at those ribs."

Ti shut her eyes as she took off the rest of her clothes. She did this because it dawned on her: to her right, near the door, was an old sewing machine. It had a door and a space where the foot pedal was, and that's where the knife with the impressive blade was stashed away. Ti remembered straining her eyes because she wasn't sure if that dried brown crust was blood or some sort of food. It was one of many things she found that disturbed her: the weird autopsy book, the files she'd found on Sophia's computer. But the large hunting knife would come in pretty handy right now. If only she could get the gun away from Paul.

And if only she knew more about him. The only things she could think of: narcissistic, masochistic, probably Sophia's boyfriend or some other jealous fuck. And that his house smelled funny and he wanted to videotape Tamara and her friend. _This is why I'm glad I'm gay._ That was pretty much the only thing that made doing what she was about to do a little bit better. Robert Black popped into her mind and she kept him there. _Stupid, but not a bad person. I can do this._

She stepped out of her jeans and waiting for him to make the next move. He put the gun on the couch in close reach. Ti would have to wait until he was in a more precarious situation ( _inside me_ -she almost vomited at the prospect and almost wished she'd been drugged first). He came to her and she glanced up at him momentarily. It was like looking into an animal's eyes: no empathy, only out for blood. She was his prey. He was going to kill her. He outweighed her by at least one hundred pounds and was all muscle and callused hands. _I am going to fucking die in this bitch's apartment._

He pushed her down on the carpet and pinned her shoulders. She felt spiky tendrils of carpet edging into her skin. He was like a dead weight and Ti thought this was what it was probably like being buried alive. She began to hyperventilate and panic under the sheer weight and heat of him. She inhaled his powerful, musky ( _deathly_ ) scent and she hated it, wanted to vomit it up back at him. Whoever this really was, she was ready to make him stop. She felt him pierce her between her legs, his penis like a knife, and hoped it would be quick. She would probably have to see this all the way through before she ever had an opportunity to do anything. She knew she shouldn't struggle just yet but wondered if he would kill her in the process of all this.

She watched him carefully through her eyelashes as she slowly bent her elbow. Now her hand was just underneath the bottom of the door of the old sewing cabinet. If she moved in slow motion she could ease the door open. Getting the knife without him noticing and crushing her neck would be the hardest part.

Paul thrust away and Ti bit her tongue against the raw pain between her legs, but she kept thinking about Robert Black. Her hand dusted the bottom of the cabinet door and her fingers pulled, pulled. She suppressed a sob and grabbed. She felt the hard, cool handle of the knife and grasped it as firmly as she could. She stabbed down.

Then she really did shriek—she wasn't sure if she'd actually hit him or if he stopped thrusting because he knew what she was up to and was explosively pissed off. She opened her eyes and saw red. It cascaded over her fingers and down her right arm, pooling around her armpit. She screamed again when she saw Paul's eyes bulging out of his head. His face was crimson and he gurgled. The hunting knife had pierced him in the side of the neck.

Ti wriggled and pushed to get out from underneath him. As absurd as it was, she was reminded of the time she'd helped John move a giant antique rug—she fell and got caught underneath it. She supposed she had some kind of claustrophobic nightmares about that and would sure as hell continue to have them. Ti pushed herself up. Paul couldn't seem to decide if he wanted to grab for her or pull the thing out of his neck, so he tried to do both. But the couch was close. And so was the gun.

In that instant as she grabbed the gun, time moved through ectoplasm. She sensed him stand up behind her as she swung the gun around.

In that very moment, he seemed poised like a mannequin, his joints locked up: one arm reaching towards her, one bent and pulling at the knife in his neck. Then, his head divided. She never remembered actually hearing the shot. She felt heat, smelled smoke. But he still stood there.

She swore it was five minutes before he finally fell over.

The rest seemed easier, almost as if she was having a lucid dream, watching everything like a bug on the ceiling. She ran to the kitchen. She wiped some of the blood off, but not too much. _God, I want a shower. No._ She would not look in the living room, either. Blood pooled all over the carpet, forming a dark halo around Paul's head. It also stuck to her like some weird sticky concoction of melted ice cream. She could feel jism trickling down her legs and imagined it still _in there_ , swimming around, trying to connect with her egg. She could taste blood in her mouth, coppery and thick like some kind of warm sludge left in a broken refrigerator.

She stared at his body, his innocent-seeming face, now calm with death's touch. _Innocent, sure_. He most certainly killed his fair share of women.

She didn't feel bad for what she'd done.

_I hate being a woman_ , she thought. It was a ridiculous thought and she was ashamed for having it. Was Tamara so valuable to her because she was the "other" gender? Tamara was neither a judging straight woman nor a misogynistic gay male, not a lusting lesbian or straight man. Tamara was somewhere on another world, and safe. Not like the demon spread out on Sophia's living room floor.

The hard reality hit her, like swallowing a bitter pill sideways: _I fucking killed someone._ _By now, someone has probably heard the shot and called the cops._ Yet she stalked into Sophia's office with the green disc, careful not to get blood all over the computer. She waited until it finished its duties before she called Black.

# CHAPTER THIRTY

Sophia: Do You Love Me?

The French Quarter buzzed with a bit of light activity, fairly busy for a Wednesday night. A guy with long hair parallel parked his Camaro across the street. A couple walked by and peeked in the occult shop window down below. Someone hollered over on Decatur and a lone saxophone could be heard somewhere in the distance. Sophia spent a lot of time out here as a kid. The balcony was a calm, warm retreat from the cool confines of the interior of the house. This was the only house they'd return to on occasion. The rest of the places they inhabited had been burned down or completely vacated, and she never saw them again. This was the house she grew up in, her mother's house. Nothing about it had changed. Like her mother, frozen in time, so was this place. The same paintings hung on the walls, the same furniture, never rearranged.

Sophia's mind whirled through the house, almost like an out of body experience, back in time, to her bed. How she wished she could just sink down into that bed, into some kind of time/space oblivion where she did not have to think about life after mother died. Everything had changed then. Well, before then. When he came and ruined everything. Claude. He had come back because he loved Mother so much, hadn't he?

But she just died. How? She never figured it out. They said heart failure. She'd died in bed.

That bed. Sophia slept in it, thinking her mother would be there in the morning when she woke up. But she would not sleep there tonight. Once when she had, she woke up in a sweaty fit, her heart galloping: she thought they were coming, a whole herd of them, the filth and the bad. They came in a mad rush, their mouths twisted in agonizing disgust at her cumulative actions of murder, vanity, and her macabre version of revenge on humankind. It was all those she'd killed. They were there with knives, ready to torture her. She was comfortable with death—that was the end of it all, the big sleep. She was not so comfortable with torture. You really felt pain when you were alive and she already knew that from the experiences of her victims. That was why she hated the bed so much. Seeing it was like torture. Bad things happened there.

She tensed. The memory always came to her before he did.

"Bad girl," she heard him say. He seemed so close and she could feel his warm breath on her neck. Warm and wet like the humidity. It was like this down here after a good rain.

"You always run away from what you really are. And you're not supposed to play with fire. Tsk tsk."

"And what is it you think I'm running away from?"

She could barely make out his silhouette lounging in the frame of the French doors.

She knew what he would say before he even said it. "Our business. Everything we've worked so hard for, darling." And now she felt that cold leather glove, its dead-like texture against her skin. The glove caressed her ear where the breath was earlier, tracing the cords in her neck.

"We always have to start over like this," he murmured.

"Not this time. I want out. You're all burned out, Claude," she snapped. The cold dead leather gripped her neck and she imagined that rigid hand as a scythe, slicing all the delicate tendons there. She put her hand around his wrist and coughed.

"I know why. I've been following you, as you've probably gathered. You stopped returning my phone calls. What else could I do?"

"The cops know you're responsible for everything," she strained to answer. "You're going to get caught, just as I said you would. You kill me, the cops will still be looking for you. I told them everything, about how you made me do all this."

Just then, the vice did grip her, and she gagged.

I could try to scream. This is the French Quarter. Someone will hear me.

"I...have...a...journal..." she stammered carefully through Claude's grip. "I've written down everything you've done. The cops have it." A lie, but worth a shot. Her mind flashed over to Paul snagging the journal after he sliced the prostitute's neck. _Where are you now, Paul?_

"You burned down my warehouse. How is that going to help you, darling?"

I wish he'd stop calling me darling.

She tightened her jaw at that. She twisted her face as much as she could and opened her mouth wide. It was hard to bite through the leather, but she managed to chomp down enough as Claude hollered and yanked his hand away. Sophia immediately reached down and withdrew the .25 from her boot. _Thank God for strippers with stalkers_ , Sophia thought.

Claude held up his hands. They stood like this for what seemed like hours, and Sophia could feel the hard handle of the .25, which was now soaked by her sweaty palms.

I have to do this. It's the only way.

"Now, open your mouth for the last time, shithead," Sophia ordered. "You're going to kill yourself tonight."

"So. You're going to kill your own father."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh yes, darling. Everything you do and know, it comes from me. What are you going to do without that connection?"

My father?

It came crashing down in some kind of morbid blend of reality and nightmare, too obvious to wake up from, too horrific to believe. It made sense though: their similarities in appearance, that inborn trait to kill, the haunting, emotionless eyes...these were all things Sophia shared with Claude. Claude laughed softly as if he could read her thoughts.

"That's right," he cooed. "Still want to kill me? Or shall we continue our little family reunion?"

Everything stood still for a moment, but Sophia still clung to the gun. She could feel a droplet of sweat crawl down her back. She could smell her own body odor mingled with Claude's, like days before, and could smell a snot-yellow sickness still brewing inside his skull. The ache in her belly rolled again, taking on a new life, and Sophia imagined it eating every bit of pulpy tissue inside her, relishing her twisted nerves and savoring the blood. She swallowed hard. A common house gecko caught her eye and she felt distracted by its presence. She'd always hated the things, their transparent skins displaying obvious organs, so fragile. Sophia felt a strange connection to it now. Its vulnerable black-coal eyes rolled up at her, knowing.

She loosened her hold on the gun.

She lived so much inside her own head with her own cast of characters and she supposed it drove her mad, that was, if she was lucky. Sometimes they didn't speak to her at all, not for a long time. And that made her feel lonely, as if she was lying in a cold cemetery, voices long lost and far away. She liked the humid subtle heat tonight, the sweat coating her like a wet second skin. She liked its constant reminder of the harshness of nature. Heat could speed up decay, making a body burst and rot and turn a deep shade of eggplant. But the cold preserved it, turned it icy blue. The breeze blew a little and she shivered despite the humid air. Now she felt like one of her corpses, cold and still, waiting to be ripped open and examined.

Claude stared at the barrel of the gun as if hypnotized by it. With a slow calmness, he reached out and pointed it away from his head. Dazed, Sophia let go of the gun.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He didn't answer. "Do you love me like I love you?" He smiled again now, had her in his control now that he'd gotten the gun away from her. He continued lyrics from Nick Cave:

My lady of the various sorrows

Some begged, some borrowed, some stolen

Some kept safe for tomorrow...

Her facial expression made no move to change.

"I'd be surprised if any of this fazed you, Sophia. Don't act so shocked. You have a sister, too. Seems you've met her. Celestine. Ti." Now her face did change. Her eyes widened just a little. So Claude continued, his voice slow and practiced.

"I met her mother after yours. I almost reached out to her to tempt her to join us, but she's not like us. No one is like us."

He continued to talk as he removed the gun away from her shaking hand, but Sophia didn't really hear him. It made so much sense now, that longing lost feeling of family, the urge to know where her instincts came from. All here, staring up at her, the same vicious stare and dark features.

She thought about the doll, this strange hand-made creature that didn't talk or move, its only function was to be held. Claude was saying something about her being such a demented little girl. Don't you remember, and yadda yadda yadda. The sky was turning from neon pink to a darker, steely grey, so it was time to get on with this.

The razor blade still pressed against her skin, probably making an angry indent and nipping her with its edge. But she had wriggled the thing out far enough to reach it now. She wasted no time and sliced the air in front of Claude. It whizzed across his eyebrow, not too far from his other scar from her cat. He dropped the gun and held his hands up in front of his face. Such satisfaction to see the blood well and trickle down! His face was frozen ( _yes, oh yes you fucker!_ ) and she sliced again and again.

# CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Leonide's Lead

Kenner police were alerted when local residents saw a "huge motherfuckin' bonfire" near the warehouses out by the Mississippi River. It wasn't long afterwards that they also got a call from San Francisco about Claude Moreau and all three surrounding parishes-- Orleans, Jefferson and St. Charles-- put out an all-points bulletin on his 1973 white Pontiac Bonneville. Folks had been complaining about this weird fuck for as long as Mark Leonide had been working with the State Police, so he was ready to take him down. _Oh, the brownie points I'll get_ , he thought as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of the police cruiser. He was in a good mood, excited.

Leonide remembered picking him up twice: once for dealing drugs and once for beating the ever living shit out of a prostitute. Drugs and prostitution never really went together. Anyone involved in both is destined to fuck up on an epic scale at some point. At least, that was Leonide's experience. Plus, Leonide just flat out didn't like the Moreau guy, no matter how much he chummed around with other officers. _Bribes_ , Leonide thought. He was glad he was finally sheriff. Time to show those young guys how it was done.

He felt hounded by the whole city lately—crime was up and people were pissed. Leonide was worried about how everything would play out this summer. Crime had always been rampant in New Orleans over the summers. The heat clearly agitated people, and angry people got even angrier. Road rage incidents spiked, bizarre crimes ensued, and the vibe was just flat out shitty. Leonide thought that if he had a hand in cracking Moreau, he'd get a nice little dose of self-satisfaction.

Leonide headed down Decatur Street. Keeping tabs on Moreau wasn't always so easy, but Leonide always made it a point to keep an eye out for Moreau's car whenever he made his rounds in the Quarter. The guy was a fucking creep. Leonide had recently busted some crazy motherfucker who had been dumping women in the River at the end of Chartres Street, and he and Moreau were one in the same. Charming when you first met them. Savvy. Smart. And always up to something.

Leonide steered the cruiser down Dumaine Street. If Moreau's Pontiac was parked anywhere in the Quarter, he'd come home to roost. Or to take care of a few things before he tried to bolt. He had to know police were on to him by now. The murders in San Fran, all those boys...had to be connected to him somehow, even if the fucker was here in New Orleans most of the time. Leonide hated to think of Moreau slinking back and forth between the two places and killing in another state, but given his mannerisms and his record...

To many people, especially in the South, homosexuality was taboo. Moreau pimped women down here—or tried to—so Leonide wouldn't be shocked if he tried to sate his forbidden desires for young men elsewhere. Leonide certainly didn't want to dismiss the possibility.

Leonide maneuvered the police unit down Dumaine, craning his neck to look for the Pontiac. Should be pretty easy to find, but Moreau never parked in the same spot. And he always tipped some busker or shady homeless person to keep an eye on it for him and whistle when a cruiser came by. He never stayed at the Dumaine apartment long. Only long enough to drop in and get out. Leonide suspected he kept drugs or money here, or probably both.

He saw the distinct side view mirror of the Pontiac and used the radio for an update. He wanted to run up to the apartment right away to see if there was anything interesting going on, but he held off for backup.

He parked by some occult shop that had been there for years and watched the balcony in the rear-view mirror.

What he saw next made him ax his decision to wait for backup. He had probable cause to just go in: as soon as he saw Moreau fall over and clutch his neck, Leonide made his move.

# CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Ti: A Blanket of Protection

Ti had wrapped herself in a blanket from Sophia's couch while she waited for Black and the other cops to arrive. The green disc had helped her accomplish an important little task: eradicating every shred of business evidence from Sophia's computer. She knew they'd probably take the computer and scour the rest of the apartment for anything they could get their hands on when they found out Sophia kept a large hunting knife in a sewing machine right by the door. She was definitely paranoid about something—or someone—and definitely somehow involved in Claude's shenanigans.

Black's forehead was a landscape of worry wrinkles when he arrived. He sat with her while Wong asked her questions. She'd need to be looked over and couldn't shower until they did a rape kit.

"So you say he told you his name was Thomas?"

"Yes. He came into Daily Grind a few times."

"He's one of the owners of Everlasting, right?" Black looked like he couldn't contain himself anymore. Wong nodded.

Black pulled out his briefcase and shuffled through some paperwork. _It will work, it will work_ , Ti told herself over and over. Tamara was blond-haired, blue-eyed and had an angular face, very much like that sick perverted rapist who had bled out on Sophia's living room floor. _If they mistake this guy for Thomas Fink, at least for a little while, Tamara's off the hook. Jesus,_ she thought. _Tamara, you better be long gone._

She held her breath until the next question, but she could already read Black's mind: _You're lying to me._

"I know what you're going to ask. If you're thinking Tamara is Thomas Fink, you're wrong. Paul, or whoever the fuck this really is, used it as an alias."

"So this guy—" Black gestured to the dead guy in the living room. "He told you all of this, huh?" Black looked at her with narrowed eyes.

"I know all of this because my Dad is Claude Moreau. He told me."

Ti could have almost fallen over from the relief of finally saying it. _If they make the connection that Tamara was part owner, I'm fucked,_ Ti thought. Black and Wong both looked like they had been stripped of their souls.

Then Black stood up: "You knew I was looking for information—"

Wong put her hand on his arm. "Let's simmer down here," she said through her teeth.

Black's agonized look pestered her, but Ti continued. "I know a lot about that business. I didn't share because my father would have come after me, too. Tamara is probably dead somewhere. Don't you understand? He's crazy." Ti turned to Detective Wong. "Aren't you going to help me?"

She could feel Black's resistance pushing at her like a hardy gust of wind, but she didn't look at him. She had used him enough for now and would come back to him later.

Wong went with Ti into the bedroom while she scoured the room for some of Sophia's clothes to wear.

"Are you going to tell us what you were doing here at Sophia's apartment?" Wong was using a gentle tone of voice with her.

"Yes. I came here to tie up some loose ends. I was watching her cat and her place while she was away."

"Celestine, if you know where she is—"

"I'm sorry, I don't. But I can guarantee you she was trying to hide from either Claude or Paul...Thomas. She told me they both scared her."

"Did she say anything to you about how she was involved in the business?"

"As far as I know, she wasn't involved in anything but the ownership of the company. I know her well enough to assure you, she wasn't involved in any kind of murder. Tamara told me she doesn't even really know her. Tamara just managed Daily Grind and she told me she didn't really want to get involved with the owners. If you want my opinion, she saw or heard something and my dad kidnapped or killed her."

Wong's face remained stoic. "How well did _you_ know Sophia?"

"Well enough," Ti said without missing a beat. If she really thought about it too much, she would begin thinking about how mysterious and strange Sophia seemed. She knew Wong would press.

"I confided in her a few times after Tamara disappeared. She let me in and I felt comfortable talking to her about things. I wouldn't say we were best friends, but she came into the coffee shop a few times." _All true_ , she told herself to keep calm.

"We're going to need you to come in and make a statement. We'll need DNA swabs from you and we'll have to take your clothes."

"Do you believe Sophia killed all those people?"

Wong took a moment to respond. "It doesn't matter what I think. All that matters are the facts and we're going to go off of what we have. I can tell you this, though: we've been looking for your father for some time now. He's a suspect in a very serious case here, so if you hear from him—"

"You'll be the first to know."

Wong nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Good."

Wong turned her back to let Ti take care of herself, but she left the door ajar. Ti peered out and strained her ears to listen for any information. The coroner and several other people had shown up, making the place a total madhouse: the knife was being bagged. Ti's clothes were being stuffed into a bag. Someone was taping off the area and Ti heard someone take a picture. Black swerved around several people to talk to Wong.

"Thoughts?"

"I keep thinking about what Camlin said, you know?" Wong's voice was just above a whisper. "Sophia's not even here. She left. Gone. She's probably hiding out somewhere. We ought to get a warrant for this place to see what we can come up with."

The camera snapped again and Ti saw Wong crane her neck towards the small, rectangular and black object obscured by one of the pillows on the couch. She pointed. "What's that?"

Black turned to look, but Wong stalked over to the couch and picked it up. She flipped to the first page. "Sophia Varga. Her number is written in here," she mumbled as she flashed the inside of the little book for Black to see.

"It looks like her journal."

"He was holding that when I walked in," Ti called out.

"Bag it," Black said sharply. "Ms. Grace, you didn't mention this when we questioned you."

Ti barely contained her huff. _Ms. Grace?_ _Fuck him_ , she thought as Wong (who looked as though she was thinking the same thing) motioned to a chair in the kitchen. _He's all butt hurt because I went in there and talked to his partner._ _That's just the way it has to be, Robert._ Then she caught his glance as he was walking out the door. _Sorry,_ she tried to plead with her eyes, but she could see he was taking this too personally.

She'd deal with that later.

# CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Sophia: Falling Apart

It felt strange to watch the fading light outside. The sky faded to pink like a faint scratch. She could hear dry leaves tinkling as wind tickled them.

"It's going to rain again," Sophia said absently.

"Pardon? Ms. Varga, are you going to be all right? Do you want to go to the hospital?"

_Oh Sheriff Leonide, what a fool you are._ "No, thank you." She forced a tight smile.

She was inside now, next to the French doors. Sheriff Leonide sat across from her. There was a trail of blood that started in a rosette outside and thinned out into a great slash that led indoors. People milled around inside the house and one person stood outside, photographing the bloody rosette. Sophia's hands were coated with thick, sticky blood and she wanted badly to clean it off. Claude's blood was not like any other blood she'd felt: it was wrong, too thick, and she imagined a thousand diseases swimming around it in. _Father,_ she thought.

"All right," Leonide said evenly, "Please continue to tell me what happened next. You said you came here in a friend's car because you were worried about the warehouse. You checked on the warehouse, found it on fire, and saw Claude on the side of the road just outside Kenner. Then?"

"He made me take him to the airport. His car was there and he made me come here with him. He had that gun. Once we got in his car, he started going crazy. We drove here, had an argument on the balcony because I told him I heard the cops were looking for him, and I slashed him with a razor."

Leonide stared at her, waiting for more. She could tell his palms were sweating and he kept rubbing them repeatedly on his knees, but the friction was just making them sweat more. Leonide licked his lips.

"I didn't have a choice. I attacked him because he was clearly going to kill me."

"Anything else you want to tell me, Ms. Varga?"

"That's it."

"Fine. So if I check with the airport, they'll be able to find this car in the long-term parking garage?"

"Black Toyota something-or-other. I don't know much about cars. Is it even relevant?"

Leonide just looked at her.

"Is he going to die?"

"They took him over to the new charity hospital, I think. Blood loss, but he'll probably make it and spend the rest of his days in jail. You'll be fine, Ms. Varga." Leonide seemed disappointed she didn't go into more detail. _Doesn't matter_ , she thought. _I'll keep telling you that same story, no matter how many times you ask me._

Leonide's phone buzzed. "Leonide." He looked at Sophia as a male voice on the other line buzzed away. "Uh huh. She's here." Sophia raised her eyebrows. "I'll let you know."

Leonide ended the call and looked at her. "Looks like San Francisco PD got wind we got Mr. Moreau. They want to get a warrant for your place. The, um, man you've been hanging around with, who I suppose you know as Paul, is dead." Sophia said nothing, but tried her best to keep her jaw from dropping. _Dead?_ _Search warrant?_

"Come with me, Ms. Varga."

"Can I just go to the bathroom to wash this blood off?"

Leonide hesitated. "A female officer will go in with you. Then you're coming down to the station with me."

Sophia inhaled sharply. _Great._

# CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Ti: Covering Tracks

Ti called John from Wong's cell phone to tell him she missed the plane and probably wasn't going to make it to New Orleans.

"I'm coming up there," he snapped.

"No, John," she sniffed, "I'll come down there in a couple of days."

"Bullshit. I talked to that detective guy, Robert Black—"

"Oh, fuck. Wonderful."

"Celestine, he's concerned for your well-being. He told me you were _attacked_ , for Christ's sake. I'm leaving on the next plane out of New Orleans and you and I can come back here once things are squared away. I told Black I would answer a few questions about your father."

"What questions?"

"They have him in custody. Your friend Sophia went after him after he tried to kill her. I'm not clear on the details."

"What? Where is Sophia?"

"I don't know. I'm leaving here in an hour. I'll call once I land, okay?"

"Fine. John—I love you." Tears rolled freely down her face now and she squinted through the blinding fluorescent lights in the police station.

"I love you too, sweetheart."

Ti handed the phone back to Wong.

"Detective Black has a warrant signed. He's going to go through Sophia's place. As I'm sure you heard, your father is in custody." Wong's tone was flat.

Ti heard her, but now everything sounded like a jumble of words. Ever since Tamara had reappeared on her doorstep, everything that had happened seemed like it was happening to someone else.

"Like a movie."

"What?" Wong looked confused.

Ti shook her head. "Nothing. This is all like a movie." Then, just for good measure: "You haven't heard anything about Tamara, have you?" _Please be far away and safe,_ she thought. She hoped Wong couldn't read her thoughts.

"No, but I need you to tell me more about her now. It seems as though Everlasting Beauty had a thing about bringing on trans, gays, runaways, drug users, prostitutes...just about anyone who didn't fit into society's norm...then getting them to work for the company in some way, modeling or doing whatever, then killing them. Did your father talk about that? Did he say anything about hating certain ethnic groups—"

"You mean was he racist? Sexist? A pig? Probably. I don't know much about him. He left when I was young. When John comes, he might be able to tell you more. I think they knew each other well enough. John mentioned recently that he owed Claude a favor, whatever that means."

"What did your mother do for a living? Do you remember?"

Ti shrugged, wondering why it mattered. "I dunno. Just a housewife, I guess. John was doing well as a carpenter back then, so she didn't really work."

"Was Claude abusive towards you or your mother?"

Ti swallowed, remembering. "Yes. He hit my mom a few times. Not me, though. He used to bring me to cemeteries and would make me stand out by the entrance. He would make me whistle if the cops drove by."

"What was he doing there?"

Ti wasn't sure of the answer, but she squirmed thinking about it. The smell...that pungent odor of rich New Orleans earth mingled with death and decay...she could swear it had trickled its way into the building now. "I don't know."

"You said you hadn't heard from him since he left?"

"Correct. Apparently, I got this job with Tamara because he owns it and wanted to help me after..." Ti lowered her head. "My girlfriend back in New Orleans died."

Wong looked up. She analyzed Ti as if she were thinking, _You were going to be next._ "I'm sorry."

Wong's phone buzzed and Ti got a glimpse of the text from Robert Black: "I'm outside the room." _God, I hope they didn't find anything_ , Ti thought. Wong politely excused herself and left the room. It was quiet in the station, so Ti didn't have to strain too much to hear.

"What did you find?"

"Nothing, really. We're looking through her hard drive and there's nothing on there except basic stuff—games, basic software—almost like she just got the thing. Tore the place apart."

"We should keep looking. What about what Camlin said? Robert, I know you hate him, but we should take what he says into consideration."

"I'm still laughing my ass off at what he said, to be completely honest. You're talking about a woman, for crying out loud...I'm just not sure she's capable. An accessory, maybe. We'll get her here and find out. Give her a polygraph if possible. What's the girl saying?"

"She doesn't seem to know much, but what she _is_ giving me is definitely painting Moreau as a total psychopath. Abuse history and all."

"What did you find out about Thomas Fink or Paul Bertrand, whatever the fuck his name is?"

"I believe it's Fink...it's so hard to tell. This guy had several aliases. We found an I.D. on him, Elliot Scivique, Nevada. His fingerprints match up with the Paul Bertrand alias. He had been driving an old 1995 Chevy Suburban and was picked up for drunk driving outside of Vegas. He was released but never picked up the car. I'm still not clear on how he got back here to San Francisco, but he had good reason to leave the car in impound. They, um, found something in it..."

"Well?"

"Human fingers and a pair of eyes in a 48-ounce 711 cup."

"Jesus. Fitting, isn't it?"

"Yeah. So, we're trying to figure out if he's Elliot Scivique, Paul Bertrand or Thomas Fink. We don't really know yet, but he's obviously a sick fuck. There are three girls missing outside the Las Vegas metropolitan area."

"Girls, huh?"

"I don't think it matters much, Robert. There's a good reason to think the dead guy—whatever his name was—was involved with Moreau and Everlasting Beauty. Tamara Rinald's name is just listed as manager of this coffee shop. Maybe all she did was manage Daily Grind for them. She probably does know something, but we won't know until we find her."

"We'll see." Ti heard Black's footsteps.

"Just let it go, dipshit," Ti mumbled under her breath. But Black wouldn't do that. Ti could tell that Black would hammer this one out until he dragged someone in and threw them in San Quentin.

Ti sat there, processing everything. Connecting the dots. Thinking. Planning. _Who is Tamara, really? Was she really Thomas Fink?_ As she pieced it together in her mind, she supposed it was very possible for the police not to have a clue who Tamara really was. If she was trying to cover her past, Hurricane Katrina definitely helped with that. Ti could imagine how easy it was to show up in a place with just the clothes on your back. Tamara didn't talk too much about her past life in New Orleans—they only chatted about restaurants and shops—so Ti never really pressed. And if Claude caught on that she might blab, it would be enough incentive to let Tamara run a cover business, keep her happy, keep things stable.

Well, at any rate, Tamara, whoever she used to be, was gone. As a friend, Ti wanted her safe. As a victim, she wished she'd asked her more questions when Tamara had been standing on her stairwell. _They're going to figure it out eventually_ , Ti thought as she dug her fingernails into her palm. _But maybe not._ She thought about how so much was wiped away after Katrina, how so many people had nothing left.

How could she not know Sophia? It was impossible. She thought about that day she'd seen Sophia through her window. That was the day Tamara had come over and trimmed her hair. _Pretty. Looks like a high-class whore_. Sure did seem like a venomous statement, especially from Tamara.

_Sophia knows Claude and Claude seems to know Tamara pretty well. What is the connection?_ The thought of all those lost dead boys and women made Ti's stomach twist into a complicated knot. She had to get inside her head. With all these pieces falling into place, she was beginning to understand her mission out here in the West.

_That journal_. The small, leather-bound book was in Black's hands now. She knew that journal from somewhere. She remembered Sophia sitting on her fire escape, writing with intense concentration. Was Tamara mentioned in it? _I have to find out what's in that journal._

# CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Sophia: What Lies Within

The police station felt like a deep freezer and Sophia yearned to punch Mark Leonide in his bloated face and burst through the doors.

"What are you doing back in New Orleans?"

"None of your fucking business."

Leonide laughed. "I'm making it my business, Ms. Varga! Police in San Fran are saying you have partial ownership in a business with Claude Moreau and Thomas Fink and that y'all kill transients and prostitutes and use body fat to make cosmetics. What do you have to say about that?"

Sophia crossed her arms and looked away.

"You're going to be extradited, Ms. Varga. You're under suspicion for being an accessory to multiple murders."

"I am not responsible for what Claude Moreau did. He is a crazy fuck. You said Paul is dead? He had my fucking journal on him. Tell Black to find it and read it. I've kept that thing since I was sixteen, around the time he started making me fucking _prostitute_ myself so _he_ could make money." _And he was my fucking father, too. Go figure._ She declined to tell Leonide that interesting little tidbit. _Save it for later_.

"We need you to sign the extradition paperwork."

"I'm not signing shit. I didn't do anything."

"If you don't sign it, you know what that means? We'll get it before the Governor, and he'll sign it."

"And that'll take what, years? I'm from here. I know how long that shit takes."

"You can sit in jail for the whole process, Ms. Varga. I'm sure I can find something."

_Will going back to San Francisco be that bad?_ She stared at Leonide's reddening face as she thought. Claude was in jail. Paul was dead.

"You want to think about it in jail? Your boyfriend, Thomas, or Paul, or whatever the fuck his name is, killed several women while he was perusing around Nevada. And now he's dead. Your other business partner is in jail. You're out of options."

Why did he just call Paul Thomas?

"So they know Paul's name is really Thomas Fink?" _Might as well throw it out there,_ she thought.

Leonide flashed a fake grin. "Just sign the paperwork."

Well, this is quite interesting. Our little Tamara, my old flame Thomas, is totally off the hook. And hopefully they think Paul is Thomas.

Sophia didn't think about how that could have happened. It probably would not take them very long to find out the truth.

I know where you are, Thomas. And you will always be Thomas to me.

Sophia smirked. And signed.

* * * *

"Did you read my journal?"

"I did." Black stayed poker-faced.

"I didn't _know_ what they were up to. I swear to you. Claude just—groomed me to play along with him. He made me prostitute myself as a teenager, for Christ's sake."

"Then you won't mind telling me how you ended up with partial ownership of Everlasting Beauty?"

"I questioned that too for some time, you know. I felt like Claude felt sorry for me. He told me that day on the balcony that I'm his daughter."

Black didn't say anything.

"I wrote down everything in my journal because he was using me! Don't you understand? He forced me to do all that. Him and that crazy Fink guy, they were both controlling my life. But _I_ never hurt anyone. The only thing I'm guilty of is running away. I saw things, yes...but he would have killed me. I think he killed my mother, too."

Wong paused the tape. They had recorded Sophia Varga speaking to Robert Black about her involvement. "She's lying about something," Wong said flatly. "I can tell by the way her eyes are shifting back and forth."

"She may be withholding information, but I think overall, she's not a killer."

Wong scoffed. Black held up his hand. "You weren't there when I first questioned her. She seemed to think Moreau was stalking her, remember? Even then, he was a threat. Sure, she may have known about some things, but as far as actually killing people? No. Fink was doing that."

Wong stared at the paused image of Sophia Varga. "What else do we have on Fink? Is Paul Bertrand his real name?"

"It looks like it is. We fingerprinted him a couple of years ago and it matches what they have in Nevada. Picked him up for peeping in windows. Ellen, this is it. We've got him dead and we've got Moreau in New Orleans. Moreau has paper trails that go back and forth from New Orleans to San Francisco, and there's a warehouse here in the city. Once we get the warrant to search it, who knows what we'll find. And Sophia Varga is probably a gold mine of information. That journal...there is nothing in there that indicates she was involved in any murders. We'll pick her up for accessory to murder, sure, but we need her to spill first. And Moreau's gonna be in custody as soon as he's done at the hospital. We can probably offer Sophia less time if she fesses up. To me, it sounds like she may have witnessed several crimes and didn't report them. And according to the journal and the records we have on missing persons, it matches up, and she was underage when all this started. The bones we found were dated-that goes back to when Moreau lived here-then we found some recent ones from around the time Fink/Bertrand was picked up for being a Peeping Tom. Makes sense to me."

"And we never found Tamara. Nothing that traces her back to New Orleans?"

"No. I looked over and over. I think she had reassignment surgery back in New Orleans before Katrina and came here afterwards with nothing. Happened to a lot of people. Not too uncommon. I don't think it even matters what her name was before she had surgery. It seems to me like she was very heavily involved in providing cover for Moreau's business. Maybe she saw something and Moreau or Fink killed her. I'm sure we'll find her bones in the Pacific."

"What about what Camlin said? About the stabbing patterns?"

Black rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "Oh God. Camlin is a joke."

He knew Camlin was brilliant. But they were so close to wrapping up this case. Trying to dig up crap on Varga would be a nightmare. Not to mention, no one ever believed women were responsible for these things--but for some reason, Wong had that look on her face.

"Did you ask around about Bertrand?"

"Yeah, I found some old girlfriend of his. She said he's narcissistic, with a sexual deviant, masochistic type personality. Borderline. She said he changed his appearance and name all the time. Pretended to have a job in some office building over there close to the University, but Bertrand has been living off inheritance for close to five years now. Unemployed. Unless you count the share he was getting from the company."

"Of course she said all that. She's an ex-girlfriend," Wong said, her voice strange and quiet. Black rolled his eyes. "Robert, listen to me. I know you're still crushed about Jason. Anyone would be, but if we work on closing this one out as is, we risk having this woman go back out there and do the same thing. It's not just that. If we keep pressing her, she might even be able to recall running into Jason at some point."

Black just stared at her.

"Jesus. Okay, Robert. Maybe you got your guys."

Black grinned at her and tried to make it as contemptuous as possible.

* * * *

Two Weeks Later

Sophia wasn't surprised to see Ti on her doorstep. But she was a little surprised to see that _look_ on her face. Anger. Intense, burning fury. _I wonder if she knows she's my sister._

"You're back. Your cat's fine. I want to come in and talk to you."

Sophia let her in. There was still a large scattering of dried blood on the carpet where Paul had been killed. _It would have worked so well_ , she thought as she looked at it again.

They sat at the kitchen counter, both of them averting their eyes from the kill spot.

"I know all about you. I know you were involved with my father. And I don't really know about your boyfriend, but he fucking attacked me as soon as I went into your place to pick up Argie."

Sophia started to talk, but Ti overrode her. "I found a bunch of shit on your computer. And some weird autopsy book on your shelves. A knife with what looked like blood on it. Jesus," she huffed, holding back tears. "The lives you probably ruined. But I have to know more about my father. I think that when I came out here, somewhere deep inside of me, I was looking for something. Maybe to understand what happened to him, why my mother shot herself, and why I turned out so...so _strange._ And I knew I couldn't learn about him if you were in jail forever." She paused. "I did the math. I know he's your father, too. My stepfather, John, told me about how he saved my mom off the streets. She was a prostitute and was working for him— _our_ father. Claude was pretty pissed about that, always threatening John, always asking about me, apparently. So I guess he convinced John to talk me into moving out here and working for you crazy fuckers. And I ended up in this web and you sure as hell didn't help things."

"So. You want something from me. And I want something from you, too."

"What? Fucking photographs? You want to kill me now?" Ti stood up.

"No. I—" _Don't say anything about wanting to find Thomas_. "I want a real family. I am pregnant."

Ti sat down. "Oh. Christ."

"That person, it was not really me."

"And you knew Tamara?"

"I knew her well before she decided to change, yes." _And trick me into thinking Claude had killed her._ "Do you know where she is? I would like to speak to her."

"I think so. She..." Ti rummaged in her pockets. "She sent this postcard. I'm not sure where that is." She flipped it over to show Sophia.

Ah. One of the lion statues on the Széchenyi Chain Bridge. Budapest. Very interesting. Perhaps he wants to play chase again.

Sophia kept this to herself. She cleared her throat. "I can tell you this one thing: Claude made me who I am. That was not me. He's just...so..."

Ti finished for her: "Manipulative."

"Yes." _I can feel your loneliness, little girl. I can hear your screams. Let me consume your soul_. She smiled a little, even let her eyes crinkle at the corners, just like she'd practiced.

And there it was: she saw that thing flash before Ti's eyes...what was it again?

Empathy.

Oh yes. Feel for me. Let me inside your head. Let me cleanse you and strip you completely raw.

The End

# NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

I appreciate you taking the time to read _What Lies Within._ It was a difficult book to write, but I was glad to see Tamara off to a "safe for now" place. I love her and always will. ;)

As an avid reader, librarian and writer, I love talking books. I'd also be very grateful for your feedback. You'll find my social media links in the next section.

Finally, I need to ask a favor. If you're so inclined, I'd love a review of _What Lies Within_. Loved it, hated it—I'd just appreciate the feedback. You, the reader, have the power to make or break a book. If you have the time, here's a link to my author page on Amazon where you'll find my other books: <https://goo.gl/nULxAK>

Thank you so much for reading _What Lies Within_ and for spending time with me inside my head.

In Gratitude,

Clare de Lune

# ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Clare grew up in the middle of nowhere with a police officer father and an artistic bar-owning mother, which fueled her imagination with stories and left lots of time for horror movies and books. Clare is currently a librarian and writer, and when she's not traveling to strange lands, lives with her partner and cat in New Orleans.

Blog: https://clarecastleberry.wordpress.com/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/ClaredeLune

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/femmebionic

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/Clare-de-Lune-823291777797676/ 
