The restaurant was a trendy seafood place with a ridiculous name. Joe Fish. With its industrial speakeasy décor and dim lighting, it fit the bill for blind dates perfectly: Always crowded, so my dates never felt too intimate. Always noisy, which was great because I loathed pointless small talk. The food was always good, because if I had to be here, why not at least enjoy dinner?
A couple of the guys I’d met from the dating app turned out to be real gems who I hoped would find happiness with someone else. Others made my skin crawl. One was even on my watch list—when enough time passed so as not to draw attention—we would meet again. The thought of taking him to my workshop awoke a wonderful tickle inside.
That tickle had bothered me once upon a time. Back then, I’d thought, Am I any better than the predators I put down, if I enjoy the process?
The answer? Yes. I am (and was and always would be) better. Because what I did was important. It was messy and dangerous—the fact that I enjoyed it was a bonus.
A wonderful, delicious bonus.
Maybe it had to be that way. Like sex. Sex is messy with an element of danger, but it’s necessary. Absolutely necessary if humanity wants to continue. But as necessary as it is, would people do it if it didn’t give them pleasure? If it didn’t fill a longing?
No. Of course not.
If we didn’t enjoy sex, we’d say, Let someone else do it, and keep saying it right up until mass extinction.
Instead, many people crave it, and our species continues. Maybe that thrill that climbed my spine, with each kill rooting itself in my very being, maybe that was my evolutionary reward.
Or maybe not. Maybe giving bad men what they deserved was simply…satisfying.
I bypassed the hostess stand and headed for the bar, sliding onto my favorite stool. As always, I was early.
“Back again?” Jeremy the bartender was a nice guy. He had a thick mustache and wore suspenders with everything.
“You know it.” Of the many times I’d been on dates at Joe Fish, Jeremy had worked the bar during six of them. After my fourth visit, he’d stopped asking what I wanted and expertly mixed my Tito’s and soda.
He wedged a slice of lime onto the rim of the glass and pushed it toward me.
The best thing about Jeremy was that he didn’t have comments. No You must be picky, or You’ll find someone one day. He did his job. Accepted his tip. And moved on. Basically, he was the perfect bartender.
I sipped my cocktail and watched the table in the corner. Still empty. My Fumble match had ten minutes before he was officially late. If this were a real date, I’d finish my drink, pay, and leave without waiting around to introduce myself.
But I was here because I’d promised Diane I would be. And because this was what single millennial women did. So I did it too. Blending in was exhausting.
Thirty minutes later I was finishing a soda and lime when a man was shown to my table.
There was something vaguely familiar about the way he raked his fingers through his curly dark hair. He placed a pastry box on the table, then seemed to think better of it and picked it up. Then set it down. Then opened it and adjusted it slightly. He glanced around the restaurant floor and smiled a perfect gleaming smile. The kind of smile that would’ve been right at home in a toothpaste ad.
The kind of smile a person remembered, and damn it…it was him. The cop from the bakery. The man who’d made me late to Sugar’s school.
Earlier, he’d only looked up from his phone because when we’d collided, he’d dropped his own order—a single cupcake. The whole thing would’ve been kind of funny, except the man had rolled his eyes, as if it were my fault—even though he ran into me—and acted annoyed when I hadn’t stopped to help him pick up his precious lonely cupcake. Who does that?
Apparently someone four inches taller than me, with olive skin, curly brown hair, and great teeth.
Because Diane was right. It might be strange—but I noticed teeth.
It wasn’t like I could help it; I’d been teased about my own teeth throughout high school. When I’d moved to Baton Rouge for college, I’d decided I was going to become someone better than a mousy nobody from Sunnyside Trailer Park in Holden, Louisiana. My smile had been one of the first steps of my transformation.
So yeah, smiles caught my attention, and this man’s was as perfect now as it had been the first time I’d noticed it at the bakery. Sometimes the universe had a real sense of humor.
My date continued looking around, flashing those too-perfect teeth—a real Officer McSmiley. I ran the tip of my tongue over my lips, watching as he fiddled with the pastry box, his expression growing strained.
Jeremy set the bill in front me, and I handed him my card.
My gaze remained on McSmiley.
Was he? No. He checked his wristwatch. As if I were the late one. As if he hadn’t kept me waiting.
“Here you go, Ms. Black.” Jeremy slid my card back across the bar, along with the slip for me to sign. “Same time next month?”
“Not if I can get out of it.”
I stood and considered leaving, but someone needed to put McSmiley in his place. Teach him some manners. Someone needed to make him understand that no matter what he’d been taught, the world did not actually revolve around him.
Who was better suited to the job than me? There was a reason cats played with mice before devouring them, piece by still-wiggling piece. It was fun.
Wasn’t that what Diane said I should be doing? Wasn’t that why she’d made me sign up for Fumble in the first place? Cor, you’ll have a great time! Meet some good men. Trust me—it’ll be fun!
The experience had been lots of things, but fun? Nope.
I crossed my arms and watched McSmiley fidget nervously in his seat.
Maybe that was about to change.
He was staring at his phone as I approached. I cleared my throat and waited for him to glance up.
“Cordelia?” His toothy smile never faltered. I glanced at the pastry box. Likes to bake, my flat ass.
I nodded. “And you’re—” I did a quick mental search for my date’s real name. “Christopher?”
“That’s me.” He looked pointedly to his wristwatch. “Better late than never, I guess.”
Oh yes. This would be super fun.
“You been here long?” My voice was silk. I pulled out my chair and sat down, making a show of crossing my legs.
“I did rate punctuality as a ten.” His implication was clear.
Tinder. Grindr. Match. Plenty of Fish. Jdate. Christian Mingle… They all had something that set them apart from the others—at least on paper.
Fumble’s big thing was minimal communication before meeting. Only likes and dislikes and the pièce de résistance: their rating system. Two hundred qualities you were expected to rate—things like punctuality, cleanliness, kindness—things any sane person would rate high.
“Yes,” I said. “It’s one of the reasons I clicked on your profile.”
“Is that why you’re late, then?” His voice was flirty, and he chuckled.
Then I chuckled.
Suddenly, we were both chuckling as if we were both in on the same hilarious joke. Only, he didn’t know the punchline.
I stopped laughing all at once. “I’ve been sitting over there.” I pointed to the bar. “For about half an hour now.”
Christopher blanched. “Oh.”
“Yep. Punctual. Which, like you, I rated a ten.”
“Then you know…”
“That you’re late? Yes. And that you were going to sit here and lord my tardiness over me? Uh-huh.” Crossing my arms, I leaned back in my seat and looked into his eyes, waiting for the spark of recognition to light his face. The corners of his grinning mouth tightened, and I let him stew a moment. When he still didn’t recognize me, I pointed to the pastry box sitting between us. “What ya got there?”
“It’s for you.” He nudged the opened box toward me, obviously relieved I’d let his little fib slide. Maybe he’d salvaged the date after all.
Bless his heart.
“Oh, that’s right. You’re a baker.” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table, giving him a good look at my face. When he said nothing, I frowned at the cupcake. “The icing is a little—I don’t know. A little lopsided?”
At least he was original. In my experience, men—especially Fumble dates—compensated for their shortcomings in lots of ways: wearing expensive watches, ordering expensive wine. But baked goods? This was a first.
McSmiley—Christopher—shrugged sheepishly.
I pretended to examine it further. “It looks like you dropped it. Maybe when you bumped into someone at the bakery?”
“Oh no.” He paled. “It’s you. I thought it maybe could be…but no way the universe would be that cruel. And when you didn’t say anything—I thought I was wrong.”
“Cruel, huh? Wow. You know how to sweet talk a girl.” I traced a finger through the icing. “Your profile says you love to bake things from scratch for the ones you care about. Was I supposed to believe that you hand made this, for me?” I looked him in the eye as I licked the frosting from my fingertip. “Hm. Buttercream.”
Christopher buried his face in his palms. “This is bad.” He blew out a deep breath as he peered from between his fingers. “You should shoot me and put me out of my misery.”
“Nah. I hate guns. Besides, where’s the fun in that?” I picked up the menu, making a show of sliding an index finger down the columns of entrees and appetizers, even though I knew what I was having. Last time, my date had ordered the redfish and I’d suffered plate envy the entire meal.
The weight of Christopher’s gaze settled on me. I glanced up.
His chin was cradled in his palm, and he bounced his fingers over his angular jaw. “I…I,” he began, finally. “I feel like a complete jackass—it’s, well—I’m new to all this… It’s my sister’s fault—she made me do online dating.”
I set the menu aside. “Are you seriously blaming your bad behavior on your sister?”
“No. That’s not what I meant. It was her idea, not her fault. It seemed like maybe it could be fun, but Fumble asked all these questions about hobbies, and I’m a cop—oh yeah, I’m a cop by the way—”
“I know. I saw your uniform. At the bakery.”
“Oh. Right. Well. That’s one of the reasons I went with Fumble instead of one of the others. I don’t have a lot of time for hobbies, and it didn’t require me to list my career. People either immediately hate me or want to sleep with the uniform.”
I raised my brows. Or attempted to. Onabotulinum toxin A was worth every penny. Giving up, I tilted my head.
“I know that sounds weird,” he said. “But there are all these creepy true crime fanatics.”
“I love true crime,” I said.
“Of course you do.” Christopher again raked a hand through his hair. A nervous habit, maybe.
He was saved by the waiter, who appeared and took our drink orders. He ordered a beer and an appetizer of brie and bacon oysters. I had a water with lemon.
“What was I saying?” he asked.
“You were explaining how your little cupcake of deception played into your date-night scheme.”
“Cupcake of deception? Scheme?” A glint lit McSmiley’s eyes.
I shrugged. “Kind of catchy, right?”
He leaned back into his chair, his tight grin relaxing into something more boyish. Goofy. “You’re giving me too much credit.”
“Prove me wrong, then,” I said.
“The cupcake wasn’t supposed to be that big of a deal.” Christopher shook his head. “Fumble had all these questions about hobbies, and, like I said, I don’t have time for hobbies because of my job. I mean, I do stuff, but nothing that looks good on a dating app. Who wants to see another picture of a man holding a fish?”
“There are no photos on Fumble,” I reminded him.
“You know what I mean.”
I nodded—because I absolutely did.
Christopher continued. “My sister—who I adore, okay? She suggested the baking thing and told me to get a cupcake. Her actual words were, ‘Buy a damn cupcake, Christopher. No woman is going to care if you bought it or baked it. It’s just a cupcake.’”
“Sugar is our kryptonite.” My words were flat, but as I spoke, I took another swipe of frosting. It was delicious.
“Yeah. I see how dumb it was, now.” His palms splayed on the table in front of him. “Maybe you can cut me a little slack, though?”
“Why would I do that?” I propped my chin on my fists, biting lightly at my bottom lip. Christopher’s eyes narrowed on my mouth. This was too easy. When Diane inevitably asked if I’d had fun on my date, I could finally tell her the truth.
“I’m sure you’ve seen the news.” His eyes didn’t leave my lips. “Things have been tough at work—maybe stress has scrambled my brain a little. That’s the only reason I can think of for why in the hell I took dating advice from my sister.” He thrummed his fingers against the wooden tabletop and blinked hard, as if coming out of a trance. “She’s been married since before dating apps were really a thing. She has no idea what it’s like.”
Things have been tough at work… He was a cop. He’d mentioned the news. My mind flashed to the segment I’d seen at Diane’s. Could there be a serial killer in the Red Stick?
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“She and her husband were high school sweethearts and—”
“That’s sweet,” I cut him off. “But I was asking about the news?”
“Oh.” His brows steepled, and the gotcha tone of his voice was irritating. “You don’t keep up with the local news?”
“Yes, I keep up with the news,” I snapped. Then gentler, because the beginnings of a plan were taking shape. “I meant specifically, what has your brain fried?”
McSmiley paused, giving me a look that asked how long I’d been living under a rock. I shrugged, going for sheepish. I must’ve pulled it off because Christopher shook his head and continued. “There’s been a spike in crime, but I’m talking specifically about the missing men.”
I’d known exactly what he’d meant, but I couldn’t let him know that. He’d already said he was put off by true crime fanatics, so I had to be careful. Let him connect the dots for me. If I played my cards right, I could find out if I should actually worry when I heard serial killer.
An inside source to my greatest threat—the BRPD—would be invaluable. All I had to do was figure out who Christopher wanted me to be—and be her. It wasn’t hard; it was how I hunted monsters. Using the proper window dressings to become their bait.
Christopher seemed like the type who’d want a soft woman—someone delicate. Someone to protect.
I doubted he could handle Cordelia Black, but he was likely the type of man who’d love the watered-down version—the doting version. The sweet version.
I could give him Sweet Cordelia, if it granted me the access I needed. It wasn’t the first time I’d trotted her out when it served me. And finding out what the police knew about a serial killer—that didn’t only serve me; it served all the women and others who were vulnerable to bad men. When I was safe, I could help keep them safe too.
It was settled, then. Sweet Cordelia. Locked and loaded.
My smile softened from razor wire to something gentle, and I gazed at McSmiley through my lashes, fluttery as moth wings.
“Oh yes, I remember that.” I pretended to shiver. “It’s terrifying—what in the hell is happening in our city?”
At that moment, the waiter slid our drinks in front of us, interrupting my performance. “Y’all ready to order?”
Christopher picked up his menu and opened it. “I think I need a minute more, please.” He smiled. Again. Or maybe he never stopped smiling. Maybe he flashed those perfect teeth, smiling forever and ever until he died.
The waiter hurried away and Christopher shined his hundred watts toward me.
I snaked my hand across the table and caressed his arm with my fingertips. “Christopher.” Men loved hearing their names. “On television the police chief keeps saying there’s nothing to worry about…but how could that be true?” I pulled away from touching him as I uncrossed and recrossed my legs. Christopher’s gaze dropped, before crawling back to my face. “The city can be a dangerous place…for a woman.”
Those were the magic words. It was as if I’d flipped an invisible switch. McSmiley’s demeanor softened so quickly, it wouldn’t have surprised me if he sat in front of his bathroom mirror and practiced his facial expressions. “I know.” He sighed. “It’s one reason I became a police officer—to protect and serve.”
“You’re so brave.” I blinked my lashes delicately. Because that was me—delicate and small, small, small. Thinking small thoughts. Not taking up space. An innocent flower—nothing to fear.
Yes. An innocent flower. Same as deadly nightshade.
Christopher shifted in his seat. “There’s something sinister happening—but you don’t need to worry.”
“I don’t?” As if I didn’t know. As if the dried blood of monsters wasn’t spread artfully across canvases, decorating the walls of my home.
“Obviously, you should be careful. Take precautions.” He traced an index finger over the top of my hand. “But the string of disappearances doesn’t suggest women are being taken. Only men.”
“Taken?” My eyes widened. Golly gee. “I read that interview with the police chief, the one where she said there’s no reason to believe anyone was taken or…” My voice trailed off as if I couldn’t fathom saying the word dead. “She said that there was no reason to panic—there is no indication the disappearances are connected.”
“I shouldn’t comment,” Christopher said, though we both knew he would. “But if you want my opinion—and this is between us—the missing men aren’t relaxing together on a beach somewhere.”
No shit.
“What do you mean?” The fear forced into my words turned my stomach. Sweet Cordelia—helpless, hopeless femme. Future final girl.
Christopher’s gaze swam with concern.
He spoke evenly. “What do you think I mean?”
“Everyone—the police, the reporters—keeps saying there aren’t any, you know”—I leaned forward and whispered—“bodies. Is that true?”
He drummed his fingers against the tabletop. “No bodies doesn’t mean no foul play.”
McSmiley was about to say more, I could feel it, but at that moment, our appetizer arrived and the spell—cast by long legs and a breathy voice—was broken. Christopher blinked, then smiled (of course) at the waiter as we ordered our entrees.
He cleared his throat. “That took quite a turn. I hope…I hope I didn’t upset you or ruin your evening?”
“Of course not. I’m the one who asked. You’re helping by making me aware.”
That was another thing men liked—when you told them how helpful they were.
“I guess now…well. You see what I mean? Perhaps you can grant me that slack I was asking for?”
“Hm.” Sweet Cordelia smirked. “As long as there are no more cupcakes of deception.”
“Deal.” He took another swig of beer.
Christopher was going to be useful, indeed.
The rest of dinner was a flurry of small talk and flirty smiles. The redfish was decent, and we halved the cupcake. Also decent.
I didn’t protest when Christopher reached for the check. The gold flecks in his honey-and-tea eyes caught the lamplight. “You want to get out of here? Go grab a drink somewhere?”
I looked down as if I were considering his offer. A drink with Christopher could be useful, but not tonight. “Rain check?”
“You turn back into a pumpkin at midnight?” he teased.
“Yeah.” I pretended to chuckle. “Something like that.”
The truth was—I already had other plans. Gerald would be waking up soon, and it would be rude to keep him waiting.