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Mark
Upon getting home, Mark started pulling things out for dinner with the Moustakases. He’d called his godmother on the way, and she was bringing the side dishes, he just had to get out hamburgers and brats, and provide drinks, which he had in ample supply.
That done, he took a few minutes to straighten up. Between his mom and sister from Wednesday, and having Darby in the house, all he had to do was sweep and set out extra hand towels in the bathroom.
He wandered into his bedroom and picked up her laundry. She’d probably get pissed, but he’d help her out anyway and toss it in the automat. Probably she’d be embarrassed at him handling her lingerie.
As though he’d never handled bras and panties before.
He tried not to think of the women who’d belonged to the lingerie he’d manhandled in the past. He wanted them to stay in the past.
He deposited the clothes in the automat, then stepped on the back deck for a minute, breathed the early autumn air deeply. A crisp edge had come through in the last few days, and he had to admit he was looking forward to the cold time of year, and the family gatherings coming up. Birthdays, Thanksgiving, Christmas. They always had a big get-together at Christmas, and he loved the craziness of his nieces and nephews. The older ones with their restrained appreciation, the younger ones with their boisterous exuberance. It always made him smile. And he was so happy to see the light in his mother’s eyes when she watched her grandchildren.
Maybe he’d get Darby to come this year.
After that morning, he wondered if maybe, finally, she’d reciprocate the feelings he had for her. He wasn’t one to have his heart broken, but he had the feeling she had the capability to be the first one able to do it.
He turned and went back in, slid through the kitchen where he snagged a beer out of the fridge. He drank about a quarter of the beer, then decided it was cool enough that a fire in the fireplace would be nice, and just maybe, romantic.
He went outside to the woodpile in his back yard, gathered up an armful, and took it back inside. The wood was a little damp after the rain earlier in the week, but he’d had it covered with a tarp, so it wasn’t horrible.
Mark took his time arranging the pile in his fireplace, finishing off the beer while he worked. He got up to get a lighter. As he got to the kitchen, his doorbell rang.
He glanced at the clock. He hadn’t been gone from the office that long, but it was possible she’d wrapped up faster than he’d expected.
“It’s open, Darb!” He called toward the front as he deposited the bottle in the recycling bin, then rummaged around for a minute as he found the lighter for the fire. The front door opened and closed.
“Hey, did you happen to pick up any wine?” he said as he came through the dining room. “I only have b—”
“You’re awfully trusting, Detective.”
He blinked. “Winifred?”
Labbee nodded, her blue eyes were icily cold. She’d pulled back her hair, and instead of the blonde curls from Monday, her hair was straight and dishwater colored. How they hadn’t noticed it earlier when they’d tailed her, he couldn’t guess.
“You nearly had me earlier. Fortunately, I’m smarter than both of you,” she said.
Mark dropped the lighter and reached for his gun. But he’d taken it off when he got home. “You’re under arrest.”
She laughed. “Nice try. I know you’re unarmed. And I know what I can do to you.”
She vanished.
He braced himself, opening his eyes wide to capture any movement.
The carpet sank under her weight. Footprints padded toward him.
He darted toward the living room.
And tripped over the armchair, toppling it onto its side.
He went down, nearly hitting his head on the hearth. He rolled away, trying to remember if he had any weapon handy, and his eyes landed on the fire tools. He yanked the poker out, toppling the rest over, and shifted in time to see Winifred leap toward him.
Her hands had morphed, her fingers shifting into what looked like flesh-colored blades bearing remnants of sparkly nail polish.
He realized too late what was about to happen.
The sharp pain from the five finger-blades made him cry out.
She wriggled her blades in his chest, a smile on her face, which was intimately close to his own.
All he could do was gasp and stare as he tried to manage the pain.
She pulled her hand out, then hit him again, lower this time, in the stomach.
Fire spread in his gut. She hit him again, and again, and again.
He gasped for breath. He could hear the air escaping from his lungs.
And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
He tried to call out. If he could call for an officer assist, maybe someone could help him. His badge...it was near enough.
But he couldn’t even whisper.
“Oh, poor Detective Herman. What will you do? Especially since I’m going to wait right here and deliver the same package to Detective Shaw.”
He stared at her. God, no. Not Darby.
Then he remembered. She could hear his thoughts.
Darby...Winifred’s here! Help!
He closed his eyes. He couldn’t sense her. But maybe, just maybe, she could sense him. Maybe he was in too much agony.
Winifred stood over him and occasionally stabbed him again, taking her time, and wiggling her finger-blades deep inside him.
Minutes passed as he bled out, unable to move from the indescribable pain, and he wondered if he’d see Darby one last time...