ANNASOPHIA
Satish’s awesome mother encourages both kids to go to the kitchen and collaborate on the chai. When she passes me, she pats my shoulder. Her smile erases the need for words. I swallow tears. She touches my cheek. I sigh.
Soshanna always showers me with hugs and kisses and backrubs—to make up for, I think, the years I endured Michael’s faux caresses and sexual abuse. Benazir is less demonstrative—so why do I feel so calm?
Calm or numb? I’m in denial about Jennifer’s murder. I don’t want to discuss it. Or think about it. I don’t want to tell Magnus and Anastaysa. They’re carrying enough stress with Maverick dead and Alexandra crazy and me holding on by slippery fingertips.
Telling them about Jenn’s the right thing to do.
The good-mother-thing to do.
The only thing to do.
Dammit, I want to protect them.
Hide one more secret.
What if Satish finds out there’s a mistake?
He huddles in a corner, phone pressed against his ear, doing me one more favor. His face shows no traces of how pissed he felt a few minutes ago toward Anastaysa. His face gave away nothing, but his eyes gave away everything.
If Anastaysa were on trial and he were her judge, he’d recommend life in a dungeon.
Surrounded by a moat filled with alligators.
He catches me staring and holds up one finger. A sudden puff of excitement flares between my legs. The tingle races up to my face. I sit up straighter and cross my ankles. Heat pulses under my shirt. The fabric feels like a hot iron.
After-effects of an adrenaline rush.
He arches his brows.
My brain runs down like a broken toy, but I shake my head. Whatever I just felt was not sexual. More of a reaction to his coolness toward Anastaysa. Or was that my imagination? Magnus adores him—has from that first moment at Belle Haven. Adoration may be too strong for his feelings for Magnus, but there’s a spark between them. He liked Maverick too. I picked up on that right away just as I picked up on his distaste yesterday for Alexandra.
Understandable. I wipe my damp forehead. But why don’t he and Anastaysa click?
He keeps me in focus and bobs his head several times as if speaking face-to-face with the caller. One last emphatic nod and he disconnects. He pockets the phone, crossing the room with the slow, heavy steps of a man on the edge of flying apart.
My hormonal hijacking dissolves and I manage a small smile.
He exhales and drops down next to me on the sofa. “Tough phone call.”
Acid rushes into my stomach. “No possibility …”
“I’m sorry. Her doctor confirmed a distinctive scar on her right buttock—”
“Dammit.” I rock backward into the sofa. “I forgot. She told me. A horse bit her. When she was fourteen. She refused to go near the stables at Belle Haven. Horses terrify her.”
“Yeah.” He glances over his shoulder toward the kitchen. He inhales the tantalizing fragrance of ginger and cardamom and cinnamon and other spices I don’t recognize.
A sudden longing surfaces. God, what I’d give for a glass of Chardonnay. Forget the glass. Give me a straw. My neck muscles tighten. Baaad idea.
A very bad idea. But what’s Satish hiding? An expert liar, I smell his apocrine glands working overtime.
“Mère’s chai works magic.” The lines in his face deepen. “SFPD has a clue. It ties Jennifer’s hit-and-run with the other four murders.”
Ambushed by a wave of dizziness, I go hot and cold at the same time. “What kind of clue?”
“FYI, the cops haven’t released this snippet.”
“Sealed.” I press my lips with my index finger.
“The killer’s one sick, nasty bastard.” He checks over his shoulder again, throws a kiss to his mother, bends over his knees, and speaks lower than the murmur from the kitchen. “He’s left a bag of shit with three of his targets—Maverick, Cassie, and now Jennifer.”
“A bag of shi—you mean like dog droppings?”
“Like the human feces he smeared on your rabbit. Like the human shit he tossed at my car last night.”
He should’ve told me about that assault earlier, but he doesn’t elaborate so I stuff my rant. “No wonder the police are withholding the information.”
“Uh-huh. Think about all the cute Twitter comments—#CacaCreep.”
“Yuk.”
“Double yuk.” He smashes the heel of his hand against his forehead. “The Freud Squad will have a field day.”
“Seven more minutes and here we come,” Magnus calls.
The richness of Benazir’s laugh pushes Satish’s pessimism to a canyon in my brain. “Can I help?”
Benazir reassures me the trio has everything under control, prompting Satish to whisper seven minutes will let him outline the main points.
The main points are obscene. A speeding vehicle—-make unknown—hit Jennifer and her boyfriend with enough force to amputate both her legs above the knee, crack open her sternum and leave her decapitated. The impact crushed her boyfriend’s skull and spleen, shattered his pelvis and spine. They were both DRT—dead by the time the EMTs arrived.
“Every cop and first responder’s nightmare,” Satish says. “It took an hour to find her legs and his shoes. His wallet was in his back pocket, but they couldn’t find a purse or backpack for her. An anonymous caller reported something two blocks away covered in shit. Ta-da.”
The dim light intensifies his ashy skin and glazed eyes. Nausea floods my throat, but I close and then open my eyes to memories of car-accident victims brought to the ER.
Satish stares at his shoes as if they hold some deep wisdom.
Which, I suspect, they do. I, on the other hand, am fresh out of wisdom.