His fingers clutched the tumbler so tightly that she thought the crystal might shatter. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
But he did.
Tish knew that she was right. She swallowed down her loathing and drank more wine.
Peter stood up, stretching his legs. He caught his reflection in a brass mirror and dusted the broad lapels of his suit coat. His grin returned, more brightly than before. “I always wondered if you were upset that Laura found me attractive.”
“She didn’t.”
“You’re wrong about that. All the girls back then were interested in me. You were the exception. Or were you just playing hard to get?”
“Oh, please.”
“Is that why you didn’t like me dating your best friend?”
“Laura broke it off with you. She told me she did.”
“Ah, but are you sure she wasn’t lying? Maybe Laura didn’t want you to know what was really going on between us.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Tish snapped.
“I wonder what you would have done if you’d found out the truth,” he said. “I imagine you would have been very upset.”
“Are you finished?”
“I haven’t even begun. Don’t tangle with a lawyer, Tish.”
“I’m going to get you,” she insisted.
He laughed. “You know that’s not going to happen.”
She cringed, feeling on display as he watched her. His eyes glittered with lust that he didn’t bother hiding.
“The sad thing is, I’m telling you that I think you’re a murderer, and you still want to sleep with me.”
Peter sat down next to her on the sofa and took an oversized swallow of his scotch. Their legs touched. “True.”
“Are you that desperate?”
“I’m not desperate at all.”
“I picture you with a harem of twenty-something models,” Tish said.
“Sometimes.”
“So why come on to a woman in her late forties who thinks you’re the devil?”
“I’m not the devil. I thought you were finally beginning to find me charming.”
“Hardly.”
“Believe it or not, I like women who are mature. Strong. Independent. I don’t find many women who stand up to me.”
“So you’re saying that having a woman accuse you of murder turns you on.”
“I’ve heard worse accusations than that.” He grinned. “I think you’re lying, Tish. You do find me attractive. You always have.”
“You find yourself attractive enough for both of us.”
“There aren’t many women who get to reject me twice.”
Tish felt a shiver of fear. “What does that mean?”
“Not what you think. I just mean you’ve managed to deflate my ego, not to mention my manhood, in two separate decades.”
“You’ll live.”
“I already told you that I don’t take rejection well. It just makes me more determined.”
“Do I need to scream?”
“Not at all. I wouldn’t dream of ravishing a woman who doesn’t want me to ravish her.”
“Good.”
“I am going to kiss you, though,” Peter said. “I think you owe me that.”
“I don’t owe you anything.”
“So slap my face if you want.”
He leaned across the sofa. Tish stared into his eyes and didn’t turn away. His lips were rough as they moved against hers. She felt nothing but responded as if she did. She put her hands around his neck and held him to her. He smelled like a man. She felt his fingers stroke her breast with a feathery touch, testing the waters. It was now or never.
Tish bit down on Peter’s fat lower lip. Hard. Warm blood sprayed onto their faces, and she mashed her cheek against him and held on tight. Peter bellowed in pain and fought to disentangle himself. He shoved her away and leaped to his feet. His chin was a messy cherry river dripping onto his shirt.
“You crazy bitch!” he shouted.
“Get the hell away from me, Peter,” Tish told him calmly.
He ripped open the guest room door. “You’re out of your fucking mind.”
Tish watched him go as she dabbed smears of blood from her face onto the sleeve of her white dress.
She was thinking: I’ve got you.
Two hours later, a noise woke Tish out of a dead sleep in her condominium.
She bolted up in bed, the blanket bunching at her waist. She listened to sounds from the open window, where surf slapped at the base of the bluff. The air horn of a truck blared on the freeway. That was all.
She climbed out of bed and grabbed her robe from the closet. Her white dress was wrapped in plastic on the shelf.
She stopped. Waited.
A few seconds later, she heard it again. Sharp and musical. From somewhere outside came the sound of glass breaking.
Tish ran into the main room of the condo and hunted for her phone. The room was black with shadows. She was alone, no one lying in wait for her, no one charging her out of the corners. She didn’t hear the noise again.
A car peeled away on the street, its loud engine growing faint as it roared toward the curve leading back to the city. Tish crept to the front door and peered through the spyhole. Outside, the sidewalk and street were quiet. She opened the door carefully and watched tendrils of fog drift through the glow of the streetlight. When she stepped outside, sweat began to grow on her skin like a fungus.
Nothing moved.
The pavement scratched her bare feet. She took tentative steps toward the curb. When she saw her rental car, parked near the trees, she ran.
Half of the windshield was caved in, the other half frosted with starbursts of white glass. Scissor-sharp popcorn littered the seats. Jammed between the spokes of the steering wheel was a wooden baseball bat.
23
The asphalt in the parking lot of the delivery company where Finn Mathisen worked was wet, with steam rising from pools of water. Rain showers had dodged in and out of the city all day, leaving behind a moldy smell of worms. The humid air made Stride’s black T-shirt cling to his skin, and the charcoal sport coat he wore over it felt damp. A line of sweat traced his forehead. It was Friday night. He wanted to go home and jump in the shower, but Finn was an hour late returning from his delivery route.