New York to Dallas (In Death 33)

“I want to go home.”

“Then go there in your head. Go—” She heard the locks give, felt Darlie cringe and shudder.

“Don’t, don’t, don’t.”

“Shh, shh. Don’t cry,” she whispered. “He likes it better when you cry.”

The monster opened the door.

“There’s my bad girls.”

His smile beamed indulgence, affection, but Melinda saw the hot glint in his eyes.

“Time for your next lesson, Darlie.”

“She needs a little more time. Please? She’ll do better if she has a little more time to absorb the first lesson.”

“Oh, I think she absorbed just fine. Didn’t you, Darlie?”

“Take me. I need to learn a lesson.”

He spared Melinda a glance. “It’s too late for you. Past your prime. Now this one—”

“I’ll be anything you want,” Melinda said as he stepped forward. “Anything. Let you do whatever you want. You can hurt me. I’ve been bad. I deserve it.”

“You’re not what I want.” He struck out, a brutally casual backhand that rapped her head against the wall. “Keep it up,” he warned Melinda, “and she’ll pay.”

“How about conversation? The woman you’re with? She doesn’t seem like she has a lot to say. It’s obvious she doesn’t have your intellect. We’re not going anywhere,” Melinda added, gripping Darlie’s hand hard under the blankets. “Wouldn’t you like to talk for a while? The day I came to see you, you wanted to talk and I didn’t let you. I’m sorry. I’d like to make up for that now.”

He angled his head. “Isn’t that interesting.”

“I can’t give you what she does, but I can offer something else. Something you must have missed, something you can’t get from her—or the woman.”

“And just what would we talk about.”

“Anything you like.” Her heart beat like a drum in her throat, and the beat was hope. “A man like you enjoys the stimulation of conversation, debate, discussion. I know you’ve traveled a great deal. You could tell me about the places you’ve been. Or we could talk about art, music, literature.”

“Interesting,” he said again, and she could see she’d intrigued him, amused him.

“You have a captive audience.”

He gave a bark of a laugh. “Aren’t you the sassy one?”

When he walked out, Melinda let out a breath. “Hold on,” she murmured to Darlie. “And be very quiet.”

He came back in with a chair, set it down, dropped into it. “So,” he said with a grin, “read any good books lately?”

15

She thought of herself as Sylvia. It was the name she used when she and Isaac were alone, the name she’d like to use when the game was done and they were living the high life. Sylvia was classy, elegant, and Isaac liked class.

The cop bitch called her Stella, but Stella was long ago. Another game, but that one had left her more dry than high. Richard Troy. Now that was a name from the past. How had that bitch of a cop known about Stella and Rich?

Rich’s flapping mouth, that’s how. It was the only way she could angle it. He must be doing time somewhere, the fucking asshole, and worked some sort of deal for flipping on her.

But how had he known to flip?

Didn’t matter. Not as long as Rich was jerking off in a cage somewhere.