The Killer's New Wife

“You sleep okay?” he asked.

“I want you to tell me the truth about my father,” I said, and immediately regretted it.

He smiled slightly. “I guess you’ve been thinking about that.”

“You told me I grew up with some sick psycho that bought and sold human beings like cattle,” I said. “So yeah, I thought about it.”

“Just girls,” he said, looking away. “Didn’t bother with boys. You can’t get as much for them.”

“What’s wrong with you?” I asked, and sincerely meant it.

“A lot,” he said and switched off the TV. “I know you think I’m a liar, but I promise, no matter what, I’ll tell you the truth. That’s how this is going to work. I’ll be straight up so long as you are.”

“How can you expect me to believe that,” I said. “I’m your captive, remember?”

He stood up from the couch and I flinched away. I was afraid he’d hit me or take his anger out on me—and instead, he looked at me with the deepest, sickest sort of pity I’d ever seen in a man before. I clenched my jaw and balled my hands into fists.

“I’ll prove it,” he said. “But you won’t like it.”

“How?” I asked.

“I’ll show you the girls,” he said. “You can ask them questions.”

I opened my mouth to t ell him yes, absolutely, let’s go, because of course it was all bullshit, and once we got to wherever he’d take me, I’d find out just how insane he was. Then I’d know to be careful.

But I stopped myself, because there was a part of me, deep down, that didn’t want to find out. There was a part of me that worried this was real, and if it was real, then I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to look through this door and find the seedy, disgusting truth behind my father.

The truth behind my own life.

“Fine,” I said, because I could help myself. If there was a possibility it was real, I needed to know, even if it would break me.

He hesitated though. “Are you sure?” he asked softly. “It’s going to hurt. You’re not going to like it.”

“I think you’re a liar,” I said. “So let’s get this little game over with.”

He seemed disappointed, but only nodded and walked to the door. He grabbed his keys on the way out and I followed.

We drove for a half-hour. He headed north, up past Temple University, up past LaSalle, and into the northeast. The houses were still row homes, but they were more spread out, and there were more trees growing in the little front lawns. Cars were parked along the street and in small driveways, and the tight urban density was a little less intense.

He pulled into a small strip mall and killed the engine. The stores looked normal: Panera Bread, a used bookstore, a secondhand clothes store, and all the way at the end, tucked around the corner, was a massage parlor with a generic sign and some close-up images of a hand rubbing up against a back.

“Last chance,” he said.

I reached for the door, but it was locked. “Let me out,” I said.

“I’m trying to warn you,” he said, his voice getting harder. “I shouldn’t have acted like that yesterday and I’m sorry. But I wasn’t lying to you, and going in to talk to these girls isn’t going to help anything.”

I didn’t look at him. “Let me know.”

He let out a breath and unlocked the door. I stormed outside and strode to the sidewalk.

He caught up with me and steered me to the massage place. I opened the door and walked into a small waiting room. A white and red counter was directly across from the door, and a few sad black chairs were lined up against the wall. A young girl stood looking at her phone, her dark hair piled up on her head, and she wore a tight red dress cut low. She looked exhausted and way too skinny, and her pale skin was almost sallow. She glanced up at me, frowned a little, then stared at Ewan.

“The fuck are you doing here?” she asked and her voice had a hint of some kind of eastern European accent. I couldn’t tell where she was from. “I’m not cleaning up any blood. Absolutely no. If you are here to kill someone, do it out back, I am very sick of dead owners.”

“Irina,” Ewan said, holding up a hand. “I’m not here for that. Where’s Lotte?”

Irina frowned slightly, head tilted. “Working,” she said. “In back with client. What do you want Lotte for, anyway?”

“This is Tara Donnelly,” Ewan said softly, nodding toward me. “Jermaine’s daughter.”

Irina’s eyes went wide and she stared at me. I felt pins and needles in my fingers and my toes. I looked around the dingy waiting room and saw water stains up in the corner of the ceiling. The paint was peeling, and the signage looked like it was all over twenty years old, graying and bland. Irina matched the decor, although she couldn’t have been any older than I was, and yet she looked like she lived hard, like she was as faded as the room.