The Killing Game(77)

“The police detectives.”

“No!”

“This Kitsy Hasseldorn?” He shook her head hard. It felt like her hair might rip out at the roots.

“Goddamn you!” she snarled.

He slapped her. So hard it would have snapped her head if he hadn’t been hanging on to it by her hair. She opened her mouth to scream and he slapped her again. Then he was slamming her head into the dashboard. Pain exploded in her head and he slammed her head again and again, until she was crying and ready to pass out.

“What? What?” she burbled.

“We don’t even have time to f*ck,” he raged, slamming her head again. “I don’t have time for this. You understand? I’ve got it all worked out and you’re not going to f*ck it up!”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she apologized between sobs. She didn’t know what she was apologizing for, but she knew it was what he wanted to hear.

“Sorry,” he spat. He slammed her head again, and this time she passed out and knew no more.

*

He looked down at her in disgust. What a f*cking bitch. And he had hours before it was dark. Damn. She was ruining his game! Yes, there were unexpected twists and turns to the game, but this was too much. What about those detectives? And Mrs. Hasseldorn?

Tracy had to be done with once and for all or she would talk. That was all there was to it. When they found her body at the bottom of the quarry, maybe they would think her death had something to do with that ex-boyfriend from that loser family she’d told him about.

Just as long as there was no blowback on him.

Mrs. Hasseldorn. He remembered her and her exacting husband. He knew just which house they’d lived in on Aurora Lane. He’d heard they’d moved to Schultz Lake, but he knew every family who lived on the water and knew that to be a lie. Maybe they’d planned to once, but it hadn’t come to be.

He put on gloves and reached into her purse, pulling out Tracy’s lockbox. Searching around, he found her keys and the tiny one that opened the box. Inside were more keys. He wasn’t sure which one went to the cabin, so he took them all, half impressed at how many she’d made for herself. It was almost too bad she was such a waste of space because he recognized that she was a little criminal in the making, something he could appreciate.

But today was her last day on earth. So sad. Not part of his particular game, and there was no time to suck the enjoyment out of this particular death. This one was just about expediency.

With that, he pulled the gloves out of his appropriately named glove box, slipped them on, and choked the life out of her.

*

Andi sat outside Trini’s apartment, blown away by Luke’s information. She couldn’t make herself move. The news she’d just heard about Mimi had stunned her. Not pregnant. Not. Wearing a fake baby bump.

She’d been fooled. Andi had bought into Mimi’s story, hook, line, and sinker.

Luke had called her and given her the information. He’d apologized that he couldn’t give it to her in person, but he had some appointments. She’s been totally okay with hearing it over the phone. What was there to say anyway?

“Carter was right,” she said aloud, still disbelieving.

And Greg. He’d sworn she wasn’t pregnant, although Luke had suggested she might have been once, and that may have given Scott the idea to shake down the Wrens. Maybe she had been pregnant but had miscarried? But something had changed because Scott had stopped asking for DNA and wanted money for an abortion.

An abortion. Red-hot rage shot through Andi as she thought about Mimi sobbing her eyes out, all the while wearing a fake baby bump. Damn her. Damn them! She ached inside when she thought of what she’d lost, and though Mimi had possibly been pregnant in the beginning, the whole charade had been performed for her benefit.

And it hurt. A lot.

Andi thought it over some more, then climbed out of her car and paced around the parking lot a bit, before charging up the stairs to Trini’s door. She banged on it angrily, letting out her fury.

No answer.

But Trini was here. She had to be. Andi had spied Trini’s Mini in its designated spot. Parking was hell around here and sometimes Trini Ubered her way to work just to keep poachers away.

Andi frowned. Maybe she had a class now and wasn’t home. Oh God, no. Right now Andi needed a friend. Someone she could confide in. Someone to cry and scream and rage to.

She pounded on the door again, this time so hard her fist hurt. “Come on, come on,” she said under her breath, willing her friend to answer the damned door.

Could Scott Quade be behind the notes? Were they more his style than the Carreras? But why, why? Why her?

“Trini?” Andi called loudly and hit the door again. “It’s me!” Under her breath, she said, “God, I hope you’re home. Please be home.”

She’d already tried texting and calling her friend’s cell phone, but there’d been no answer. No surprise. Trini often ignored her phone for hours.

“Damn it all!” Frustrated, Andi walked to the end of the wooden landing and looked over the rail. Trini’s apartment had windows facing west and they were covered with miniblinds that were slanted downward but were partially open, offering tantalizing tiny slits of views inside, but it was hard to make out anything. Leaning over the railing, Andi squinted, peering inside Trini’s living room, but she couldn’t get a full picture. It almost looked like someone was sleeping on the couch . . . or maybe that was wishful thinking on her part.