Читать книгу Red Blooded Murder - Laura Caldwell, Leslie S. Klinger - Страница 20

I put my hands behind my back and looked down at the scarf. “Do you always keep it in this box?”

“No, I have it hanging inside my closet door with my other scarves. I mean, it’s become my thing, right? And I’m supposed to wear it on Monday when the station launches. But it’s not like it’s some precious fabric. I just toss it in my closet with the rest of my stuff.”

“But you came home and it was here, in this box?”

“Yeah. I was so freaked by the flowers that I came running up here, and this was sitting on the bench. And inside the scarf was tied like that.” She dropped the box back on the bench. The scarf flew out and landed softly on the wood floor. “Who would do that?” Her voice was full of pain and panic.

I stared at the scarf. “Do you tie it like that when you hang it up?”

“No! I just hang my scarves over a peg.” She was talking faster, her tone more anxious now. “And look at it. I mean, I’m not crazy, right? That’s a noose.”

There was no mistaking the hangman’s knot, tied under a seven-inch loop, just big enough for someone to put their head through. “You’re not crazy. But I’ve got to ask again, could it be Zac? You said he was angry. Maybe he’s really angry.”

With one hand, Jane nervously tugged her ponytail with her fingers. She reminded me again of a young girl, a scared girl. “I just can’t imagine Zac would do this. Why not just tell me to stop it or he’ll leave me?”

“Has he ever said that?”

“No. He’s said he could never give me up, no matter what I’ve done.”

We both stared at the noose. The scarf was made of a shiny deep red silk. I’d always thought of Jane’s scarf as competent, in-charge, bold. Now, it seemed sinister.

Her eyes cut to my own. The mauve-blue of her irises seemed to stand out against the pale of her skin. “I can’t believe this.” Her look bordered on terror. Fear emanated from her, cutting into the room, filling it, so that everything seemed to hum with intensity. “There’s something else.”

“What?”

She looked at the scarf again. She gave a little moan. “I don’t know how to say this. I mean, I don’t talk about this with my friends. And the truth is I think I need a lawyer right now as much as I need a friend. Can you be my lawyer?”

“You want me to tell you I won’t tell anyone? That whatever you tell me is private?”

She nodded.

“Jane, that’s true whether I’m your lawyer or your friend. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll put my lawyer hat on. Say anything.”

Jane breathed out hard. “I have this thing I like to do. Sexually. It’s … well … have you heard of scarfing?”

I shook my head no.

“Sometimes it’s called erotic asphyxiation.”

I remembered hearing something on the news. “It’s like self-strangulation during masturbation? Something about intensifying the experience?”

She nodded, her eyes on mine, looking for the judgment she seemed sure would come.

I kept a bland expression on my face. “So it’s something you like to do?”

“Not on my own. I do it with other people. You’re basically choking someone. Gently. It could be with a scarf or with your hands, and you don’t do it to the point of them passing out, or even close. You just do it a little, and believe me, it makes it incredibly powerful.”

“You do it to other people or you have them do it to you?” I felt like a complete sexual neophyte.

“Both.” Jane slumped farther against the bed, her arms crossed in front of her chest. “Usually I have them do it to me.”

I said nothing.

“You’ve never done anything like that?” she asked.

I almost laughed. I thought I’d tried just about every position, and I thought that had made me sexually progressive. “I’m not even sure I get it, Jane. Is it dangerous?”

She blew out a puff of air. “If you’re stupid about it, yes, or if you’re with someone you can’t trust, but it’s safe when you do it right.”

“And what happens?”

“It cuts off some of the blood flow to the brain, and you have these intense …”

“Orgasms.” At least I had one word to contribute to the conversation.

“Amazing. Like you’ve never had before.” She exhaled. Her gaze slid to the scarf on the floor, a red ring, like a circle of blood. “But you want to know something? I don’t think I figured this out until right now, but the scarf thing? I think it’s something I like to do because it’s punishing. Don’t get me wrong. I do love sex and the asphyxiation thing does get me going. But it’s also like I’m taking a penalty for cheating.”

We stared at each other.

“Boy, I’m messed up,” she said.

“You could probably use a little therapy.”

We both broke into nervous laughter that seemed to make the room lighter. But then our eyes fell again on that red noose.

“How many people have you done that with?” I vaguely pointed to it.

She shrugged. “More than a few.”

A shrill bleat cut through the air, making both Jane and me jump.

“Jesus,” she said, a hand on her chest. “It’s my cell.” She scampered in her bare feet to the nightstand, where she looked at the display on the phone. “Zac.” She sounded nervous. She threw a look at me over her shoulder, and I saw that fear again.

She answered. “Hey, hon,” she said. “Yeah, I’m all right. What happened? Well, we had a break-in. Sort of. No, nothing was taken. Not a thing. Whoever it was left something.” She quickly told him the story, leaving nothing out. She really did tell Zac everything. “Okay,” Jane said, “I’ll see you soon.” She turned around with a sigh. “He’s coming home. He’ll be here in an hour and a half.”

“We’ll stay until he gets here.”

She smiled, and it made her face light up. “Thanks,” she said simply.

I hugged her. I could think of little else to do to make her feel better, to feel safe.

“Please don’t tell Sam,” she said, her words muffled by my shoulder. “You know, about the scarf thing.”

“I told you, I won’t say anything to anyone.”

We pulled apart and went downstairs. Sam was standing by the unlit fireplace. He and Charlie were talking about rugby, but I could tell by the way Sam looked at me—eyebrows expectantly up, asking a silent, Are we ready to go?—that he’d had enough family and friends for the night.

I gave him an apologetic look. “If it’s okay, we’re going to stay until Jane’s husband gets home. They had a break-in.”

“Are you serious?” Sam looked alarmed. His arms tensed. He had a bulldog’s way of wanting to protect people that I’d always adored.

“It’s okay,” Jane said. “It wasn’t like a robbery. In fact, they didn’t even really break in. Someone came in the house using a key, as far as I can tell, and they left some flowers and … well, a gift.”

Sam’s face registered confusion. He frowned at me. There was more to the story, and he knew it. And I knew that he knew it. And yet here I was doing the same thing to him as he’d done to me—promising someone I wouldn’t tell anyone about a secret. And keeping that promise. All of a sudden, I felt both closer to Sam, and yet more distant, than ever before.

Jane brought glasses of water for us into the living room. We all sat on her couches for an hour, during which Charlie, who was oblivious to even a hint of social awkwardness, quizzed Jane about her broadcasting career, as if he were meeting her at a local pub.

Jane answered him openly, laughing at stories she must have told a thousand times, but seeming to enjoy them just the same. It reminded me of when I’d seen her with fans at the restaurant—Jane honestly appreciated the attention people gave her.

At 11:30 p.m., we heard a door opening at the back of the house. Jane flinched at the sound. Then said, simply, “Zac.”

Aside from the phone call the other day, I’d never met Zac Ellis before. But I’d seen recent spreads on him and his work in the New York Times and Michigan Avenue magazine.

He came into the living room. He was a short man, definitely shorter than Jane, with wavy, light brown hair. And he was sexy. You could see that from across the room. He wore gray jeans and a leather jacket that probably cost thousands, but was somehow beat-up and tough-looking on him.

“Hi.” He threw a glance at us before turning to Jane. “You okay?”

“I am now that you’re home.” Jane introduced us.

He shook our hands, but in a terse way. He glanced at Jane. “Can I talk to you in the kitchen?” He left.

“Be right back.” Jane followed after him.

I looked at Charlie and Sam. “Sorry about this, guys.”

Sam picked up my hand and rubbed it. “Don’t be. You had to be here for your friend.”

We sat in silence for a while, the only sound the ticking of the mantel clock which looked like a miniature grandfather clock.

When ten minutes had gone by, I stood. “I’m going to tell Jane we’re leaving.”

I walked to the kitchen, but stopped when I reached a pair of pocket doors that were closed most of the way. Through the six-inch crack I saw Jane and Zac standing close together. Her back was to the countertop on the left side of the room. With a wide-legged stance, he stood in front of her. She had her arms crossed, her head bowed. Her face looked splotched, as if she’d been crying, but now it was expressionless, almost devoid of emotion.

I must have made a sound, because both of them looked at me.

“Sorry,” I said. “Sorry, I was just coming to tell you—”

Zac stormed to the pocket doors and pushed them open.

Surprised, I backed up. He strode past me, the leather of his coat brushing me, and marched into the living room.

He looked at Charlie and Sam, then over his shoulder at me as I trailed after him. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “I appreciate you being here for Jane. But it’s time for you to leave.”