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As soon as he closes the door, I glance over at number 11 and try not to shudder. Its permanent resident is a woman named Relaney, whom I avoid. Not because she describes herself as a spiritualist, but because I’m sure she’s running a cult.
Am I really that desperate?
I think of the frequent police raids with officers marching out unsavory-looking men. Or the strange chanting that wafts through my windows if I leave them open at night. When I call Myra, it goes straight to voicemail, so I leave a message. Maybe it’s time to risk calling Mom?
My gaze darts back to the car. Yep, the body is still there. I enter my house, making sure to keep my back against the door. If anything jumps out from the shadows, I’ll return to that sexy priest.
I know better than to dial Mom’s cell phone. She’s so sick of hearing from me that she lets two-thirds of my calls run to voicemail. Instead, I call the house.
“Who is it?” she asks, her voice thick with sleep.
“Mom?” I rasp.
“Amethyst, what’s wrong now?” she replies with a sigh.
I swallow hard, already cringing at the rejection. “Can I stay at yours tonight?”
“Is this about the man you attacked? Because you told me he was still alive.”
My gaze drops to my feet. Mom was the first person I called after I stabbed Jake. When Myra’s sister told the police about Mr. Lawson, Mom blamed me for running my mouth and allowing myself to get caught. She made me feel like I deserved to be abused, then she said the next time I killed or maimed a man, I should call her.
She was being sarcastic, but the message stuck. Instead of calling for an ambulance, I called Mom. She freaked out, and I backtracked, saying I’d stabbed his shoulder, not his neck, and he’d just fainted.
I know, I know. Lame.
“That guy left last night and even apologized,” I lie.
“Then what do you want?” Her voice tightens with impatience.
“I’m hallucinating, and I don’t have enough money to call a cab. Can you or Dad pick me up?”
“Your Uncle Clive is here. I can’t deal with yet another person’s mental illness.”
“But I think I’m being stalked?—”
“Amethyst,” she snaps. “My blood pressure won’t stop rising. Don’t come. One more word about strange men in that house, and I’ll send you to an institution. You’re not a victim if you’re off your meds. I can’t cope with your antics. I’ve had enough.”
“Mom, I’m serious. I think I need help.” When she doesn’t respond, I ask, “Mom?”
The phone goes dead.
Maybe it’s time to call the police.
ELEVEN
Alderney State Penitentiary,
Dear Amethyst,
I gasped at the photo of you in the black negligée and groaned when you posed for me on the bed.
Thank you for confirming receipt of the phone. The prison is surrounded by cell phone jammers, but the man in the cell next to mine assured me there’s a dead zone. Tomorrow, when they let me out for exercise, I’ll be sure to forward you a photo.
I didn’t get any sexual satisfaction from killing, but I have also fantasized about somnophilia.
The thought of watching over you at your most vulnerable sets my blood aflame. You would be my perfect sleeping beauty, and I would be your dark prince. I would sweep the hair off your face and kiss the beauty mark on your cheekbone before sliding my lips down to your throat.
Would you like that, my beautiful little jewel?
