Page 154 of Pleasure & Prey: Vol. 2

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Seeing Esme’s face, I can’t help but wonder if this is the worst day of her life. Sure, Alan’s death might be a close second, but apparently she was under the impression that no one would come sniffing around. Which, to me, feels a bit naive.

Someone was always going to come ask questions.

“Alan’s missing?” I slip into the persona I learned at the hospital so many years ago, when I had to learn to seem like a normal person in order to get privileges like outside time and group therapy, instead of staring at my therapist one on one while she talked me through the worst times of my life. “Holy shit. I thought he was just on a work binge again.” Easily, I cross the room and sit down on the sofa next to Esme, keeping myself perched on the end of it though not to seem like I’m ill at ease.

I want him to feel like I’m checked in and concerned. I want him to see that my concern is for Alan. Not because of him. “I’m Tova Morwen,” I greet, putting my hand out to shake Flanagan’s as he holds it out to me. Coldness seeps through my fingers at the touch of his calloused fingers, and it’s hard not to sneer a little, but recover quickly.

I hate having to mask, even though I’ve put in a lot of hours to perfect it.

“I’m not actually a detective,” Flanagan informs me with a bit of a grimace-like smile. “I’m just a private investigator Alan’s mother hired.” His tone is meant to be disarming, and his smile friendly. He’s trying to wear down the barrier of us thinking he’s law enforcement, probably so we’ll talk to him in a less guarded way than we would otherwise.

It’s cute.

It’s obvious.

And fuck, it’s going to work on Esme. Her shoulders slump and she glances at me, then back at him. “Alan and I aren’t doing so well,” she admits, and I could choke her for the comment. “I haven’t seen him in a few days. I haven’t heard from him at all, actually. But I just thought he was taking some time for himself.” I can already tell she’s going to be an over-sharer, and everything about her posture makes it obvious she’s nervous for all the wrong reasons.

God. How is this the partner in crime I got stuck with? I don’t feel bad for what I did to Alan, but I’ll be pissed as fuck if killing him sends me to prison.

“I figured that was why he hadn’t been here too.” I shrug like it’s not that uncommon for this to happen. “So he hasn’t been in touch with his parents?”

Flanagan jots down a few notes, shaking his head as he does. “No ma’am. His mom said he missed family dinner, and no one has been able to get a hold of him for the last four days. It’s weird for him, they say. He never misses his mom’s birthday.”

Naturally I killed him close to some fucking family holiday he was supposed to show up for. God forbid it couldn’t have been at a time when they wouldn’t have noticed his absence. That feels like my luck, and memories try to push into my brain from other times, from other places.

From other murders I committed.

My fingers tap on my knee as Flanagan talks, outlining his last known whereabouts, giving a few platitudes I don’t believe and theories I know aren’t real. His disarming tactics are getting old, and I watch him blandly, wishing he’d get to the root of the problem to ask us what he really wants to know.

After all, he’s not just here to tell us Alan is missing.

“So I was looking at his phone records…and it seems he called you quite a few times the day he was missing,” Flanagan says carefully. He watches Esme more than me, and I try not to look like I’m watching her too. I can’t look suspicious or worried. But I cast her a concerned glance, trying to just play at being the caring, supportive best friend.

“I was ignoring him,” she says, smartly deciding to tell him at least a portion of the truth. “We really got into it after work, and I couldn’t deal with him. I told him to leave me alone for a few days. Like I said—” She gives a nervous sound that could be mistaken for concern. “I figured that’s what this was. We’ve gone through phases like this before.”

Flanagan nods as he writes, scrawling his notes and without seeming like he actually gives a damn about what she’s saying. I catch sight of a few words, though most of them aren’t legible from this far away, and the cold in my fingers only gets worse.

Nervous.

Shaky.

Suspicious.

Check coworkers.

He doesn’t believe her, even though he’s pretending to put on a sympathetic face. He talks to her a little longer, barely asking me anything, and I notice quietly that he tries to trip her up more than once.

This is probably something she and I should’ve gone over, I sigh internally with a touch of regret. But she does better than I expect, and doesn’t let him run her in circles with his questions. Finally, he gets to his feet, slapping his hands on his thighs. “Well. That’s all I have for you. But I’m sure I’ll have more questions,” he assures Esme.

We both get up as well, following him to the door, which he opens without a word. “Oh…” He stops, turning to look thoughtfully between us. “Maybe next time I stop by, we can talk about last year? I heard about the birthday incident. Seems you haven’t always been so nice to him yourself, have you, Esme?”

Esme’s face goes pale. I grab her hand and decide that this has gone on long enough. Even if it makes him question me more than I’d like him to, I’d rather that than for her to blurt out something she shouldn’t. “I’m sorry, but that’s an inappropriate thing to bring up right now.” Stepping up in front of Esme, I wrench the door further open. “You really think that’ll help? To talk about some incident they’ve both moved on from?”

Not that I’ve moved on from Alan cheating on my roommate, then going to the police when she threw him out and accidentally hit him with the door hard enough to bruise.

Frankly, I think he never should’ve been able to come back here.