Page 4 of Kiss of Deceit

I hesitated in front of the closed door before knocking softly. Maybe my roommate was already here. When there was only silence, I tried opening the door to find it was locked. Maybe whoever was here didn’t feel like socializing either. That would work perfectly for me. I trudged into the other bedroom and closed the door behind me.

A mirror hung on the wall next to the dresser, and I stared at my reflection, realizing I looked as exhausted as I felt. My straight, dark brown hair that fell a few inches past my shouldersneeded to be washed. All that traveling had me feeling slimy and gross. My brown eyes were dull, my spark absent like it had been since I was eighteen. The small scar I had on my chin was barely visible, and I ran my fingers over the slightly raised skin, glad that my hair covered the scars on the back of my neck. Even if I was going to be here for a year, I had no intention of telling anyone about my past. I fell onto the bed, staring at the white ceiling, watching the fan slowly spin in circles.

“Home sweet home,” I muttered before closing my eyes and falling into a light sleep.

CHAPTER THREE

dani

This pitcherof soda wasn’t going to do it. I was on edge and needed an actual drink to help me relax. We were at the bar called Last Call, and it had only been an hour since I walked through the door, but I was already itching to leave. Miles had ordered a pitcher for the table, and since I was burning through the last of my money, I accepted the drink since I watched the bartender pour it. The poor woman behind the bar was working hard with all these new people here.

The place was packed and buzzing with tension. Most of the tables were full of interns like me while the barstools were filled with what I guessed were regulars. They were all sneaking glances at us, their features a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. With how small this place was, I knew people would notice us immediately, but I wasn’t enjoying their outright stares.

“What about you, Dani?” Miles asked, dragging me back into the conversation at the table. “What’s your story?”

The other two guys and three women at the table were staring at me expectantly, with curious smiles. Even though they’d all introduced themselves when I’d gotten here, I couldn’tremember any of their names. Blame it on exhaustion or nerves, but my brain wasn’t retaining anything which was the complete opposite of how I usually was. Everyone had been talking about their past and how they ended up here.

“I needed to pay off my student loans,” I said, plastering a polite smile on my face. “A year of living here seems worth it.”

“I think we can all agree on that,” the red head woman said with a laugh, clearly trying to break me out of my shell. “What did you major in?”

“Forensic psychology,” I answered, knowing there was no point in hiding it. This was the kind of place where it would only take days for everyone to learn about the others.

Miles raised an eyebrow. “PhD?”

I shook my head. “I have my Bachelors and Masters. Still enough to do the work I want. But I’ll be going back for my PhD someday.”

The redheaded woman gazed at me with new appreciation. “So, you’re like a profiler?”

“Kind of,” I said, bouncing my foot against the wooden floor. “I help law enforcement with interrogations and do psychological assessments on suspects or people who have already committed crimes.”

“I’m surprised they need someone like you here,” Miles piped up. “This town is so small. I doubt there’s violent crime here.”

I didn’t respond even though I had been thinking the same thing when the offer came. It didn’t matter to me either way. I could spend the next year doing paperwork, and it would still be worth it. I took another sip of soda, my stomach twisting when Miles asked his next question.

“Where’d you go to school?”

I swallowed through the lump in my throat. “New York.”

“Is that where you’re from?” Miles asked, not hiding that he was pressing for more information about me.

“Yes,” I lied smoothly, having no intention of telling them my home city.

“What made you choose that career?” the redhead asked.

“It’s the only thing that interests me.”

My answer came out automatically because it was the only thing I said whenever I was asked that question. What else was I supposed to say? That I was the only survivor of the Sorority Killing that made national news? That the man who thought he’d killed me plagued my sleep ever since that night? And one of the questions that played on repeat in my head was why. Why would people kill for pleasure?

It was the entire reason I chose to become a forensic psychologist. I became obsessed with understanding the minds of the killers, and I still was. Because the men who wrecked my innocence were never arrested. The case was still open, and everything I’d worked toward was to find them. It was torture to lay in my bed every night, wondering if they were going to come and finish the job.

The amount of attention I received after it happened was unbearable. I was getting calls daily, and there were press camped in front of my parents’ house. My face had been splashed across the news and online all over the country. The first year or two I’d hidden away, staying out of the public eye as much as possible. My parents got me into therapy and did everything they could to help.

I legally changed my last name, dyed my hair, and forced myself to go back into society. I moved out of state, and started college, taking on a huge class load so I could catch up on the time I’d missed. The attention I got nearly sent me back into hiding, but as the years went on, it got easier to blend in. People never forgot what happened, but when the case went cold, everyone found other things to focus on, and I was thankful the attention wasn’t on me anymore.

I’d worked for the last decade to find the men who made my life a personal hell.

“Profile me,” Miles said, pulling me from my thoughts. I glanced at him, and he shot me a smile. “I haven’t told my story yet. Can you figure me out?”