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Chapter Twenty-Five

–––

So Dark the Night

I opened my eyes to find Dot inches away.

“Easy, doll,” she said, stroking my hair. “You’re okay.”

“What happened?” I asked. My head felt like a bunch of monkeys had been pounding the inside of it with mallets. It was like the world’s worst hangover.

“You tell me. I started to worry about how long it was taking, and then I got a weird text that said I should go find you, so we came looking. Luckily, Port carries Narcan in her purse.”

“Always,” Portia said. “Can’t be too careful these days. They’re putting goddamn fentanyl in everything.”

“I’m just so glad it worked, I wasn’t sure what was wrong with you! What the heck happened?”

I rubbed my forehead with my fingers. “Grimes got me.”

“What?” Dot whipped her head around. “Where is he?”

“Gone. And Grace went with him,” I said slowly as it gradually came back to me: Grace freezing up. The knife at my throat. And then—“She dosed me,” I said indignantly. “She could’ve killed me!”

“Nah. Syringe is almost full,” Portia said, holding it up. “She just gave you a little beauty sleep.”

She and Skeeter hovered behind Dot, appearing to enjoy this a little too much for my taste. “Help me up?” I asked, holding out a hand.

The three of them hauled me to my feet. I stood there for a few seconds, trying to regain my balance. It felt like I was standing on the deck of a ship, the alley lurching beneath me in a way I really didn’t care for.

“Focus, kiddo,” Portia said, snapping her fingers in front of my face.

“Ease up, Portia,” Dot said. “She’s had a rough go of it.”

I felt something on my back and reached around; when I drew my hand back, it came away wet. I held my bloody fingers up and stared at them, puzzled, as Dot shrieked, “Oh my God, Amber, are you hurt? Honey, let me check you!”

They all examined my lower back. “Just some scratches,” Portia announced. “Not too deep. Shouldn’t even need stitches.”

“So we’re not seeing a serial killer today?” Skeeter asked, sounding disappointed.

“Trust me, it’s a lot less fun than you’d think,” I mumbled thickly.

“Any chance you saw which way they went?” Dot asked anxiously. “Now we really should call the cops, right?”

I frowned, suddenly remembering the last thing Grace had said. Kat is lying to me. She’s working with my parents.

Could that possibly be true?

I bent over and heaved; they all jumped back.

“Goddammit!” Portia snapped. “These are Louboutins! Don’t you dare puke on them.”

“Sorry,” I gasped, hands on my knees.

Dot tentatively reached over and rubbed small circles on my back. “Poor thing. Do either of you have any water?”

Portia produced a small bottle from her purse and handed it over, an expression of distaste on her face. I gratefully rinsed out my mouth and spit. Took another few sips and tried to hand back the bottle. Portia wrinkled her nose and said, “All yours. Knock yourself out.”

“Thanks.” I slowly drank some more. I hated feeling logy like this; it was why I never did drugs. “So Grace texted you?”

“Well, I think it was her. It came from an unknown number.”

“Yup, that’s her.” My mind was slowly revving back into gear. So even though Grace had dosed me, she’d sent the others to help. Which meant maybe she’d just been trying to protect me, in her own twisted way. And now she was going to try to deal with her father on her own.

The problem was, remembering how she’d frozen, the sheer terror in her eyes? I wasn’t entirely sure she’d be able to. “You’re right, Dot,” I said. “We should call the cops. Maybe see if Lon can log it as an anonymous tip.”

“Okay. Yes, good,” Dot said. “I just hope Grace is okay.”

“Who’s Grace?” Skeeter asked.

“That hot blonde from the other day,” Portia explained. “You sure she needs your help? Seemed like she could handle herself.”

“I’m sure she thinks so. Still, looping in the cops can’t hurt.”

“We can’t let that monster get away,” Dot said decisively.

“Exactly.” While Dot stepped away to call, I leaned against the dumpster. Which was gross, but I didn’t fully trust my legs yet. As I waited, I reviewed everything again in my mind.

Especially what Grace had said about Kat. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. It was like turning around a pair of binoculars and seeing the same thing in an entirely different way. And here’s what was clear: Kat could have been waiting for me that night in the bar. Maybe she’d been following me for weeks, looking for an opportunity to introduce herself. I’d been sloppy in San Francisco—after all, I had no reason to look over my shoulder anymore. So I’d established routines, including drinking at least three nights a week in that particular watering hole. Which made it the perfect place to lay a trap custom-tailored for me: a pretty girl, crying in a bathroom stall. If I hadn’t responded, Kat could’ve tried something else—spilling a drink on me maybe. Or just coming right out and hitting on me.

The crying was genius, though, because it made me think I’d instigated the encounter. Which was precisely how a pro handled a mark. Make them work for it, and they fall every time , I heard my mother’s voice say in my head.

And I had fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker. This would explain why Kat never seemed to have cash available, why she put everything on a credit card (probably a stolen one; I’d never noticed if she alternated cards, but I would in her position). And nine times out of ten, I paid for everything.

I pictured Kat going through my stuff when I was out, trying to get the access codes for my bank accounts. Convincing me to sign on with her (fake) fancy money guy. Maybe even stealing checks. All the shit that my parents had taught me growing up. Thank God I’d transferred the money off that electronic wallet Grace had given me; otherwise, Kat might’ve gotten her hands on it months ago.

As for my parents, meeting up with us in Vegas? They’d probably grown frustrated that the con was taking such a long time. So they decided to go for one big score, with all three players working the mark.

Working me.

I wondered if Kat was even gay, or if that had been part of the act. I flashed on her kissing me, holding me…was it all just for show?

“I really thought she loved me.”

“What?” Portia asked, a vape pen paused halfway to her mouth.

“Nothing,” I mumbled. I was spinning out. It felt like the whole world had shifted when I wasn’t looking.

And then Dot gasped into the phone, “What?”

I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping that when I opened them, I’d be back in my bed—any bed, really. Ideally, one very far away from all of this. “What now?” I asked wearily.

“Okay, thanks, Lon,” Dot said faintly. Hanging up, she turned to us, eyes wide. “So I told them that Gregory Grimes was alive and had kidnapped his daughter.”

“Let me guess,” I sighed. “They didn’t believe you.”

“It’s worse than that!” Dot said, her voice pitching up an octave. “Gina was the victim at the motel.”

“Oh no.” I winced, remembering the girl sobbing in Dot’s office.

“Poor kid,” Skeeter said, crossing themselves.

“It gets worse.” Dot sounded breathless again. “An anonymous tip came in about the killer. Apparently, the caller told them that Grace Grimes bought the motel where her brother had been staying. They said there was evidence of two other murders hidden inside, women killed in Arizona and Colorado over the past couple days.” Dot drew a deep breath and said, “The cops think Grace killed them. There’s a SWAT team heading to the Buggy right now.”

———

“Holy shit. He put a target on her back,” I said slowly. “Cut off her options and made it so Grace has to leave everything behind.”

“So what do we do?” Dot asked.

“You said she texted you,” I said. “But she’s with him. Did he not take her phone?”

Dot shrugged. “Maybe not? He went to prison decades ago; he’s probably never seen a smartphone. And she’s so good with computers, I’m sure she figured something out.”

“Should we try to call her?”

“Already did,” Dot said, waving her phone. “No answer.”

“Shit.” I looked at her helplessly. “I don’t know.”

We stared at each other for a minute. I really needed to lie down and try to sort through everything. My head was still thick from the drugs, making every thought feel like it was happening in slow motion.

“Well, this has been fun and all, chickadees,” Portia finally said, sounding bored. “But I’ve got a client to punish, so unless you need me, I’m heading out.”

“I have work, too,” Skeeter said apologetically. “But I can call in sick, Dottie, if you need help? You just let me know.”

I straightened. “It’s cool. You two can go. Thanks for helping.”

“You sure?” Portia asked skeptically.

“Yeah, we got this.” I motioned with my head. “I’d really like to get out of this alley, though.”

“A-fucking-men to that,” Portia said, frowning down at her outfit. “All of this is getting dry-cleaned. I can’t risk my dungeon smelling like a White Castle dumpster.”

The four of us walked (well, for me it was more of a stagger) back to the parking garage. Portia and Skeeter got off the elevator a floor below ours. Portia offered a little wave over her shoulder as the doors were closing, calling out, “You bitches better call if it gets exciting!”

“I’m okay to drive this time, kiddo,” Dot offered as we approached the car. “You’re still looking a little green around the gills.”

“Oh, I insist,” I said, handing her the keys. I collapsed in the passenger seat and leaned against the headrest. It was taking considerable effort to keep my eyes open, but I worried that if I closed them again, I’d be out for the rest of the night.

Dot didn’t start the car right away. Staring out the windshield blankly, she finally said, “Grace is going to try to deal with him herself, isn’t she?”

I nodded. “Yeah, I think so. That’s her MO.”

“Do you think she can?” Dot asked, turning to face me.

I shook my head. “I kind of doubt it. The thing is, she had him in that alley, but she froze. I don’t know if she’ll be able to go through with it.”

“So we’ll help her,” Dot said, sounding surprisingly calm.

“Dot, no. You’re getting married. You can’t be dealing with this right now—”

Dot waved me silent. “Did you know that when my dad died, it was three days before anyone told me? He’d left me in the motel room by myself—room twelve, actually, at the Getaway. The rule was, I wasn’t allowed to leave the room alone. So every morning I’d make the bed, drink a little water, and then sit there all day, waiting for him to come home. Jessie finally heard through the grapevine that he’d passed and came to check on me. I was starving by then.”

“Oh, Dot,” I said, laying a hand on her arm. Jessie had told me that Dot’s dad was a gambler who drank himself to death, but she’d left out this part. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yes, well.” Dot blinked, as if forcing back tears. “I was eight years old. And you know what that taught me?”

“What?” I asked.

“That you can’t get through life without help. The key is more people, not less. You need to build yourself a net of folks who will come running if you’re in trouble.”

“It’s funny,” I said. “I kind of think that now, too, thanks to you.”

“That’s sweet, kiddo.” Dot managed a wan smile. “Now, the thing about our Grace is that she’s still sitting on that bed, waiting for someone. She doesn’t think she has a net because she lived without one for so long. But she’s wrong. She has us. And we’re going to save her.”

I stared at her. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. After all, she’s basically family, right?” Dot put her hand on top of mine and squeezed. “So let’s go get our girl, okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “You’re right.”

“So where to?” Dot asked, starting the ignition.

I didn’t have a clue. But I did know Dot was right—whatever we came up with, we’d need help.

And I had a score to settle.

“Back to the Mayhem,” I said decisively. “Tell Marcella to meet us there, if she’s up for it.”

“She will be,” Dot said.

“It’s cool if she’s not. I know she’s never been a huge fan of Grace.”

“But she’s a fan of us, and that should be enough. Should I rally the rest of the Fatal Femmes, too?” Dot asked, backing out of the space.

“Definitely.” The seeds of a plan were starting to take shape in my mind. “We’re going to need everyone.”

Dot nodded briskly. “Okay, then. Let’s go assemble our net.”

———

“Tell me again why we’re doing this?” Marcella asked.

“Because Grace needs us, and she’s our friend,” Dot said. Off Marcella’s look, she amended, “Well, my friend. And her dad killed Gina, so if nothing else, you should be raring for some payback.”

“I’d love payback, but I also don’t want to end up dead.” Marcella leaned against the desk in Dot’s back office at the Mayhem. We’d spent the past ten minutes explaining the plan I’d come up with, and she was turning out to be a far more skeptical audience than Dot. She must have showered right before coming over because her curls were still damp and she wasn’t wearing any makeup.

I, on the other hand, was exuding a very pungent “eau de dumpster.”

“Seriously,” Marcella said, making a waving motion with her hand. “Take another step back. You reek so bad it’s making my eyes burn.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “I would’ve changed, but the woman who pretended to be my girlfriend while helping my parents con me is probably still in my room.”

Marcella said, “Wait, what?”

“Oh, honey, is that true?” Dot exclaimed.

“Right,” I said, rubbing my forehead with one hand. “I must’ve forgotten to mention that. Grace told me, right before she pumped me full of downers. Although I kind of already knew. Just hadn’t been able to admit it to myself.” Looking back, it was so obvious. The way Kat had come up with that scavenger hunt story in the cab. Pushing me to invest with her mysterious “money manager.” Even the small gifts, like the (probably fake) Rolex, stuff that would sell me on her rich-girl backstory—classic con move. And I’d fallen for it.

“That bitch,” Marcella said, pushing off the desk. “I knew there was something off about her. I’ll go kick her out right now.”

“It’s okay,” I said, holding up a hand. “I’ll handle Kat later. Right now I’m more worried about Grace.”

“You really think Grimes would hurt his own kid?” Dot asked.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. But Grace told me her mom turned him in, and she hasn’t had contact with him since she was ten, so he might not be feeling particularly familial.”

“His own wife turned him in? That’s pretty boss,” Marcella said.

“Yeah, it is,” I said slowly. Something had occurred to me that might help the plan, but I wanted to turn it over in my mind before sharing it.

“You sure Grace even wants our help?” Marcella said skeptically. “I mean, isn’t this kind of her thing?”

“We’re her net,” Dot said, crossing her arms.

“Her what?”

“Her safety net, basically,” I explained. “You’re right, Grace probably thinks she can handle this herself. But I’m not so sure. I think family is her blind spot.”

“Ain’t that true for everybody?” Dot nodded.

Marcella bit her lip. “Just how dangerous is this guy? Because his son was fucking terrifying.”

“I hate to say it, but Gregory Grimes might be worse,” Dot replied hesitantly.

I threw Dot a look; maybe it wasn’t the best idea to share all the gory details? I for one wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to hear them.

“Anyone who helps should know,” Dot said decisively, meeting my eyes. “That’s only fair, right?”

“Right,” I reluctantly agreed.

“Okay, then. They called him ‘gruesome’ for a reason. Grimes was a medical supplies salesman, so he spent a good chunk of the year on the road. He would capture a woman—usually a sex worker—”

“Of course,” Marcella snorted. “Asshole.”

“And then he’d keep them wherever he was staying. One young woman was saved by firefighters when the cabin Grimes was using had an electrical fire.”

“I didn’t know there were any survivors,” I said, surprised.

“Probably because there weren’t, really,” Dot said grimly. “Poor thing had been kept in that bathtub for weeks. Every night he’d come back and, well…”

“Well, what?” I finally asked, feeling pretty damn sure I didn’t want to hear the answer. If I was going up against this monster, though, I should probably know as much as possible about him.

“Why is it always a bathtub?” Marcella muttered.

I threw her an empathetic look as Dot continued. “When they rescued her, they said she barely looked human anymore. Her ears, eyeballs, fingers…most of her, really, had been carved off. Grimes was keeping the parts in the freezer. He’d cauterize the wounds and keep her packed in ice with IV fluids while he went to work. She ended up killing herself shortly after being saved. Just didn’t want to go on like that.”

“Jesus,” Marcella breathed. “That is some fucked-up shit.”

I swallowed hard. “I’m guessing I don’t want to know why he was keeping her body parts in the freezer?”

Dot shook her head vigorously. “You really don’t. The worst part is, she was the only one they found, so they didn’t even realize he was a serial killer. Not until the FBI got that tip—from Grace’s mom, apparently—about the bodies in their backyard. I guess Grimes would bring home whatever was left of those poor girls, then bury them.”

We sat there for a minute, processing. “Well. That’s fucking terrifying,” I finally said. My stomach lurched again as I remembered his breath hot on my neck. I swallowed hard against the bile rising up my throat.

“So why don’t we just let Grace handle this?” Marcella said dubiously. “I mean, no offense, but he sounds pretty fucking dangerous.”

“Tough to handle things as his prisoner,” I said.

“And we can’t bet on her being able to get away. I’m not just gonna stand by and let her take all the risk,” Dot said firmly. “Wouldn’t be able to live with myself, to tell the truth.”

“Me either,” I agreed. “Besides, when else am I going to have the opportunity to execute one of my brilliant plans?”

“You two are nuts, you know that?” Marcella sighed.

“You want to sit this one out, we can make it work,” I said.

“And miss all the fun? Screw that.” Marcella squared her shoulders.

“Good girl,” Dot said, giving her a quick squeeze. “Now I gotta start making calls to set everything up. I’ve got the perfect spot in mind, and the owner owes me a favor.”

I held up my wallet, offering it to her. “Anything you need, put it on my card, okay?”

“You got it, kiddo,” Dot said, taking the wallet before going out to the reception area.

Which left me and Marcella. I cleared my throat and said, “This is turning out to be a hell of a bridal week, huh?”

Marcella shrugged. “I’ve seen worse.”

I laughed. “I call bullshit on that. But let’s make sure this murderous bastard doesn’t ruin Dot’s wedding. Yeah?”

“Damn straight,” Marcella said. “But just so we’re clear, this is the last time I help catch a murdering fuckhead.”

“Never say never,” I joked weakly. Seeing her expression, I asked, “What?”

She shook her head. “About what I said earlier…it came out wrong.”

“It’s cool,” I said. “I figured you didn’t mean it.”

“Oh, I meant it,” she corrected. “I know it’s not your fault, Amber, but I can’t stop thinking that you attract this shit.”

I opened my mouth to retort, but she wasn’t wrong. So instead I shrugged. “I get it. I’m starting to think that, too.”

We were standing in silence when Dot swept back into the room, looking much perkier. “All set! I got the perfect setup—you’re gonna love it.”

“That’s great, Dot,” I said, struggling to insert enthusiasm into my voice.

“Lots to do, though.” She bit her lip. “I better get my clipboard. We’re going to meet there in an hour.”

I checked the clock. “You think we’ll have enough time?”

“Might have to pull an all-nighter, but we’ll make it happen.” Dot handed me a key. “Go get cleaned up in my place.”

“That’s okay,” I said, deciding something. “I’ll go back to my room.”

“You sure?” Marcella said.

“Yeah, hon. Might not be the best time to deal with those a-holes,” Dot said with concern.

“It’s actually the perfect time,” I said resolutely. “Because those a-holes are going to help us.”