Page 6

Chapter three

I wake up not quite sure of where I am, and certainly not somewhere I ever expected to be.

Dirk's nose tickles the skin on the back of my neck, long body curled around me with his muscular legs pushing up against the backs of mine, his forearm resting along my side. Dim sounds of traffic from far below are a soft hum.

Oh dear.

From the light glowing through the open blinds, it’s mid-morning at least, and I've somehow slept through the night and more. I haven’t managed that since giving up the bottle. And as my eyes drift closed, I realise I could easily slide back away, seemingly at the height of comfort. His sheets are white and clean, the room minimalist, everything hidden behind the mirrored sliding doors of a wall-to-wall cupboard. I blink to see us reflected there, his pale arm draped over me, hair half over his face, black lashes closed, peeking out over the top of my own reflection.

Silently, carefully, I slide out from beneath his arm and off the bed, stepping back into the open living room to find the bathroom. As I pass the ruffled couch, I remember more vividly what took us there.

The trick, after I’ve used the bathroom, is to remember where my clothes are. Ah yes, the kitchen. The only thing I can't find is my shirt, and that takes me back into the bedroom. I'm tiptoeing, afraid to wake him, to see a look in his eye like I shouldn’t be here, to know I’m now relegated to the emotionless void of the women I always half-pitied for the hope they held out of something more.

I can't, won't be that to him.

I find my singlet half under the side of the bed, and when I stand up, looking down at Dirk, I pause to take him in. So peaceful, brow smooth, face turned slightly into the pillow, a me-sized space in front of him where his hand still rests, turned up slightly. That’s when I see his forearm for the first time since the attack, the underside where the skin is smooth and vulnerable.

Small red lines, the starts of scars, crisscross randomly up, one ragged one even cutting across the seam of his elbow. They continue above that, to the tender skin of his armpit, even crossing to the side of his pec. The blanket, pulled against his chest, obscures anything more. I don’t know how far across they go, how many. But from what I can see of his forearm, there must be dozens.

A sharp stab of nausea sways me. She did that, bleeding him like that. Scars he'll have forever now.

His other arm is hidden under the pillow, but I know it'll be the same. I remember the blood coursing down his arms. I knew this had been done, and yet I'd pushed that detail away, hidden under the long sleeves he's been wearing since, and by darkness between.

Reaching out, I lightly touch the one on his wrist. I want so badly to make it disappear, to take what happened to him away. My fingertip barely brushes the pink ridge before his sharp intake of breath snaps my hand back, and Dirk is awake, looking up at me. His eyes take me in, dressed, mostly at least, and he runs a hand back over his hair, glancing towards the blinds.

"I was just…" I start.

"Leaving?" Dirk asks, voice hoarse with sleep as he pushes himself right, pulling the blanket against his chest as he does.

Was I? I suppose. I didn't mean to stay in the first place. I open my mouth to formulate some response, when a sudden ringing intrudes.

Sitting up now, Dirk squints at me as I pull the pager out of my back pocket. "You brought your pager?"

I want to ask him where his is, but then I'm taking in the read-out.

"Cocooner," I say. "There's a new body."

***

The two-week sunny respite of late autumn has turned early into a cold, sludgy winter with an overnight frost, somehow colder and brighter out in Crennik. This particular part of the row had been a residential suburb, caught too close to the explosion that poisoned the whole industrial zone thirty years ago.

We pass old houses, the wood dark and rotted, what ice has yet to melt off them brown and stained-looking. The roads are cracked, making my car bump as we turn into the carpark of what used to be a small shopping complex. The windows are smashed, the posters in them blackened and shrivelled but still leaving the occasional spot untouched—half a white-toothed smile, the tip of a glossy boot.

The washing machines are still stacked in the laundromat, and the dryers too with their hatches open into rusty darkness, looking a little like escape hatches out of a spaceship. The cement floor is littered with long-caked powder, now coffee-coloured, and more recent squatters’ rubbish.

The forensics team mill about, tracking from an interior which is somehow even colder than the car park where the sirens are flashing but silent.

He's in one of the plastic chairs, a crack in the brittle leg making the whole thing lean into the wall that props it up. Bundled, wrapped up like a pristine mummy, the body reminds me of the old men who sit reading the newspaper by the entrance of their business, and I wonder if that’s on purpose, some kind of ‘lifestyle’ take on this needless death.

Dirk steps in beside me, the shadows under his eyes seeming to deepen as he takes in the scene. I tried to question, in the car, whether he should come, but he stonewalled my concerns, and the drive here has been silent.

It’s not unusual for us to arrive at crime scenes together, one picking the other up, but this time, as we step among the others already here, I can't help but feel self-conscious. Like it’s written all over us that this time we were already together. But of course, it isn't, and Tawill steps up to us with a long look for Dirk. "Officer Lancaster. Should you be here?"

"I'm fine," he says tightly. Staring at him a moment longer, Tawill shrugs and appears to take him at his word.

Dean and Howie are already here, talking up at the other end of the laundromat, out of the way of the forensic team. Dean sees us, and without preamble, says, "It’s off. A chair? That’s not how Cocooner leaves her vics."

Howie mumbles, "Changed once, changed again."

"That was a copycat, not a change of the same person," Dean insists, and I get the feeling this argument has been going on for most of the morning.

"So, this is a copycat of a copycat?" Howie asks, sounding unconvinced.

"It is unusual," I put in, glancing around. I hadn't made a mental note of it before, but there’s plaster clumsily smeared on the chair, the walls, and even back here, it’s drying in smudges on the hatches, like a careless brush or slip, uncleaned. "Sloppy, usually she's not."

"Could have been rushed. Rattled, from last time." Howie glances at Dirk, but he pretends not to notice.

There's a bootprint in the plaster nearer the body. I tilt my head, using my torch beam as a pointer device, though it’s quite bright in here. Already the print has been framed by little yellow markers. "Bit big for a woman?"

"Could be wearing men’s boots. Wouldn't be the first woman to do that."

Dirk speaks. "But when we already know that she's a woman, and even know her name? Why bother?"

Howie opens his mouth, but Dean jumps in, uncharacteristically irritated, "Why are you being so stubborn about this? This is clearly not her! It’s another copycat."

Howie's jaw works. His words are almost too soft. "Because there can't be another one. There can't be more ."

None of us has a response, and Dean's face falls. I can see him regretting raising his voice. We all know that Howie retires this year, and he's been on the Cocooner case for the better part of ten. I can't imagine a whole career, a lifetime, of this . But then, won’t that be my future?

A siren bleeps, and we look up to where a cordon has been hastily set up between the entrance and the black media cars just arrived.

I sigh, rubbing my forehead. "Okay, I'll go distract them." I look at Dirk. "Go with Dean and Howie. Their car is closer."

He nods, briefly making eye contact, and my heart does a little flip. There's so much we need to say to each other, so much we need to resolve.

Cold nipping at my bare hands, I hurry for my car. The air only seems to have gotten colder since we arrived.

Their questions are immediate and relentless. Is the crime scene Cocooner’s? Or a new one? Can you share what you saw? Are you working with Needler on the case? With Cocooner getting away with her crimes, do you think it will encourage others? I ignore most of their questions, stopping outside my car with them gathered around me, and the answers I do give are too vague to be of use to them.

"Is your partner here, still on the case of the killer who attacked him?"

Between their heads, I see Dirk and the others slip into Dean's car.

"No, he's not here."

***

Tristan watches me as I walk into his cell.

"Was it Cassandra?" he asks.

I blink at him.

He’s been moved since our last interview. To the precinct’s one-and-only private cell. It has three real, white walls, even a small window up high, too small to squeeze out of. A fourth wall of bullet-proof glass divides the cell from where I stand, on the free side.

Hoping to hide my reaction, I turn away and take a seat in the only chair on this side of the glass. On his side, the square room is nearly bare, just a single bed and a small desk with a plastic chair, and a sink on the other side. A small curtained corner has, I assume, bathroom facilities.

Tristan himself seems none the worse for this, his shadow of a beard grown out to a golden dusting on his face, his hands uncuffed. He's turned the orange jumpsuit down over his hips, revealing the pristine white shirt underneath.

Once I've taken a seat, I look up at him where he stands, head tilted, on the other side of the glass. The citizens of Tregam have created their own idea of what he looks like now, based on old pictures of Tristan and the descriptions given by his victims. They’re fairly accurate, though not quite exact. I’ve seen sketches and even a painting, blown up huge on their banners. Along with a few suggestive ideas scrawled around those likenesses. Now the Needler is not only a twisted hero, but a hot twisted hero. Even more worth protesting for. I wonder how he'd react to know how the ladies of Tregam are regarding him.

If he’d been ugly, misshapen or creepy-looking like most killers, we’d happily hand out his image, but that’s not the case, so the best we can do is leave it alone.

I straighten my jacket. "Why do you ask that?"

"I can't think of anything else that would set this place buzzing so much." His pink lips twitch. "Besides me, I suppose."

"There was a crime scene, yes."

"And?" When I neglect to answer, Tristan sighs, "How am I supposed to help if you won't tell me anything?"

"Are you going to help?" I ask pointedly.

"I want her caught. I don't want her dead," he reminds me.

"Every attack she does now, we could have prevented, if you'd just…"

"I saved your life. And your partner's," Tristan cuts me off. "Tell me why it should have been my responsibility to do more. I didn't make her."

He's right, right enough anyway.

"Fine. Yes, it was Cocooner…"

"But…" he prompts, moving closer to lean his hip on the glass, casual, though it makes me glance up at the cameras. We're both supposed to stay away from the glass.

"But," I concede. "It might also be a copycat. Another copycat."

That has him straightening. "Tell me."

I do. The boot print, the position of the body, the sloppy marks left around.

Tristan nods slowly. "It’s not her."

"You're so sure?"

He's pacing back towards his desk. "She was neat in everything she did, always. OCD, but not quite. I can't imagine she'd have gotten any less extreme on that. Her crime scenes show that clearly enough, never any trace or anything like a lead." Looking at me, Tristan concludes, "Your partner is right. What reason would she have to hide her identity now? To wear wrong-sized boots? She's out there, she knows you know it, you just can't find her."

"Then who did this?"

"A new, poorer copycat. A fan probably."

"And how do we catch them?"

"You probably already can. If you stop assuming it’s her. They're sloppy. Follow whatever else they left behind."

I nod and stand up. Before I turn for the door, I tilt my head at him. "Are you enjoying your new accommodation?"

The corners of his mouth lift. "It’s much more peaceful. Thank you, Eleanor."

Suddenly awkward, I turn for the door again. What can I say? It’s the least I can do? That he shouldn't even be in here?

I don't know anymore if he should be. Plenty of people sure seem to think he shouldn't.

***

The phone rings out, no answer. I sigh and return it to the cradle. I should go to bed. It’s late. Even calling Dirk once has been too much of a wound to my pride. And now I'm wondering, if he’s not home at this hour, where is he? A painful pang of jealousy has me turning away, busying myself with mundane tidying that can't really distract my thoughts.

But the ideas are going to torture me, I know that. There's no alcohol in the apartment anymore. I’ve finally poured out the last of it. And thank goodness, because my fingers twitch now with the urge rearing its ugly head. But at least they don’t shake anymore. I drag my hands back over my face. Nothing hurts quite the same as jealousy- an ugly, crushing emotion that only serves to build on itself.

A bath and some nice music, that’s what I'll do. Sleep be damned. If I go to bed, I'll just lie there anyway.

Half an hour later I'm lying back, surrounded by more bubbles than I really intended on, but I'm not complaining. And indeed, it’s actually working, as I close my eyes and listen to the music playing from my bedroom speaker, I feel my shoulders relax, tension I didn't know I was holding melting in the hot water. I give a long sigh, mind drifting, half asleep as I gently soap myself.

When my mind drifts to Dirk, I tell myself I'm just trying to solve the weird situation we've gotten ourselves into, but then I'm thinking about the situation more than the solution. Of last time, his apartment, the way his mouth felt so hot, the hard steel of him in my hand, his body, made weak by me. My fingers are tracing idly up my thighs. That would put me to sleep…

I gasp, spluttering and coming abruptly back to reality as a very loud knocking, almost like someone attempting to break in, thumps on the door of my apartment. The doors through my bedroom and to the living room are open, and I hear the knocking again even as I scrabble to run a towel over myself and throw my robe on, stumbling past my bed and out to the living area.

As I get there, Dirk is already inside, the door closed behind him.

" Dirk ?" I ask, aghast, as I stop in my bedroom door.

He's wearing a black jacket and black jeans, thin snow dusting the tops of his shoulders and caught in his hair. "You don't lock your door?" he asks, as though I'm the one out of place.

I march over, checking the bolt. "I thought I locked my door." Then I turn to him, still flustered, the air cool after the heat of the bathwater. "What are you doing here?"

"Apparently, checking your security."

I give him a look.

Dirk ducks his head. "I figured it was my turn to come and try to solve all our problems. Instead of waiting for you again."

Softening a little, I shift from foot to foot. "I, uh, may have left you a somewhat…" I search for the right word, wrinkle my nose and admit, " Aggravated message on your answering machine."

His lips twitch. Eyes drifting down my robe, he asks, "Were you in bed? I heard music, that’s why I tried the door."

"I was in the bath."

Nodding slowly, I feel his gaze drop again before looking away from me altogether. He's oddly reserved tonight, like he's holding part of himself back.

I take a step towards him, sensing that he's going to leave, to run away the way both of us have been consistently doing. "Dirk can't we just…"

"Be friends?" he cuts me off, meeting my eye with a fierceness in his. "Forget? Is that what you're going to ask?"

I close my mouth, dropping the hand that has somehow come to grip his arm.

"I should go," he says suddenly.

"Stop!" I demand, exasperated. "For God's sake, what do you want?"

"What do I want?"

"Yes!" I near-shout back. We've somehow come close, and my eyes drop to his lips. It’s like he's magnetic, drawing me close all the time.

My voice gives me away as I start to say, "Dirk we shouldn't…"

"You asked me what I wanted," his low words cut through whatever protest I feel I must make, his hand coming up, brushing my cheek, taking my breath away. I brace my hand on his upper arm, swaying towards him as his fingers trace to my jaw, letting him lift my chin. My heart flutters like this is the first time again, with that thrill, almost fear. How does it still feel that way, even now?

His lips brush mine, slowly savouring, and it’s me tilting my chin up to taste him, impatient for more. Arms pulling tighter around me, Dirk answers, gives, until we're wrapped in each other. His hand slides hot under my robe, gripping my waist, and I feel his coarse clothing in contrast to the soft fluffiness of my robe. My bedroom is behind me, and thoughts of being there, feeling him how I need him have me drawing towards it.

But he breaks off the kiss, feet planted. My chest rises and falls, constricted slightly by his hold, my robe fallen off one shoulder. Trying to compose myself, I ask, "What is it…? You don't want to?"

"No, I really do." Contrary to his words, his grip loosens, letting us come apart far enough to look down on my face. Voice soft, he asks, "Why were you leaving? Last time?"

I know he's also asking why I left the first time, and why I wrote that stupid note. "I…" I blink, unprepared for this line of questioning. "I was scared. Am scared."

He raises an eyebrow. "You were fucking a serial killer, but this scares you?"

I wriggle, and he tightens, keeping us joined at the belly. "Why?" he presses.

"I don't know." That’s a lie, but I don't know the truth well enough to tell it.

For a moment, he seems to teeter on the edge of releasing me. Hand sliding up my back, his fingers nestle in my hair, dislodging my already mostly dislodged bun. Then he grips suddenly, making me gasp as he pulls my head back, throat exposed to him. Teeth and lips graze my skin, trailing up to my earlobe. "Have an answer for me in the morning," he murmurs, and my heart thrills. At the moment, I'll agree to anything if it means he'll stay.

Letting go of my hair, his hands slide down my hips, gripping my behind and pulling hard so that I grate on the front of his jeans. My breath catches around a moan. I shove his jacket, stripping his sweater too, finding nothing underneath, just him. My fingers graze a ridged scar on his pec, but I barely register it, not caring to look. Now is not the time for that.

His hand slides around my thigh, touching me. Eyes popping open, he comments, "You're already wet."

"I was about to…" I gasp as he slides his fingertip along me, growling against my mouth before I can finish the sentence.

We're pushing, stumbling back towards the bedroom, landing on the bed, the tie of my robe still around my waist but otherwise doing very little to cover me. I wriggle my arms free, undoing the top of his jeans. "Get naked this time," I order.

Dirk grins, stepping back to stand on the edge of the bed, and shoves his jeans down and off, then grabs my thighs and drags me to him. One knee braced on the edge, he positions like that, leaning over me. "You still think we shouldn't?"

"Haven’t decided," I breathe, and contrary to my words, wrap my legs around him.

***

Dirk’s stirring wakes me up.

The sheets are tangled, but we're both underneath them in the cool of the winter morning. Quietly, I look at Dirk, finding him still asleep enough as I creep out of bed and to the bathroom. The sight of the full bathtub reminds me that I never got back into it.

Back out by the bed, I find my robe, slipping it on. I'm not about to leave, but I don't know if I should slide back into bed either. The promise of warmth brings the promise of something else, too.

"It's too early," his sleep-thickened voice murmurs. I smile, sitting on the edge of the bed. When he stretches, resting his arms on top of the quilt, I see those fresh scars again. My gaze drops. "I, uh…" I start, then clear my throat. "I saw your arms before. I didn't realise… I mean, I did. I just…" I trail off. None of the other bodies had those cuts. Why him? Because of me? I remember what she said about trying to seduce him. It makes me sick to my stomach. "Do they hurt?" I ask lamely.

Dirk glances down at his own arm. "Some do. She didn't cut very deeply. Just enough." As he shifts, he lets the blanket come away from his chest, and I see the full extent of her torture. Compared to his forearms, they’re less across his pecs, thin but longer, like she was doing those ones just for the fun of it. There’s only one below, on his ribs. It’s not enough by any means to mar how gorgeous I can’t stop finding his body, but the psychological impact goes deeper than that.

I look away. "I'm sorry."

"Don't do that," he tells me sternly, tugging the sheet back across. "I don't need you to view me like some injured bird."

"I'm not!" I protest right back. “You’re not!”

Dirk props up on one elbow. His hair is sleep and sex mussed, but his eyes are alert now. He sighs. "What are we doing here, El?" I open my mouth, but he adds, "It can't just be fucking."

"Then it’s not."

He stares at me a beat longer. "So that’s your answer?"

I don't need to ask what the question was. Last night, why I'm scared of this. "I… I'm scared of screwing this up. Scared of losing you, as a friend or anything else."

He nods slowly. His hands are resting near my leg, but he doesn't reach out, though I feel him wanting to. I want him to. "I'm sick of being scared."

I laugh. "Me too, I guess."

He extends his fingers now, touching my bare ankle, four warm points. "So, you want to do this properly?"

"Yes," I say, and realise I do. "Do you?" I ask, feeling all too vulnerable.

Finally, he smiles. "You already know the answer.”

Grinning, I tease, “I don’t think I do?”

His hand slides up my leg. “Come here, I’ll show you.”

And indeed, by the time we leave the bed, there’s not a doubt in my mind.

***

He makes the eggs, because my cooking skills leave something to be desired. We put pillows on the floor next to the coffee table, sitting on the floor, and Dirk glances around mid-meal. "Why are you still here?"

Obviously, I should leave and get as far away from Olivia's memory as possible. "I just… with everything. Moving is so much. And to where? In with another psycho, potentially."

With a shrug, Dirk accedes that’s a real possibility. He still hasn't put a shirt on, and it warms me to know he’s not letting the scars be a mark of shame, and warms me in other ways too, because his muscles are constantly drawing my eye. Which is possibly why the next thing he says takes me by surprise.

"I have conditions."

I raise an eyebrow. "Do I get to have conditions?" None come to mind, but it seems worth asking.

His lips quirk. "We'll see."

Is this usually how relationships start? It’s been some time since I've done this. "Okay…"

"No alcohol. You turn into a drunk, it’s over. I'm not watching you do that from even closer."

"Deal," I agree without hesitation. I’m through the hardest part, and right now, a sex addiction is sounding more appealing, anyway.

"And no lying to each other. And…" he adds before I can affirm again, "You need to get therapy."

I wrinkle my nose at that last one.

"Admit that you need it. If I do, you definitely do."

"You were nearly murdered," I point out.

" Uh-huh ."

I sigh. "Fine."

"Not eventually either. Next month."

"You do have high standards," I say, lips curving.

He smiles. "That I do."

***

Howie calls before the day is out.

"We caught the laundromat killer," he informs me without preamble.

"Already?"

"Already."

"Was it…"

"It's not Cassandra," he says flatly, but I hear the tightness in his voice.

I let out a breath. "Who is it?"

"Just a man. Just another madman."