Patricia Rosemoor: Skin

She started from the back, flipping them one at a time, reading off the names which included Rusty… Melinda… Mariko… Irene… no Lilith. She flipped the next memory card and froze.

Hannah.

Shocked, she picked up the card and held it as carefully as she might a live snake before putting it in the recorder and hitting Play.

Lilith choked up when Hannah appeared on the monitor.

“I dance because I don’t know anything else,” came her faint voice.

Lilith realized the sound was coming out of a pair of headsets.

“Have you ever tried?”

Michael’s voice. Heart pounding, Lilith grabbed the headsets and held them where she could hear better.

“Last time I got a job as a store clerk. I wanted to eat, so I couldn’t pay my rent. I ended up back on the street.”

Lilith felt as if her heart might break all over again.

“I met someone who was nice to me. Introduced me to Sal. There’s nothing wrong with what I do. It’s not like I’m a hooker!”

“Why did you run?”

“My stepfather hurt me. He said it was because of my sister — hurting me would hurt her. That’s when I understood why she left. I ran so she’d never have to come back for me. She’d be so ashamed.”

Lilith blinked and tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Maybe she would have understood.”

“How could she? Lilith wants to help girls who can’t take care of themselves.”

Lilith stared and quickly hit Pause. She blinked away the tears.

Replayed.

“How could she? Lilith wants to help girls who can’t take care of themselves.”

Replayed.

“ Lilith wants to help girls who can’t take care of themselves.”

Froze it.

Stared at the door to Michael’s bedroom.

Lilith’s mind whirled. She had to face the truth. Michael had known all along. She’d been certain he’d guessed the connection, but he’d known . And hadn’t said a thing.

Emotions warred in her.

Anger.

Guilt.

Horror.

She was disappointed and angry with herself.

He’d played her. To what end?

What if Gabe had been right?

What if Michael was the killer?

Unable to face him with her speculations, she raced out of his place, banging the door against the wall.

HE HAD HER. Lilith had danced for him. Elated as he entered the abandoned building, he replayed the event in his mind. She might not have stripped, but she had danced.

He knew she’d been looking for him. He’d been right there in plain sight, and she’d never guessed.

Should he make her dance again, tell her this time she had to do it for real?

Then other men would see what he wanted for himself.

He hated that idea.

He’d wanted control, and now he knew he had it — that was the point of the demand on her.

Unlocking the door to the room where he was keeping the sister and the girl, he decided he would rather wait until he could see Lilith in the woods, where the moon would glaze her flesh with a silver-blue light. He was so hot to do her, he wanted that right now.

Patience, he told himself as he looked over his hostages. The sister was sprawled on the cot, her expression haunted. The girl curled against the radiator, her head bowed. Neither looked his way.

He loved inspiring such fear.

“Food,” he said, throwing a bag of burgers and fries on the cot.

Unsure of how long he was going to play this game, he had to keep them alive.

“Toilet first,” the sister said. “Before my bladder bursts.”

He freed her and walked her to the door, watched her take her seat on the toilet.

“Me, too, please.”

The girl’s voice quivered.

“When she gets back.”

“Now, please. Hurry, or I’ll pee on myself.”

Feeling generous since he was in such a good mood, he undid the lock to her handcuffs when he heard the flush. The girl used the radiator to steady herself until she got to her feet. She stood there shaking.

“What are you waiting for?” he asked.

The girl ran into the toilet, knocking into Lilith’s sister as she was coming out.

“Hey, you little brat, watch where you’re going.”

He grabbed the sister’s arm and pulled her back to the cot. “You really are a controlling bitch, aren’t you?”

He had her wrist in one hand, the cuff in the other, when what felt like a hot poker hit him in the right kidney. He let go and whipped around to see the girl in a fighter’s stance.

Her expression reminded him of Lilith.

“And what do you think you’re going to do to me?” he demanded.

“This!”

She kicked and he moved, deflecting the strike to his knee. Then a live weight was on his back, arms wrapped around his neck. For a moment, they had him, one trying to strangle him, the other hitting him over and over in the stomach and head, kicking at his knees and his balls.

And then he got pissed, jerked forward in a crouch, so the one on his back went flying over his head into the other. They both cried out as they landed in a heap.

“Nice try,” he said.

Now it was his turn. He showed them how to do it, how to tear into a weaker opponent, taught them a lesson with his fists and feet that they would never forget.

Not for the short time they had left to live…

LILITH FELT LIKE she was on Speed. Her pulse was racing. Her mind was whirling. She couldn’t drive back to the club fast enough to find Gabe and tell him about Michael’s recording of Hannah.

But once she got there, he was nowhere to be seen.

As she made her way to the bar, she was the focus of attention. Men who recognized her made little sounds of appreciation when she passed them. Undoubtedly they’d started fantasizing about her while she danced.

No fake smiles from her tonight. She was taut. Hostile. They quickly turned their eyes away.

“Joe, have you seen Gabe?”

“Yeah, he was here earlier. Left maybe a half hour ago.”

“Thanks.”

Now what? She didn’t have Gabe’s phone number, but she had Pucinski’s.

Pulling out her cell, she left the back way. She was so angry and so wrapped up playing over the relationship with Michael in her head, that she almost missed the arm dangling out of the trash bin.

Almost .

She stopped dead in her tracks, and the breath froze in her throat.

A woman’s arm.

A black woman’s arm.

Her first instinct was to run and get help, but she couldn’t make herself move. She stuffed the cell phone back in her pocket. Her hands shook as she lifted the trash bin’s lid, but even before she got it open, Lilith knew what she would find.

Caresse lay on the heap of black bags, her limbs askew as if someone had tossed her inside as carelessly as the rest of the garbage. She was still dressed in her skimpy costume, and even under the yellow alley light, Lilith could see she was covered in her own blood.

The costume left her stomach bare, exposing an open knife wound.

Thinking Caresse was dead, Lilith choked back a sob. The dancer had been kind to her, had warned her to stay safe. So what wrong move had she made to incite such violence. Who did this to her? The hunter-murderer?

Not that she fit his profile.

But what if…

The idea drifted off when Lilith realized that blood still oozed from the open wound.

Could Caresse still be alive?

Taking a closer look, she saw the woman’s lips part slightly — Caresse was still breathing, if barely.

Lilith used a hand to apply pressure to the wound. Warm blood oozed between her fingers. She swallowed hard when she tasted bile.