Mike Omer - In the Darkness

All they talked about was what was about to come . There was always endless chatter about the trailers of future movies, the teasers, the hints and winks by the cast and the film crew. And after the movies screened, did anyone talk about them at all besides agreeing that they were kind of meh?

Teasers and trailers. Creating a buzz. The buzz was more important than the actual product. That would put him in the center of the public eye.

Who would have guessed that what a serial killer would need these days was a good marketing department?

He grinned as he left the basement. The idea was taking shape in his mind.

Zoe sat by the bar, her fists clenched on her lap. She couldn’t figure out how the evening had managed to go so badly. First Tatum’s obnoxious behavior, then that shameless reporter from Chicago somehow finding her here, twisting her arm for a lousy interview. Ugh.

How had he even found her? He’d flown to San Angelo, and that meant he had a reliable source. Someone in BAU. She’d have to talk to Mancuso later, tell her someone was leaking info to the press.

“Here you go, miss.” The bartender set three plates in front of Zoe. The first had a large thick steak, fried on a pan, looking promisingly juicy, a small piece of broccoli sitting next to it almost as an afterthought. The other dishes were the side dishes—a salad, the vegetables crisp and fresh in an assortment of green and red, and a baked potato with a mound of sour cream and slices of green onion on top.

At least one thing didn’t disappoint tonight. If this food was half as good as it seemed, this would be a very satisfying meal.

She sliced a piece of the steak—the inside was as pink as she’d hoped it would be. She put it in her mouth, shutting her eyes.

Maybe life was worth living after all.

She chewed carefully, enjoying the juicy, tender meat, and then forked a piece of the potato, making sure that it came with some sour cream and a green onion slice. She ate the entire bite, a slight miscalculation there—the potato burned her tongue. But it tasted perfect.

“Everything okay?” the bartender asked politely as she put a glass of water by the plates, its surface foggy with condensation.

“Yesh, eesh great,” Zoe said, breathing through her nose.

The bartender gave her an amused smile and walked away. Zoe took another bite from the steak. The night’s events morphed in her mind. Harry Barry was possibly shameless, but he was also driven. She could appreciate someone who was dedicated to his job. And Tatum . . . well, Tatum was still obnoxious, but she knew his heart was in the right place. She was sorry he hadn’t joined her. Food this good could work well with some company.

A sudden stab of guilt and fear shot through her as she realized that she’d been so busy working the case that she’d forgotten to check up on Andrea since that morning. Almost a full day.

She took out her phone. You okay? she tapped.

The answer came after a few seconds. Yes, stop bugging me. I’m eating dinner.

She sighed in relief and photographed the dish, sending it to Andrea with the caption, me too. After a moment, her sister sent her back a text—you think YOU are having a good dinner? Check out what you’re missing—and an image of sad-looking ramen noodles. Zoe snorted and sent back the laughing emoji with the tears. Sometimes it was just tearful-laughing-emoji time.

After half the steak was gone, the bartender put a bottle of wine and a glass on the bar.

“Courtesy of the dude over there,” she told Zoe, nodding to the edge of the bar. She placed a glass of wine in front of Zoe.

“Um . . . ,” Zoe said. “I don’t—”

“It’s really good wine.” The bartender raised her eyebrow.

It had been a while since someone had tried to pick her up in a bar, and she had to smile. “Okay, thanks.”

She sniffed the wine, then tasted it. It really wasn’t bad. She glanced at the man who’d sent her the glass. He had curly hair and a thick brown beard. He wore a checkered blue shirt that would have looked bad on most men, but not on him. He had a whole woodcutter vibe going for him. A small tattoo marked his neck. It seemed like initials, but Zoe couldn’t make them out from this distance. He raised a glass of beer as a toast. She raised her own glass.

He seemed to decide that it was an invitation, and she wasn’t sure it wasn’t. He stood up, easily towering above most of the bar patrons, and ambled over, sitting down on the empty stool next to her.

“I like to see a girl who can enjoy her dinner.” He smiled.

“Not really a girl—I’m thirty-three.” She put down the glass. “Thanks for the wine.”

“I’m Joseph.”

Zoe offered her hand. “Zoe.”

For a moment, when he took her hand, she tensed, thinking he might kiss it. But he just shook it firmly.

“You aren’t from around here,” he said. “Are you from Boston?”

She blinked in surprise. “Is my accent that obvious?”

He laughed. “I lived in Boston for a few years, so my ears are well tuned. It isn’t very obvious, but it’s there. Being thirty-three and all.” His voice adopted a preposterous Bostonian accent, his smile mischievous.

Zoe returned a smile. “Well, I don’t live there anymore either.” She suddenly felt a strange jolt of homesickness. She took another sip from the wine.

“So what are you doing in San Angelo? Did you move here?”

“No, I’m here for work.”

“What kind of work?”

Now there was a question. The words forensic psychologist had a certain curse to them. They made people either uncomfortable or intensely curious. Sometimes both. So naming her profession would either kill the conversation or shift it to revolve around homicide and rape.

She took a bite from her steak, thinking about it. Both possibilities didn’t sound too good. She was content to enjoy her nice dinner and the so-far-pleasant company, and she didn’t want serial killers intruding on it. “I’m a consultant.”

“A consultant on what?” He took a long gulp from his beer.

“Oh . . . human behavior, mostly.” She shrugged. “I just flew here yesterday. I’ll be here for a few more days. What about you?”

“I live here.” He smiled. “Born and raised in Sand and Jell-O.”

It took her a minute to understand that it was a silly pun on the city name. She smiled back and ate a bite of potato with cream.

“I’m an electrician and an air-conditioning technician. It’s a popular occupation.” He leaned closer. “I don’t know if you realize it, but the weather can occasionally get a bit warm around here.”

She burst out laughing and then began coughing uncontrollably, the potato inhaled into her trachea. Joseph gaped at her in alarm and then quickly handed her the water glass. She took it from him, still coughing, her eyes watering, and drank a bit, finally getting her breathing in order. Smooth, Zoe. Very smooth.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” She wheezed and drank half her glass. “You just caught me off guard.”

“Sorry, I’ll try to be more serious when you’re eating.”

“So what were you doing in Boston if air-conditioning technicians are so much in demand here?”

“Followed a girl there—what else? Tried to start a business for lighting fixtures when I was there. It actually looked like it was booming for a couple of years. And then it wasn’t.” He picked up a beer coaster and began peeling it, scattering shreds of paper on the bar. “Broke up with the girl, so I came back home. And looking back, I don’t know why I ever left.”

Zoe sawed a piece of steak and chewed. She was over being hungry and ate mainly for the joy of it. She pointed at the initials tattooed on his neck. “Who’s H. R.?”