“Meh, less than seventy-two hours.”
“I’m surprised it took that long.” My gut feeling said she wasn’t using lemonade powder, but something much worse.
“I introduced the elements slowly,” she mused, one finger tracing her wilted bottom lip. “First the buzzer with no follow up. He cried like a pansy but she was a fighter.”
The female kept her back against the wall and, though I could see the heavy rise and fall of her chest, she didn’t shake or ugly cry like the man. Instead, she wore an expression of defeat. Tears shone through the dead gleam in her eyes before tracking through the dirt and dried blood on her cheeks. Shewasa fighter, and I admired that.
“After about twelve hours, I put the door into the sequence. She fought harder, he shut down.”
“That’s interesting,” I hummed and mused aloud, “because normally men feel an intense need to protect.”
At the thought, I saw Joe in that alley again, shouldering between me and danger, gun up with no hesitation. He hadn’t known me and still chose to be in the line of fire. It stuck under my skin in a way I couldn’t shrug off or identify.
Because if I was being honest with myself, just the thought of his name made my shoulders relax.
“Normally,” Barb interrupted my thoughts. “However, I didn’t suspect it with these two. She lived on the streets as a minor and never left. Drugs. Prostitution.”
“Takes no shit.”
“Take no shit,” Barb echoed. “He’s in corporate law. Criminal defense.”
“That explains it.”
“Narcissit. Thinks he’s seen it all until he gets thrown in the swamp with the gators.” Barb huffed sardonically.
I mimicked her and said, “Amen, sister.”
“Don’t call me sister.”
I loved her.
“Aye, aye, cap’n.”
Barb’s life work as a behavioral psychologist followed her straight into the afterlife. Sure, it got a little morphed on its trip through hell. Rather than interviewing the serial killer, shewasthe serial killer. And, instead of cognitive interviews or reviewing the past, she liked to throw people into the most creative scenarios possible to see what they’d be driven to do.
You know, for funsies.
Jesus hopped up on the ledge with an annoyed chirp.
“He needs to be skinned alive and tied to a hamster wheel.” Barb sneered.
I waved her off. “He’d just come back as something worse to haunt me for eternity.”
“What could be worse than that cat?”
“A dog,” I shrugged, and meant it.
Barb and I both did a shiver shake at the thought. A needy flea bag was the last thing I wanted. Dogs and sociopaths did not mix.
Cats and sociopaths? Gold.
We were silent as we watched the two captive humans behind the observation wall. The woman was still unnaturally still, and the man whimpered as far away from the door as he could get.
“So, what happens next?” I asked, crossing my arms studiously. There was a lot to learn from Barb. She could keep her victims alive for weeks. Mine never lasted more than a few hours.
Barb slapped her palm over the button again. A different, more gentle beep sounded inside the room before the metal door creaked closed. The man visibly relaxed. The woman, however, tensed even harder.
“Next, I switch it up.”
