Her tone sounds sincere, but still, I narrow my eyes. I never know what’s real with her; even my cop senses are way off, so I tread lightly.
“Does that mean you don’t want to be yourself?”
She shrugs, focused on my T-shirt. “Haven’t you ever wanted to start fresh? Shed your skin, be someone new? I can do that whenever I like. I can be Monty today, Sara tomorrow, Joanna the next day, Hilary after that. I can be hundreds of different women with a thousand different interests and pasts. It’s like playing dress-up.”
That makes sense. I have, at times, been tempted to drive until I find somewhere new, especially since losing Ella. The temptation to leave Guy Gibson behind can be almost overwhelming, so maybe it isn’t caution I feel around Monty, it’s envy.
“Will you teach me that handcuffing trick from before?” She asks.
The sharp change of subject isn’t surprising. I wish we could keep talking about her, but baby steps, I guess. “Okay, but we’re using my cuffs.”
She hops up, and I find my old handcuffs. For the next thirty minutes, I show her, step by step, how to handcuff someone. It’s probably not the best thing to be teaching the serial killer staying at my house, but I’m fairly sure I can overpower her if she becomes murderous.
And it’s fun. She’s eager to learn, and it’s nice to spend an evening doing something other than working out or waiting for Ella to call.
“My turn.” She claps excitedly.
I face her, the handcuffs dangling from my fingertips. “Okay, butremember to?—”
She moves so quickly it’s like a rush of blonde. She darts behind me, kicking the back of my knee so I hit the ground—hard. Shoving me forward so my chest meets the rug, she snaps the cuffs behind my back and cheers.
What in the ever-loving fuck just happened?
I twist onto my back and stare up at her. “You didn’t need my help at all, did you?”
“Nope.” She sits on my stomach, her knees either side of me, my arms cuffed uncomfortably behind my back. “But I like you teaching me stuff. Your eyes light up.”
I watch her, a little unnerved at how attentive she is. “They do?”
She nods. “Wanna make out?”
“Fucking hell, Monty, you’re relentless.”
She groans. “Aren’t you even curious what it would be like? You got hard before, so I know you fancy me.”
I drop my head back against the rug. “It isn’t that you’re unattractive.”
“Then what?”
“Your Ella’s friend.”
“And?”
“You’re twenty years younger than me!”
“And?”
She smiles at me, the picture of beauty, of innocence, golden hair and the face of a damn angel.
“You’re a murderer.”
Monty rests her hands on either side of my head, her hair curtaining us. “Only on weekdays. I have a strict policy about working weekends.”
Despite myself, I huff a laugh. “Funny.”
She grins. “Okay, I won’t ask again. I’ll settle for that smile. Friends, though?” She lets out a loud, excitablesqueak as I flip her onto her back and show her the handcuffs that are no longer around my wrists. “How did you?—”
“Magic,” I say, grinning.
