Page 182 of Pleasure & Prey: Vol. 2

I’m not bored, exactly. Sometimes I just like sitting here with my black rat snake, not really taking anything in, but just existing. From out in the kitchen, I can hear Esme moving around, though I’m not sure what she’s doing. Given that she seems almost back to normal now that Mike Flanagan hasn’t been back in two weeks, she could be trying out a new recipe for some random dessert she saw on social media, or maybe prepping her lunches for the coming week.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding my head like Yoichi has answered me. “That’s what I said. I found out his dad is some CEO of…” I wave my hand. “I don’t know. He didn’t really want to talk about it. But judging from his attitude on the whole thing, it’s a big company. And Larkin has a place there.”

That explains his multiple homes, the car, and the way he always manages to look so effortlessly perfect. Well, okay, that last part might be subjective, I admit silently.

The doorbell rings, and for one wild moment, I think it’s Larkin. That he’s going further down the ‘traditional boyfriend’ route than I expected him to and is now at my door to come hang out or at the very least, to meet Esme.

Which, I remind myself, isn’t exactly likely when he clearly doesn’t give a damn about her and her delicate sensibilities. While he won’t outright insult her to me, and best friend laws say I’d have to kill him if he did, he’s very clearly not looking to get to know her, be her friend, or include her on our outings.

In his defense, though, she’d probably puke if she saw Dale’s body or what we did to clean it up. At least the sharks had an easy dinner that night if they were close enough to that side of the shore.

The door opens, and Esme’s voice drifts through the apartment, sounding off even through my half-closed door. I’m immediately on my feet, striding down the hallway silently, my socks making no noise on the hardwood.

Mike fucking Flanagan stands at our door. Esme very clearly doesn’t want to let him in, and her body blocks the opening, hand still on the knob, but Mike has a grip on the wood as well, and from the way his knuckles are clenched, I’m pretty sure he’s holding it open.

He looks up at me, his unfriendly smile widening. “Miss Tova, right?” he greets, completely ignoring Esme for a moment. I don’t bother trying to look friendly. I don’t have it in me tonight, so I just tilt my head to the side with a hand stroking Yoichi’s scales.

“Do you want me to call the cops, Es?” I ask pointedly. “I have my phone.”

“Could you—” Esme begins, but Flanagan thrusts the door open suddenly, causing her to stumble backward as he steps inside.

“I wouldn’t do that, ma’am,” he recommends, taking up the space in front of the door. “But I also won’t be taking up much of your time.” He pulls that stupid little notebook out of his pocket, flips to a page, and clears his throat.

“It turns out, your coworkers had a lot to say about your relationship with Mr. Byers,” he informs Esme, not sounding very friendly. “You seemed to have a rather emotional, tumultuous relationship at times.”

My eyes flick to the kitchen, to the block of knives Esme purchased last year without realizing the pink-handled blades were handwash only. Now they’re more for display than anything, in their cute, heart-shaped block. But that also means they’re sharp, and they could cut through skin and muscle just as well as any other blade here in the kitchen; maybe better.

God, it’s tempting.

The whispers in my head remind me of how I wanted to do this before, the time in the parking garage when Larkin stopped me. I’d been so close to getting what I wanted from him, to ending his miserable life.

“Are you married?” The question comes out of my mouth before I can help it, though I don’t look up at either of them. My attention is fixed on Yoichi, who continues to taste the air with his forked tongue.

“Pardon me?” Flanagan asks slowly.

“Sorry, maybe I asked too quickly. I’ll speak slower. Are. You. Married?”

Esme moves to put the island between her and Flanagan, but I don’t need the shield. With his attention on me, I don’t feel any less confident where I am.

“Divorced,” Flanagan allows finally, his tone curious. “Why?”

“So you never, not once, fought with your wife?” Finally I look up at him, knowing that every line of my body screams boredom, unlike Es. “Though given you’re divorced, I can’t really imagine that’s the case.”

His eyes narrow ever so slightly, his grin remaining in place but looking wooden. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“You don’t? You mean no one in your life would describe your relationship as emotional or tumultuous? Interesting.” I tilt my head to the side, aware of my goading gaze and overconfidence. “I guess I’m not used to seeing that kind of static, boring relationship. But well, maybe your wife wasn’t on board with it either?” My brows raise a little, and I can see that I’ve hit a nerve.

“Anyway,” I don’t let him speak, and the word leaves my mouth with a dismissive huff. “Esme and him fought, yeah. He showed up here the last night anyone heard from him, and he was drunk. He hit her.” I gesture at Esme, whose eyes are on mine and wide with horror.

But she doesn’t need to worry about me betraying her. That’s never something I’d consider, no matter what. Besides, she’s not the one who killed him.

“I took him home after their fight.” This is where the lie comes in. “Well, I tried to take him home. Esme gave me his address and I started to go there, but he decided he didn’t want to go home.” I shrug, as if to ask, ‘what can you do?’

“Where did you take him?” Flanagan asks carefully, obviously deciding this is worth him going out on a limb for the information. “And why didn’t you tell me this when I asked? It feels a little⁠—”

“Suspicious?” I interrupt smoothly. “Yeah. Neither of us wanted to make a bigger deal of us than it was. Or rather, what we thought it was.” I skirt around confirming or denying that Alan is dead. Thankfully, forensics still hasn’t been able to identify his body that they pulled out of the bay, or rather, the remains of it that miraculously hadn’t included his head or hands.

Thank you, local marine life.