Page 21

A click sounded before Jerry’s voice filled the receiver.

“You weren’t actually going to call me, were you?”

I leaned back in my chair and tossed my pen onto the contract in front of me. “You said you were going to call me.”

“Bullshit. You said we’d catch up. That’s rich-person language for I’ll never speak to you again.”

“You’re rich too.”

“Not Kincaid rich. There’s a difference.”

Jerry had always been more of a stray than a friend. He started hanging around me, Colin, and the others his freshman year and somehow never took the hint that nobody had actually invited him. He was loud, overeager, and constantly trying to prove he belonged with us, which was probably why we kept him around. Every group needed someone willing to make an ass of himself for everyone else’s entertainment, and Jerry had always been very good at that.

“So what are you doing tonight?” he asked.

I glanced at the stack of contracts waiting for me. “Working.”

“Fuck that. Let’s get a drink.”

“You called me in the middle of the day because you need someone to drink with?”

“No, I called because you owe me about four years’ worth of drinks.” He paused. “We should go to that strip club we used to hit near Preston. What was it called?”

“The Velvet Room.”

“That’s it. Is that place still open?”

“As far as I know.”

“Perfect. You still fuck around with that hot blonde who worked there?”

“I haven’t seen her since Preston.”

Jerry laughed. “Fuck, remember how we’d all get wasted at your place before we went there? Colin almost got us kicked out one night because he could barely fucking stand.”

“He could stand. He just couldn’t walk in a straight line.”

“We should do that tonight.”

“Get Colin too drunk to walk?”

“No, asshole. Pregame at your old place.” I could hear the grin in his voice. “You still have that house, don’t you?”

“Of course I still have it.”

Everyone at Preston remembered that house for the parties. Colin remembered the coke and liquor, Jerry probably remembered every woman who’d been stupid enough to sleep with him there, and half the people we’d known had a story about something they’d done inside those walls.

I remembered the women I’d killed there.

Jessica hadn’t been the first.

The house made things easy. Women already knew who I was before I introduced myself. Richard Kincaid. Money, Preston, the right family, the right face. By the time I suggested going somewhere more private, they usually thought they knew exactly how the night was going to end.

Sometimes I’d even let them believe it for a while.

I’d bring them there after dinner or drinks, pour them something from the bar, and listen while they talked about themselves. Their jobs. Their friends. What they wanted to do with their lives. Most of them mistook my attention for interest. Eventually, they learned the difference.

Jessica had learned too.