Page 55 of Her Cruel Dahlias
“It was late, and I was walking home from the pub when someone attacked me from behind, strangling me until I couldn’t breathe,” Leslie said, her voice calm, her expression almost dreamy.
Cricket wrinkled her nose as she stared at Leslie for a long moment. “You were walking alone after a murder just took place behind the building?”
Her eyes ticked side to side before she batted a hand in the air. “I don’t live far from there and kept on the main street. The others were too busy at the pub.”
“Did you get a look at the person’s face?”
“No. We were cloaked in shadows, so I couldn’t see anything clearly.” Leslie paused, wiping her palms against her skirt.
“What else happened after you were strangled?” Her pulse raced, and she couldn’t stop from thinking about Clancy’s blade piercing her chest, followed by his macabre dahlias brushing her flesh.
Leslie took a breath, her calmness wavering as she stuttered, “The murderer took out the dahlias from a satchel and placed them over my eyes. That was when I had time to escape.”
Cricket froze. That didn’t make sense… If the person was practically mirroring the way her death had been, the dahlias would’ve come last. Besides that, the dahlias would’ve most likely fallen from her eyes as the murderer cut into her body and cracked open her rib cage. Leslie was lying… She could feel it.
It wasn’t only the dahlias, though… The route to Leslie’s home was well-lit—she should’ve caught some sort of feature about the attacker. It also seemed as if Leslie had spun the story beforehand of precisely what to say, and now that she was asked questions that she wasn’t expecting, she was becoming more nervous.
Cricket studied Leslie’s neck—not a single bruise or mark there. If she’d been choked that hard, the way Cricket had been, there would’ve been at least one by now. “The Dahlia Killer puts the flowers over the eyes after they slice into the victim, not before. If you did suffer strangulation, as you say, there would be a ring of bruises around your throat. But yours appears as blemish-free as a baby’s bottom. And if it did happen in the way you described, regardless, the murderer wouldn’t have just let you flee. They would’ve gone after you and made sure you were dead. Now tell me the truth, did you encounter anyone, or is all this an elaborate game to seek attention? There have been victims. Real victims.” Cricket’s chest tightened as she spoke the next sentence, “And one I was very fond of.”
Leslie chewed on her lip, her eyes flicking side to side again before her body trembled. “It happened. Maybe I imagined the dahlias…”
“Please tell me the truth, Leslie. I need to find the person who is doing this. So tell me, did it really happen?” If Cricket hadn’t previously known Leslie, she might not have noticed the small things that didn’t seem right with her and her story.
“I made it up,” she whispered, her lower lip wobbling. “It was a charade.”
Cricket inhaled sharply, loosening her clenched teeth. “Why?”
“There’s nothing truly special about you or the others, yet you were chosen, and so were they. I have blonde hair and blue eyes, so why not choose me?” Tears beaded Leslie’s lashes.
Cricket stared at her in horror, taken aback by this revelation. “You want to be slaughtered?”
“I don’t have anyone who truly sees me,” Leslie sobbed. “Day in and day out, my life is at the pub, and for once, I wanted to be seen as something special.”
“As a victim, I wouldn’t consider myself special—I would consider myself unfortunate.” Cricket couldn’t sit there any longer, or she would shout things that would get her put in manacles. She pushed up from the seat and glanced over her shoulder before opening the door. “And not all of the victims have been blond and blue-eyed. Each of them is very different from you in that they will never have the opportunity to laugh, cry, sing, or dance—or enjoy a single drink in a pub. Ever again.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Cricket sat alone at the dining table, sipping on tea between bites of her biscuit. She’d been at Bram’s for three days, and since the supposed lead with Leslie, there had been nothing more from the Dahlia Murderer.
Footsteps echoed from the hallway, and she glanced up as Breeta entered the room, her skirts swishing. She sat across from Cricket, her spine tall and rigid.
“I owe you a sincere apology for how distant I’ve been the past couple of days.” She let out a breath as if it had been hard to speak those words. “Or, I suppose, all the years I’ve known you. I’m just a bitter woman whose broken heart never healed and who wants the best for my daughter. I always have.”
Cricket knew little about Anika’s father except that Breeta had been his mistress before learning he was a married man. Once he found out Breeta was with child, he started to come around less and less until he no longer did.
“You raised a daughter with the kindest heart, and that’s what matters. Besides, experiences sometimes turn us into something different than we were before. I’m not the same either.”
“I will never be sweet like my daughter, but I’m trying to be less bitter.” Breeta looked toward one of the servants. “Well? Did someone forget my tea?”
“Sorry, Miss,” the servant said and hurried out of the room.
Breeta’s brow lifted as she peered at Cricket and said, “What?”
“Kindness, remember?” Cricket smiled and finished her breakfast before finding Bram in his office, looking through various sketches. Anika was still asleep, but she would most likely wake in the next hour.
“You can come in,” he said, waving her inside. “They’re just sketches I did of the victims to see if I could put something together.”
Taking a deep swallow, she hardened her heart as she lowered herself into a chair and reached for the stack of sketches. The first victim was one of the bodies she hadn’t seen in person. The woman’s chest was broken apart, just as all the others. “Your drawings have vastly improved.”