Page 70 of Little Deaths

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Page 70 of Little Deaths

“Everyone figured she’d cheated on him. Plenty more figured she’d done it before. I mean, he’d really let himself go and she was a fox. Still is,” he added lasciviously. “I wouldn’t mind helping her around the house myself. I bet a lot of men in town felt the same way.”

“So who did my father think it was?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think he did, either, or there would have been another set of murders back then. Although some people have suggested that’s why your old man kicked you out. Too many lions in the pridelands, if you know what I mean.”

Rafe watched Christophe picked up his drink. “My father didn’t kick me out. Donni did.”

“Yeah, so that obviously didn’t hold water. Though I’m sure even you’ve thought about it, huh?” He took a long drink and coughed. “Speaking of water, I’ve gotta pass some. You mind?”

“Not if you join me out for a smoke later.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” He rubbed his hands together to work the chill from them. “Meet you out back. Gary thinks it scares the customers, seeing people smoking out front.”

Rafe slid two bucks beneath his can, sliding one hand into his pocket. Fingering his knife.

I’ll scareyou.

There was a security camera over the loading dock but not in the alley. This was where Rafe waited, leaning back against the brick with one foot pressed against the wall.

Overhead, the clouds were full and heavy, backlit by a hidden moon. It looked like it was going to rain again. In the distance, he could hear chatter from people walking the streets or coming out of neighboring bars, but the alley provided a false illusion of isolation and privacy.

“Cold night.” Christophe stumbled noisily over the asphalt. “Spooky.”

“Hmm,” said Rafe.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, man—” Christophe fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes “—what’s with all the black? Or are they all pussy goth hipsters up there in Portland?”

“Well,” said Rafe. “It doesn’t show blood, for one.”

The scritch of the lighter paused. Christophe laughed with the uncertainty of someone who wasn’t sure they were being joked with. Then there was a flare of light as he held the small flame to the filter of his cigarette. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I’ll show you.”

Rafe grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the brick, knocking the cigarette from his lips. When Christophe parted them to scream, Rafe held the blade against the slight bulge of the other man’s crotch and pressed down until he heard him whimper.

“W-wait,” he choked. “Don’t.”

“Why not? I’m in a bad fucking mood. Someone sicced a goddamn dog on me and tried to burn me alive. Shit like that—it gets to you. It makes you want to hurt someone.” Rafe increased the pressure of the blade. “I think that someone might be you.”

“C-come on,” Christophe said. “I wouldn’t do that. Please.”

“But I think youknowsomething. Because you’ve been acting pretty fucking suspicious, the way you’ve been sneaking around. And for someone whose mother just got killed, you really don’t seem all that upset about it.”

“I could say the same thing about you and your father,” Christophe pointed out desperately. “You’re not exactly in mourning, are you? Well—my mother was a nosy old bitch who loved rubbing my face in my indentureship every chance she got. Maybe she got what she deserved. Maybe your dad did, too. And maybe someone in town agrees.”

“And Donni?” Rafe said fiercely. “Would she agree?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I think you know.”

Christophe flinched and Rafe wondered distantly if he’d made a mistake. But then he said, “Okay, I left her the two notes and the message on her windshield. But that’s it. I didn’t leave her anything else—I swear.”

“Why leave her anything at all?” Rafe growled.

“Because I thought that maybe she’d be a little more receptive if she was scared,” Christophe said. “It’s hard being alone. I thought maybe a few scary notes would make her realize that.”

Rafe shoved him back against the wall, harder this time. The beginnings of a wail came out of the man’s mouth when the knife cut through fabric, drawing a thin line of blood on his jeans.




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