Cross

this was better.
    “Whooo.”
She exhaled and waved a hand in front of her face like a fan. It was a joke, only not totally a joke.
    “It is a little hot in here, isn’t it?” Sullivan said, and the coed’s smile blossomed again. “A little close, don’t you think?”
    “Sorry—I’m
not
leaving with you. This isn’t even a date.”
    “I understand,” he said. “Never thought you would leave with me. Never crossed my mind.”
    “Of course not. You’re too much of a gentleman.”
    He kissed her again, and the kiss was deeper. Marianne liked that he didn’t give up too easily. It didn’t matter, though—she wasn’t going anywhere with him. She didn’t do that, not ever—well, not so far anyway.
    “You are a pretty good kisser,” she said. “I’ll give you that.”
    “You’re holding up your end,” he said. “You’re a great kisser actually. That was the best kiss of my life,” he kidded.
    Sullivan pushed his weight against a door—and suddenly they were stumbling inside the men’s room. Then Jimmy Hats stepped up to watch the door from the outside. He always had the Butcher’s back.
    “No, no, no,” Marianne said, but she couldn’t keep from laughing at what had just happened.
The men’s room?
This was pretty funny. Crazy funny—but funny. The kind of stuff college kids did.
    “You really think you can get away with anything, don’t you?” she asked him.
    “The answer is yes. I pretty much do what I want, Marianne.”
    And suddenly he had a scalpel out, the gleaming razor-sharp blade not far from her throat, and everything changed in a heartbeat. “And you’re right, this isn’t a date. Now don’t say a word, Marianne, or it will be your last on this earth, I swear on my mother’s eyes.”

Chapter 6
    “THERE’S ALREADY BLOOD on this scalpel,” the Butcher said in a throaty whisper meant to scare her out of her wits. “You see it?”
    Then he touched his jeans at the crotch. “Now
this
blade won’t hurt so much.” He brandished the scalpel in front of her eyes. “But
this
one will hurt a lot. Disfigure your pretty face for life. I’m not kidding around, college girl.”
    He unzipped his jeans and pressed the scalpel against Marianne Riley’s throat—but he didn’t cut her. He lifted up her skirt, then pulled aside her blue panties.
    He said, “I don’t want to cut you. You can tell that, can’t you?”
    She could barely speak. “I don’t know.”
    “You have my word on it, Marianne.”
    Then he pushed himself inside the college girl slowly, so as not to hurt her with a thrust. He knew he shouldn’t spend a lot of time here, but he didn’t want to give up her tight insides.
Hell, I’ll never see Marianne, Marianne after tonight.
    At least she was smart enough not to scream or try to fight him with her knees or nails. When he was finished with his business he showed her a couple of photographs he carried around. Just to be sure she understood her situation, understood it perfectly.
    “I took these pictures myself.
Look
at the pictures, Marianne. Now, you must never speak of tonight. Not to anyone, but especially not to the police. You understand?”
    She nodded without looking at him.
    “I need you to
speak
the words, little girl. I need you to look at me, painful as that might be.”
    “Understood,” she said. “I’ll never tell anybody.”
    “Look at me.”
    Her eyes met his, and the change in her was amazing. He saw fear and hatred, and it was something he enjoyed. It was a long story why, a growing-up-in-Brooklyn story, a father-and-son tale that he preferred to keep to himself.
    “Good girl. Strange to say—I like you. What I mean is, I have
affection
for you. Good-bye, Marianne, Marianne.”
    Before leaving the bathroom, he searched through her purse and took her wallet. “Insurance,” he said. “Don’t talk to anybody.”
    Then the Butcher opened the door and left. Marianne Riley let herself collapse to the bathroom floor, shaking all over. She would never forget what had just happened—especially those horrifying photographs.

Chapter 7
    “WHO’S UP SO EARLY in the morning? Well, my goodness, look who it is. Do I see Damon Cross? Do I spy Janelle Cross?”
    Nana Mama arrived promptly at six thirty to look after the kids, as she did every weekday morning. When she burst through the kitchen door, I was spoon-feeding oatmeal to Damon, while Maria burped Jannie. Jannie was crying again, poor little sick girl.
    “Same children who