Elle Cosimano

Somehow, I’m guessing that’s not what the saleslady had in mind when she’d described our suburban mecca as having a “small-town” feel.

Steven knew how to break things, too. Like dreams and wedding vows.

It’s a widely known fact that most moms are ready to kill someone by eight thirty A.M. on any given morning. On the particular morning of Tuesday, October eighth, I was ready by seven forty-five. If you’ve never had to wrestle a two-year-old slathered in maple syrup into a diaper while your four-year-old decides to give herself a haircut in time for preschool, all while trying to track down the whereabouts of your missing nanny as you sop up coffee grounds from an overflowing pot because in your sleep-deprived fog you forgot to put in the filter, let me spell it out for you.

I was ready to kill someone. I didn’t really care who.

My Google search history alone was probably enough to put me on a government watch list. I wrote suspense novels about murders like this. I’d
searched every possible way to kill someone. With every conceivable kind of weapon. I’d researched every possible way to dispose of a body.

“The top-shelf corporate suits usually reserve the booths in the back.” He plucked a glass from under the counter, letting his eyes slide over me. “You don’t look like the top-shelf type.”

I stabbed my lime with my stirrer and sucked down the last of my drink. “And you don’t look old enough to serve me.”

“Ouch!” he said through a laugh.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said a little cautiously, “but you don’t seem like the real-estate type either.”

“Really?” He was cocky, but endearing, and maybe it was the second vodka tonic, but his smile was growing on me. “What’s my type then?”

Julian studied me as he polished a glass. “Cold beer and takeout pizza. Barefoot, jeans, and a loose-fitting faded T.”

“I have kids,” I called across the parking lot. “Two of them.”

His smile caught the lamplight. “I’ve got nothing against minivans.”

I fought back a surprised laugh as I watched him go. What the hell was happening, and how was this my life? I climbed into the driver’s seat and stared at his number. If I made it through the night without being arrested by the highway patrol—or worse, by my sister—maybe I’d call him sometime.

Lifting my armrest, I climbed into the back of
the van, trying not to impale Harris Mickler with my heels. The state would like to present Exhibit A for the prosecution, the defendant’s right Louis Vuitton knockoff, also known as the murder weapon, Your Honor.

I called his name, uncertain of what I would do if he actually responded. I didn’t know what was worse: being trapped in the back of a van with a dead serial rapist I had abducted, or being trapped in the back of a van with a very angry, awake serial rapist I had abducted.

“Please,” I said. She jabbed her thumb at the button, cursing the garage door when it didn’t move. “Vero.” I lowered my voice, struggling to keep it steady. “I know how this must look, but it’s not what you think. This man is not a nice person. He did some very bad things.”

“I’m guessing he’s not the only one.”