34. June 18th

JUNE 18TH

TB

They plannedto go to the club again tonight. Tonight's outfit was even hotter. The boots were almost up to the knees, white with zippers up the sides. Her thighs were bare until a pair of white shorts covered her. They weren't hugging her skin or so short that they were indecent, but if she bent over at the waist, he might have gotten the impression that they showed more than they actually did. The blouse was off the shoulder, a white, sheer overlay painted with bright orange flowers.

His hand reached out for her braid, plaited down the side, and thrown over one shoulder, a bright orange ribbon tied in a bow at the end.

She stood on the bottom stair, waiting for him. Her grin was borderline mischievous. Before he realized it, his hands were around her throat, not grabbing but guiding her face closer to his. Her eyes fluttered closed, and he tried to memorize what this moment felt like.

The doorbell rang.

TB yanked his head back with lightning speed, his head turning straight down the hall to the door. His weapon was drawn, and he was motioning with his hand to head back up the stairs.

"Bathroom. Don't leave until I come to get you."

She nodded and flew up the stairs.

Weapon at the ready, TB doused the hall lights and stepped on silent feet toward the front door. A shadow moved across it, almost imperceptibly, but when TB swung the door open wide, no one was there.

Then he looked down at his feet.

"Fuck," he whispered to himself. He lifted his watch to his mouth. "Call Nerdbrain."

The ringtone over his watch went once, then he heard the sounds of huffing and puffing. "Can't talk now, dear. Daddy's working."

"Get that bastard, or you're going back in the locker," TB threatened.

"Yes, honey, I'll pick up milk"—Nemo grunted, sounding like he'd had to jump over something—"on my way home. Gotta go!"

TB barked out another expletive, then reached down and picked up the white box wrapped with a giant red ribbon. With a last look out the door, he brought the box inside and set it on the dining room table. Probably not the smartest move, but whatever was in this box wasn't meant to kill. It was meant to scare.

He pulled a knife from his front pocket, slit the ribbon, and flipped open the lid.

What lay in the box even gave him pause.

There was no blood, no tissue, no gore of any kind. Just six braids, each with a different colored silk ribbon at the tail, that had been neatly cut from women's heads. Five red. One blonde.

His heart grabbed at thinking how a seventh braid with a little orange ribbon at the end of the tail could so easily be in this box with the others.