Chapter One
Last night, Sixty Minutes ran a segment on Judge Judy, which I made a point to record.
Now, with a pile of clean laundry in front of me and a pair of Anthony’s briefs momentarily forgotten over one shoulder—a pair I had dubbed “The Forever Stain”—I sat, transfixed, for the entire segment.
I watched Judge Judy’s rise from a small New Jersey Family Appellate Court judge to one of the highest-paid TV personalities today. The highest-paid part surprised me. Then again, I think she deserves every penny. After all, she is a role model for many, and the voice of reason to all. Anyway, the segment showed a softer side of the judge, and I appreciated seeing that. I like her softer side. She is a mother and grandmother. Someday, I hope to be a grandmother, too.
That I would be the world’s youngest-looking grandmother was another story. That my granddaughters or grandsons would, within a few decades, look older than me, was...well, the same story. That I might never meet them was too heartbreaking to consider. Perhaps I would be introduced as a long-lost aunt or something.
I sighed when the segment was over. The judge has a beautiful life, a challenging job, and grandkids everywhere. She has aged gracefully, seemingly stronger now than ever.
Myself, I have been a vampire now for nine years. I had been turned in my late twenties. Twenty-eight, in fact. I still looked twenty-eight, perhaps even younger. Perhaps closer to twenty-five or twenty-six. I should be on the cusp of looking like I was forty. Instead, I look like I am a few years out of grad school.
I might look young. I might have the strength of ten women. I might even occasionally turn into a giant vampire bat. But raising two kids—one of whom was a teenager and the other was damn close—seriously took a superhuman effort. How mortals did it, I would never know.
I sighed heavily when I turned off the TV, briefly jealous of the life Judge Judy had created, and wondering how the hell my life was going to turn out, knowing I would have to cross that bridge when I got there.
My doorbell rang.
I looked at the time on my cell. My potential client was early.
I glanced at the laundry piles scattered over the couch and recliner and shrugged. That’s what my potential client got for being early. Still, I quickly shoved the briefs under the biggest pile. No one deserved to see The Forever Stain. Even early clients. Hell, even my worst enemies. Truly cruel and unusual punishment.
I had long since ditched my annoying habit of reaching up for my sunglasses every time I opened the front door, or checking my exposed skin for sunblock. Indeed, those habits had been eradicated in this past year. A year I had spent “living in the light,” as Allison liked to put it. Allison is annoying too, but I love her.
Now, I confidently opened the front door and ushered in a woman I knew. A woman I loathed. A woman I nearly slammed the front door on, or tripped as she came in. Or blindsided and tackled her to the floor where I wanted to give her the world’s biggest noogie and wedgie and then drag her over to my bathroom toilet for a “swirlie,” as the kids used to call it back when I was in high school.
But I didn’t.
I had been preparing myself all day to see Nancy Pearson. Or, as she liked to be called in a former life, Sugar Pearson.
She was, of course, the woman my murdered ex-husband had cheated on me with while we were married. She had called earlier today and requested to see me. I had nearly told her to go to hell. In fact, I was fairly certain I had thought it loud enough for her to hear it, because she had said, “Excuse me” at one point.
Anyway, she needed help and thought I was the right woman for the job.
Oh, joy.
So, being the sucker that I am—or, as Kingsley puts it, the bleeding heart that I am—I allowed the woman into my home, the woman who’d helped to destroy my marriage. I led her down the hall and into my office.
I settled behind my desk, and she did the same in front of my desk, in one of the three client chairs.
“So,” I said, noticing my heartbeat had picked up its pace, which, for me, was saying something. I also noted that my inner alarm system was ringing slightly just inside my ear. “Talk.”
She nodded, took in some air and tried to look me in the eye, gave up, and finally looked away. “I’m fairly certain—no, scratch that—I’m most definitely certain, that my ex-boyfriend is a serial killer.”
Chapter Two
Her aura glowed a light blue.
She was telling the truth, and yet my warning system was still chiming slightly. I’ve learned to listen to this warning system. The problem was, well, it wasn’t precise. I didn’t know exactly why it was ringing, only that something about this woman presented a threat to me.
I thought about that when I said, “Why not go to the police?”
“I can’t prove anything.”
“Then how do you know?”
The girl with the stage name of “Sugar,” but whose real name was Nancy Pearson, was having a hard time sitting still. She crossed and recrossed her legs in, let’s admit it, a fabulous display of dexterity. I could see how someone as feeble-minded as Danny would get seduced by such athleticism. She had probably worked the stripper stage impressively. None of which made me like her any better. Now, her high-heeled foot jiggled and bounced hyperactively. She looked like a woman with a secret, or someone who had to pee, or...
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
“I do.”
“Seriously?” she said.
“Seriously,” I said.
“Please?”
“No.”
“Pretty please?”
“Okay.”
“Really?”
“No.”
“You’re mean.”
“You have no idea. Now talk.”
She took out her packet of cigarettes anyway, opened it, removed a slightly bent one, stuck it between her teeth, and said, “Then let me at least pretend.”
“Pretend all you want.”
She did just that, sucking on the end of it like a real pro. She even exhaled. She did this again and I tried not to laugh.
“It’s not funny,” she said.
“I tried not to laugh.”
“Well, you didn’t do a very good job of it.”
I waited as she inhaled again on her unlit cigarette, exhaled some nonexistent smoke. Her foot bounced at the end of her ankle like a fish dangling from a line. Then, she actually asked for an ashtray.
“There are no ashes,” I pointed out reasonably.
“Please,” she said. “It helps.”