Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
His grunt came out in a mist of apology and promise. So adorbs!
“Thank you.” I reached right into his bag, not mine, and popped a tiny beignet into my mouth.
At the Bentley, Washington went full James Bond. The Idris Elba version the world would’ve gotten if Hollywood didn’t act like the addition of melanin was a weapons-grade liability. He opened my door with MI6 swagger, bowed to the theme music playing in my head, then sprinted around the hood. That action-movie slide made my ovaries do a standing ovation. With the top down, he landed in the driver’s seat without bothering to open his own door.
The engine turned on. The radio blared, but somehow it disconnected from my Apple Music.
“Ugh, not this.” I reached for the touchscreen. “You and the damn news station.”
“Oh, hush, put on your crybaby-ass R&B, Madison. Who’s the dry one now?”
He stopped mid-clowning as the newscaster cut in. “Second female body found in Tremé. Mother of five. Newlywed—”
“What?” The bag in my hand flung itself into the universe. It flew right out and plopped onto the dirt. I opened the door, retrieved the now-open bag, put the dirty beignets inside, and laid it on the floor at my feet to throw away later.
“Madison, damn.” Washington threw the car into reverse and sped off. “You get two of mine. Just two. No negotiations.”
“Okay, I get it.” I cranked the news.
The report continued to play, and all at once the sunshine felt sharper, the air too thin. The broadcast killed my vibe as our world narrowed to that grim report. I popped a beignet into Washington’s mouth and then gifted myself with some emotional support carbs. We used to be 20/20 junkies. We’d talk-eat straight through kidnappings, dismemberments, even that time the subject expert said, “And poof! They were toast!”
But then, the fun vanished, and we annihilated those beignets. Because the newscaster had said, “We’re waiting for confirmation from authorities, but I believe one more similar event constitutes a serial killer.”
Nothing says Oh, crap like realizing you’re out of pastries and someone is out there killing Black women in Louisiana.
We stared at each other when a guy called the radio station and complained about the cops doing nothing to find his wife when she went missing a week before Christmas.
“Have they found her?” the reporter asked.
“Two weeks later.” The man sobbed. “Strangled.”
“Okay, okay …” I gasped, lowering the radio while the newscaster went off about the lack of respect. Too much to process. “If this Christmas Bride died in December. That makes the reporter wrong about the number of vics. That makes Vic Two the Valentine-ish Bride, since she died late February. Which makes the newlywed mother of five … the third victim.” I put the information into my phone. “Wash!”
“I’m listening.”
“Momma of five died in April. Weeks ago. You heard of this?”
“Nah. What does it say?”
“She was strangled with a veil too! The cops are all hush-hush. They’re Black women, that’s why. Oh, Wash, they’re all newlyweds! It says she and her husband had welcomed a little girl a week after they jumped the broom. So sad. Look at their social media post.”
He flicked a glance away from the road. “Young Black couple. Dude looks like he got his head on straight. Give him props for putting a ring on it after five kids, too.”
I stared at him wide-eyed, fingers shaking. “And, uh … so … I think I’m about to say something crazy.”
“Like Texas is a serial killer?” Washington asked.
“What?” Yep, this time his bag, now empty, went flying out of my hands. It swooshed into the air, and the driver behind us laid on their horn while zipping around us.
Washington matched their bravado, cussing, honking.
“Are you done sizing cojones?” I folded my arms, then planted my hand on my chest. Because, yeah, he took it there and commenced a honking argument. After the blare of both horns finished slap-boxing against my eardrums, I asked, “Why would you say that? He’s your brother!”
“The other woman died in late February, after being missing for two weeks. Texas didn’t come to Montana’s proposal. When have you known him to miss a meal?”
“He didn’t go? Not even for the lobster?”
“No. He went MIA on Valentine’s. Dude had no intention of popping up at Montana’s proposal party. And if Momma hadn’t called him crying about how Montana rescued Zuri and Darius from her crazy-ass baby daddy that night, I doubt he would’ve shown up at the hospital after the proposal. He could’ve been surveilling Bride Two. Maybe he waited to snatch her later, so he could finally support our family! You told me he’s charming. Guess what, bébé? Serial killers? They’re charming.” Washington shrugged.
I slugged him. “Excuse me, you’re the one who embodied Dahmer and Bundy when talking about tying me up instead of divorce. So, if anyone is homicidally meticulous, it’s you. You-you … are meticulous … And you went off the deep end when I left you and your body and your money!”