Dead By Morning

“Often?” He was practically licking his lips over the prospect of hearing the gory details.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but he beat me only once.”

“Only once?” Disappointment in his voice, Browning frowned.

“Yes, only once, but it was a severe beating. I had bruises and welts on my back and legs and buttocks and I could barely stand after he finished.”

There, you son of a bitch, are those details gruesome enough for you?

“Why only once? Did you mother intervene?”

“No.” Maleah stood her ground and stared the devil down. “And if you want any more answers, then I’ll need a few from you.”

Browning studied her as if trying to decide whether or not the pleasure he derived from tormenting her was worth the price she was asking.

“Durham and I actually played our own game,” Browning admitted. “He came to understand that he wasn’t dealing with an ordinary person, that I was his intellectual equal and therefore deserved his respect. Once I realized he was not the real Albert Durham, I demanded payment for my services.”

“You asked for a new lawyer and a female visitor . . . what else?”

“Information.”

“And he was willing to tell you whatever you wanted to know? I can’t believe—”

“No, of course not. But I didn’t ask for very much. We understood each other, so he was willing to give me what I required. He knew that the information I requested would in no way harm him. I asked him why he had chosen me. And he told me what I believed was the truth. After all, who was I going to tell?”

“And he explained why—because of your connection to Noah Laborde, who was the former boyfriend of a Powell agent.”

“Not in those exact words.”

Maleah glowered at Browning, her patience growing thin.

Stay calm. Pace yourself. Let him have all the time he needs.

“Explain,” Maleah said. “Give me his exact words.”

Browning ran his tongue over his teeth, licked his lips, and sighed dramatically. “I’m afraid that I don’t recall his exact words.”

“Then paraphrase.”

“He told me that he admired my work. I thanked him. I asked him why he had chosen me. He simply said, ‘You killed a man named Noah Laborde.’ I said yes. And when I told him that I didn’t understand the significance, he told me that I didn’t need to understand.”

“Did he ever mention the Powell Agency or Griffin Powell by name? Did he tell you or did you sense that he was a professional?”

“That’s two questions,” Browning reminded her. “Neither of which you’ve paid for, my dear.”

She nodded as dread spread through her like quicksilver, fast and poisonous, because she knew what was coming next.

“Why did your stepfather beat you only once?” Browning asked, the glint of anticipation sparkling in his eyes again.

Maleah knew she could lie to him, perhaps even convincingly, but she couldn’t fake the emotion that went along with lying. And it was an emotional reaction that Browning wanted from her. Blood, sweat, and tears.

“Because my big brother made a bargain with our stepfather to take both his own beatings and mine.”

Browning’s eyes widened with exhilaration. “How noble and heroic of your brother. But you must have felt terribly guilty allowing someone else to take your punishment while you got off scot-free.”

Answer him, damn it. No, wait. Let him see how much his question affected you, how it brought back painful memories.

“What’s wrong, Maleah?”

“Nothing.” That slight tremor in your voice was a nice touch. Browning had to know it was real and not faked.

“Then answer me.”

“I didn’t know . . .” Maleah admitted. “Not until years later. All I knew was that my stepfather never beat me again.”

“But you were afraid of him, weren’t you? Why was that?”

“You already know the answer. I’d think it would be obvious to you.”

“Ah, but I want to hear you say it . . . in your own words.”

“Yes, I was afraid of him, deathly afraid. Afraid for my mother and my brother and for myself. He was a cruel, heartless bastard.” With tears misting her eyes, she looked right at Browning. “He never beat me again, but he berated me every chance he got. Once a day and twice on Sunday.”

Browning chuckled. “It’s good to see you’re able to maintain a sense of humor about such a tragic childhood. That shows just how tough you are now, doesn’t it, Maleah? And you pride yourself on being tough, on being strong and in control.”

“Damn straight about that,” she told him, not trying to conceal the anger in her voice. He wants emotion—I’ll give it to him. She shot up out of her chair and looked down at him. “Did the copycat ever mention either the Powell Agency or Griffin Powell by name?”

Browning didn’t respond.

“Answer me, you goddamn, sadistic, lowlife son of a bitch. I paid for your answer and you’re going to give it to me.”

Angling his head sideways, he rolled his eyes upward and glanced at her. “What a delicious thing your anger and hatred is, my dear Maleah. I can’t tell you how much pleasure you’re giving me.”

“Tit for tat, Jerome. I give to you. You give to me. If you try to change the rules of the game now, I’m out of here so fast that—”

“He never mentioned Griffin Powell by name,” Browning said.

“What about the agency?”

“No. The name Powell never came up, not the man or his agency.”

“Then the only name the copycat ever mentioned was Noah Laborde?”

“That’s right.”

Once again, Browning had given her information that was all but useless.

“Did you ever suspect or did the copycat ever imply that he was a professional, that he was working for someone else?”

“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?” Browning stretched languidly, rotating his shoulders slowly and then twisting his head from side to side.

“What’s the going exchange rate between sixty-four thousand and my tears?” she asked, knowing what he wanted.

“A few more insights into the real Maleah Perdue,” he said. “And one small stipulation.”

“What small stipulation?”

“I want to taste them.”

“You want to taste what?” Dear God, he couldn’t mean what she thought he did.

“Your tears. I want you to come close enough for me to wipe away your tears with my tongue.”

No way in hell was this monster going to put his mouth on her!

“It’s not going to happen,” she told him.

He shrugged. “It’s your choice. But I can answer your question with certainty. And maybe, just maybe, I can give you even more.”

She didn’t believe him about the even more part and wasn’t sure she believed that he could or would answer her question. But she was close, so very close, to ending this. She couldn’t stop when she had made it almost to the finish line.

“If I cry, then you tell me what I want to know first and if your answers are worth anything to me, you can use your fingertip to wipe my tears.”

“Hmm . . . a compromise.” He nodded. “Agreed.”