“They drape the shroud on their bed and have sex on it every night.”
“Eew.”
“Eew indeed.”
“How’ve you been, Donovan?”
“Good, actually. Mind if I sit up?”
“Actually, I do mind. As you can imagine, I don’t trust you. I think the safest thing would be for me to kill you.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time you tried.”
“That’s rather unfair, don’t you think?”
“I’m carrying a scar, says I’m right.”
During the time we were together, I’d always suspected that as long as she could kill other people, Tara Siegel wouldn’t have to kill herself. But I was wrong. One night after sharing a bottle of Cakebread with her I awoke to a gurgling sound. I flipped on the light and was horrified to find Tara lying on the floor in a pool of blood.
“Goodbye, Donovan,” she whispered.
I called 911 while rushing to her side. As I flipped her body toward me, she lashed out at my face with her weapon of choice, a 10-inch AGA Camploin Catalana switchblade, causing the scar I’ve worn ever since. Tara has always maintained she wasn’t trying to kill me, just trying to prevent me from saving her life. Either way, it was the defining moment in our relationship, and the one that brought it to an end.
“If I wanted to kill you I would have done it that night,” I said.
“Maybe you came to your decision recently.”
“Actually, I came to ask you a favor.”
“Sorry, Donovan. It’s your own fault. You’re too fucking dangerous.”
I shouted, “Now, Curly!”
Tara was about to laugh at my feeble attempt to distract her, but Curly’s Taser found her thigh before she could get it started. I burst upward from under the covers and pushed Tara backward. Though virtually incapacitated, she managed to squeeze off a shot, and her .45 caliber hollow point cut a hole in the ceiling.
I made a mental note to check if anyone had been sleeping in the bed in the room above me.
The Taser worked its magic, and Tara was unable to maintain her grip on the gun. I climbed out of bed, grabbed her gun, and placed it on the end table. I turned on the light. Curly and I watched her writhe helplessly on the bed a few seconds. I wrapped my belt around her neck and spun her face down and placed my knee in the small of her back.
“Good job, Curly,” I said. “Can you hand me a zip tie?”
He tossed me one of the plastic twist-tie handcuffs with his free hand, and I secured Tara’s wrists behind her. Only then did he remove the Taser barb.
Tara had used a silencer, so we didn’t have to worry about the gunshot waking anyone up. Curly and I got her onto a chair and hooked her arms over the back of it. He fastened her ankles to the chair legs with zip ties while I kept my belt tight around her neck. Then Curly cut the ties around her wrists and re-zipped each of them to the arms of the chair. Then he walked over to the door that connected the adjoining room and opened it. I released the belt and came around to face her.
“Where’d you get the midget?” she said.
“Little person,” I said.
“How long has he been hiding under the bed?”
I looked at Curly. “What, six hours?”
“Give or take,” he said.
