something sticky and wet. The smell. Why hadn’t she noticed the smell? It was foul, sickly sweet. Metallic-and bleach. Her chest tightened and she couldn’t breathe. She reached back to push herself up and touched a person. A hand.
Her stomach heaved as she fumbled standing in the dark. Someone was here, on the floor. A person. Blood and bleach. Blood and bleach. No, no, no!
She found the lamp, shaking so hard that she knocked it over. She ran to the door, feeling the wall for the light switch. Turned it on.
Anna. Her blood pooled on the hardwood floor. Her eyes were wide open, staring at Robin. Duct tape over Anna’s mouth. She was naked, red cut marks all over her body. One deep bloody slash across her throat. She was dead.
Robin flung open the door and screamed. She ran down the stairs, hoping Will was still there. In the back of her mind, through the pounding in her head, she heard the shrill shriek of her alarm.
The street was empty. Will was gone.
Robin ran to the bar and called 911. That’s where she remained, covered in Anna’s blood, until the police arrived.
“He killed her,” Robin told the first officer on scene. “Theodore Glenn killed Anna and you couldn’t stop him!”
But in the back of her mind, Robin couldn’t help but think that this was all her fault.
The phone rang and Robin shook herself out of her nightmare. They had finally built a case against Theodore Glenn and put him in prison. The police would catch him again. She held on to that hope.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hello, Robin.”
Theodore.
She slammed down the phone, acting on instinct and not common sense. She stared at the receiver. Damn, damn, damn! The police might have been able to trace the call. Maybe she could have learned something about where he was or what he planned to do.
“Call back, you bastard!”
Damn him. What had she done? Let her fear take control again.
Robin had met Theodore soon after he started visiting the club regularly. Back when it was still RJ’s, back when they stripped and danced and paid the house half their tips. But even then, she’d made enough money to put herself through state college and keep her mother from losing the small house that had been her grandparents’, but which her mother had taken a new mortgage on to pay for whatever she thought she needed.
Robin had just graduated from college, with honors in commercial art and art history, and she could have quit stripping. But there were two things that she valued, both of which cost money. Her dream to own her own house-a real home-and to be an artist. Paint supplies weren’t cheap, and she needed time and daylight to paint what she loved. She didn’t want to be miserable at a desk job or creating ad campaigns to sell more useless stuff, like all the junk her mother was continually suckered into buying.
But she couldn’t say she was happy stripping, either. Robin didn’t know what she could do to realize her dreams, and she felt trapped. Uncertain. And lonely. Especially after Sean left her.
That first night Theodore came into RJ’s, Robin knew something was different about him. Not a good different. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was that disturbed her, even when Bethany rushed up to her, flushed and excited.
Bethany was energized when her dance was over. She ran into the dressing room, her thong concealing little. Robin tossed her a silk robe and Bethany absentmindedly put it on, chattering, “He’s here again! Oh my God, Robin, he’s so gorgeous. And he tips so good.”
Robin frowned. “Are you talking about the guy you slept with last week?” Robin didn’t condone Bethany’s laissez-faire attitude about sex. At twenty-three, Robin was one of the oldest dancers, and she’d been working here for five years. She was the one who stood up to RJ when he was an asshole, she was the one who got raises for the girls and fought to reduce the house percentage of tips from fifty to a third. And she was the one to keep a watchful eye that the girls weren’t selling more than their dances.
Bethany was nineteen, beautiful, and had next to no common sense. She’d run away from Tulsa, Oklahoma, to L.A. when she was seventeen to be a star, got sidetracked to San Diego because of a jerk she met, and was practically homeless when she applied for a job at RJ’s. Robin had a soft spot for her.
“Bethany, I told you to be careful with the men you go home with. Most of these guys are okay, but you never know.”
“You have to meet him.”
RJ, a tall, skinny sixty-year-old man who looked eighty and had owned the club for thirtysome years, came in without knocking. “Robin, babe, you’re up and late.”
“I’m coming.”
“Move your ass!” He closed the door, unmindful of the women in various stages of undress.
Robin finished with her makeup as Bethany said, “He’s at table six. He’s over six feet tall-I love tall men-and really cute. Brown hair and the most incredible blue eyes you ever saw.”
Robin blocked Bethany’s voice, running through her routine in her mind. She was a dancer, an actress. She put on her public face: makeup accentuating her cat eyes, glitter adding sparkle to her dark red hair that she pinned up in what appeared to be loose curls, but which were held tight in place so as not to come undone during her vigorous, sexy dance.
Robin wasn’t the star-that was Brandi, who did extensive lap dances and played up to the audience. But Robin was technically the best dancer. She used her strength-her talent.
She couldn’t see the audience under the bright lights, which was more than fine with her. She danced her heart out, then left the stage. From the wings, she glanced at table six.
He stared directly at her. She couldn’t make out his features clearly, but he was attractive and well groomed. “An attorney,” Bethany had gushed, and Robin could see that.
She shivered. Even at this distance, his piercing blue eyes chilled her. He saw her looking at him, nodded his head. She turned away.
As soon as she had her cocktail costume on-that had been her last dance and she would wait tables for the rest of the night-Bethany pulled Robin onto the floor. Right to table six.
“Theodore,” Bethany said breathlessly, “this is my friend Robin. I just wanted her to meet you because she’s such a mother hen.”
Robin gave a reserved smile. Theodore extended his hand, and she accepted the gesture. His hand was solid and calloused, as if he worked or played outdoors. He was larger than she’d originally thought, solid upper body muscles, flat stomach, fancy clothes.
“Nice to meet you, Robin.”
“Likewise,” she mumbled, unable to tear her eyes from his. They unnerved her and she forced herself to keep the polite smile plastered on her face.
She didn’t like him. She couldn’t explain it, couldn’t find any flaw in his appearance or attitude, but she felt as if an entire army rippled under his perfect skin. The way he looked at Robin-with a familiarity even her few lovers hadn’t shown-deeply disturbed her.
“You’re an exceptional dancer,” he continued, a slight frown on his mouth telling Robin that he noticed her aloofness and did not approve.
“Thank you.” She bowed her head slightly, pasted on a brighter smile, and looked him in the eye. “I need to get to work. You understand. Have fun.” Robin hurried off.
Bethany left that night again with the creepy Theodore. Robin didn’t sleep well, and called her first thing in the morning. “Just want to make sure you got home all right,” Robin said, relieved.
“Of course, silly. Shhh.”
“What?”
“I have company. Whoops!” Bethany giggled. “Gotta go.”
Robin hung up, cold fear turning her stomach. She didn’t know why, she didn’t believe in
