Killing Fear (14 page)

“I don’t want to leave you alone,” he said.

“I have an alarm. I’m okay.”

He frowned, touched her chin. “Robin—”

The dim yellow light made his eyes darker. He looked at her as if he really cared. As if, maybe, he loved her. The thought lifted her up. He knew she was a stripper, yet he treated her with respect and affection and intelligence.

He tucked her hair behind her ears and kissed her lightly, but with more intimacy than their frantic coupling in the bar earlier. She melted against him. “Good night.”

She felt him watching her walk up the stairs. She waved at him from the landing at the top, and he left, double-checking that the door that led in to the common entry was secure.

Maybe they had a future. There was something different about their relationship, something that Robin hadn’t had before. Powerful. Passionate. Special.

She unlocked the door, reached for the alarm to put in the code and reset it. The keypad was lit in faint green, so she didn’t need lights to see, but she wished she had left the kitchen light on or something. It was pitch-black with all the drapes pulled.

“Meow, meow, meow.”

Anna’s cat brushed against her legs. “I fed you early because I had to work, you just forgot, silly cat.” She picked him up.

Pickles was wet. Sticky. “Now what did you get into?”

She smelled bleach, and while her mind started to send her a warning, her first thought was for the cat,
that he was going to get sick if he knocked over the bleach and inhaled too many fumes.

She took two steps forward feeling for the lamp she couldn’t see but knew was on the end table right there on the left of the door, but she tripped. The cat jumped from her arms as she fell, her hands falling into 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 premonitions or any of that nonsense, but something was wrong.

Over time, Robin’s fear dissipated. Theodore Glenn became a regular, always Wednesdays and Fridays. He dated a few of the girls, even Brandi, who was discerning about the men she slept with. Theodore Glenn was polite, smart, and attractive. He was a stripper groupie, and the girls all liked him. And even when he started going home with other women, Bethany never thought ill of him. By that time she had her sights set on another regular, an older man who Robin was certain was married. Bethany laughed that off as well.

Except for Robin, everyone liked Theodore Glenn. When he looked her way, she turned cold. Even if she couldn’t see him, she sensed his presence. Watching. Waiting—for what, she had no idea. She kept her distance and did her job and didn’t think too much about her initial reaction to Glenn until RJ called her in the middle of the night a year later and told her Bethany had been murdered.

Robin stared at the phone. “Dammit! It’s just another game to you, isn’t it? Call, you bastard.”

And even though she asked for it, when the phone rang Robin jumped.

THIRTEEN

Theodore heard the click when Robin picked up the phone. He smiled, picturing her. Maybe sitting in her bed, as it was still early and she was a night owl. What would she wear to bed? Sexy lingerie? Sweatpants? Nothing at all? Her hair would be mussed from sleep, though he doubted she’d slept much since the earthquake freed him.

That he was on her mind pleased him. It put him in control.

“I knew you would answer.”

“What do you want from me?”

Hanging up on him had been her fear, and he relished those two words—his voice speaking, “Hello, Robin”—had set her off. What power he had over her. Robin hadn’t changed. All kinetic action. He’d seen her energy when she danced, saw it in her paintings. Bold, brilliant art that seemed to move. She’d improved from when he’d known her seven years ago. During his time at the library yesterday he’d done some online research. Found out a lot about Robin McKenna and her achievements.

But she still feared him, and he would use that to his advantage.

“Did you miss me?”

“Go to hell.”

He laughed. Her verbal abuse certainly wouldn’t faze him. He expected it. Enjoyed it. “Hell would suppose that there is also a heaven, which I do not believe. You can’t have one without the other, though I find religious philosophy tedious. Life is what we make it, isn’t it? You’ve certainly made something out of
your
life.”

“What do you
want
?”

Her voice rose, as she lost what little patience she had. “You know what I want, Robin.”

“I can’t read minds, and if I could I certainly wouldn’t choose yours. You’re sick and twisted and the cops are going to find you. You can’t hide forever.”

“Neither can you. Which one of us can hide longer? My money’s on me.”

“I’ll kill you, Theodore. You killed my friends—”

“You picked them, Robin.”

She didn’t say a word, and he knew he had her.

He smiled and leaned back in his car. The cell phone belonged to Jenny Olsen. He’d be dumping both the car and the phone soon because he imagined that Jenny wouldn’t be able to keep her big mouth shut when the police came knocking at her door.

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” she finally said, her voice barely audible.

“Bethany told me that you treated her like an overprotective big sister. You cared about her, didn’t you?” Theodore continued without giving Robin time to answer. “And Brandi—she told me she’s the one who got you the job at RJ’s in the first place. She was jealous of you, did you know? She recognized that you were the better dancer. But she also respected you because you didn’t try to take her job. Why didn’t you, Robin? You were the leader of those sluts, why didn’t you just take over?”

She didn’t answer. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, wondering what she was doing. Pacing, most likely. She couldn’t sit still for this long. She never had before. Even when she’d been on break at RJ’s, she’d been moving. She might put her feet up in the Back Room, but her hands would be doing something, sketching on notepads, and her toes would be tapping to the music.

He’d watched Robin far more than she suspected.

“And Jessica. Now there was one hot little minx. It was a shame I had to kill her, really. She was the best fuck I’d had in a long, long time.