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‘Now, I have a huge decision to make,’ he said, when he lifted his head, his strange eyes lighting upon each of his kidnapped beauties. ‘I have too many toys.’ He touched Michelle’s lip with his finger, wiping up the smear of blood and licking it off. ‘How am I going to decide which one of you I should keep?’ ‘Y… you could let me go, sir. I wouldn’t tell anyone. I promise,’ Michelle whispered quickly. David slapped his hand down once more on her ass, the force of the blow making her jerk against him, rubbing against his exposed cock. ‘Michelle, that was a rhetorical question, in other words, shut your fucking trap.’ He moved away from the warmth of her body, turning back to the detective. Her breasts were heaving with the harshness of her breaths, her body flushed with shame and her face tight, but when he looked into her eyes, all he saw was anger. It made him feel more powerful, that helpless anger and the way she sat, her knees together, her shoulders straight, not trying to hide. It’s not easy.” She said, “None of this is easy.” “No.” “Are you divorced?” she asked. Should he tell her? How should he tell her? “No, my wife died,” he said. After a pause he added, “She’s dead.” She said, “I’m sorry for your loss,” and gave him the requisite head tilt and the smile, the generic gesture he resented so, and disappointment began to rise up in him. He feared the day would turn out to be another missed connection. She’d talk about her husband, then it would be his turn, he’d talk about his dead wife. The conversation would stutter, then stall, and they’d patiently wait until it was time for the kids to finish their play-date and they could all get on with the rest of the day. He looked to her. He saw the same disappointment stamped on her face. She wanted more, too. She wanted the same things he did. How do people do this? he asked himself. How do they get past all the pointless minutia, the fears, the wounds, the clutter? And then: a bell. No, it was a song. A simple.
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