“Pamela Tribbard is a client of mine. I don't know what your relationship with her is, but if you want to know, you'll have to ask her directly.”
“Pam is my mother.”
I stop walking. My bag of groceries feels heavy all of a sudden, and my blood's gone cold.
“My biological mother anyway. She abandoned me and my brother when we were eight and five, respectively, to go start a second family. I think she's on family number four now, but it looks like she might stick with this one.” Audra gives me a blank look, as if she's discussing the weather. “We reconnected when I was eighteen. I guess you could say we're friends now?”
“You've forgiven her?” I ask, trying to wrap my mind around the situation. It's not entirely unexpected, given Audra's interior makeup. Obviously something had to happen to make her this way; most monsters aren't born this vicious, filled with this much hate. Except for Margarite Simmons. That bitch was born bad.
“Fuck no,” Audra scoffs, raking her fingers through her ruby red hair. She stands out like a sore thumb in this crowd of hemp dressed hippies, eco activists, and starving artists. As do I, I suppose. Oh well. When it's obvious Audra doesn't plan on expounding, I decide to balance out the conspicuous nature of my outfit by purchasing a pair of cat shaped beeswax candles from a nearby booth and handing them over to her.
“For your boudoir, my dear,” I say with a false kiss to the cheek. Audra stiffens, but accepts the candles, cradling them against her ample chest like they're real kittens.
“You're … more fucked up than I thought,” Audra replies as we continue onward, circling around the plaza and heading back in the direction of my car. I can't handle large crowds for long, not even if it might help me blend in more. There are certain things I don't tolerate. “Do you get off on doing weird shit like this?”
“More like I have to do this to survive. Just as you should. Just as Clarice does. Like Pam. A front of normalcy is absolutely essential.” I unlock my car and climb inside, expecting Audra to follow me. Instead, she shakes her head and crosses her arms, letting the small paper bag with the candles dangle from her hand.
“I'm going to stay here,” she tells me, and I don't argue that her car is at my house. She'll come and get it later, I'm sure. If I'm the slightest bit pleased at that, nobody would know. Not even the demon. I keep the strangeness of the moment hidden from him with a smirk.
“Enjoy your afternoon, Miss Holiday. When you've finally decided to become my client, give me a call.”
I slam the door and drive away.
For three days, Audra's Mini Cooper sits in my driveway.
Just the sight of it infuriates me. It gets to the point where I close the curtains and refuse to look at it. Where the fuck is she? I went running by her house yesterday evening, but there were no lights on. I even gave in this morning and sent her a rude text, demanding she remove the vehicle from my property.
I got no response.
I swirl the wine in my glass, a cabernet sauvignon from Napa Valley. It tastes like wild berries and sage, soothing the angry growl that's building in my throat. The longer I sit here and stew, the worse I get. I don't know what I expected to happen. I threw the line out to sea and now I have to wait. Audra will come to me. It's inevitable. They always do.
I finish the wine and decide to pay a visit to Leslie Catsitch. I'm angry enough that I should be able to put on a good show for her. Besides, I haven't seen a client since Clarice and my skin is starting to get that itchy quality that tells me I'm in trouble. The darkness isn't happy; his claws are showing.
I grab my jacket from the back of my chair and head to the door, reaching for the handle at the same moment the bell rings. A quick check of the peephole reveals a surprising face: Robbie Carrell.
“Shit.” I grit my teeth and let the anger wash through me before I push it back, plastering a pleasant smile onto my lips for the show. And I better put on a good one. Even an honorable man who gets regular visits from an eighteen year old is bound to be cast in the light of suspicion. And I, I am far from an honorable man. “Roberta,” I say, voice mild and pleasant, “to what do I owe the pleasure?” As soon as the door swings open, she's stepping through, pressing herself into my space with an angry expression and an empty plate.
I don't want to – no, no, I can't – touch her, so I step back, watching in surprise as she slams the door behind her. I'm not often surprised, and I don't like the feeling, especially not when it's coming from the same two women. Audra and Robbie. They couldn't be anymore different, but they garner the same reaction from me. Why? What the fuck is going on?