Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
“Where exactly are we going?” she asked, no longer bothering to keep the unease from her voice.
“Somewhere private.” Her companion remained half-turned away, his face still frustratingly obscured under the brim of his fedora. “I find negotiations go more smoothly without…distractions.”
“You haven’t even told me what this opportunity is.”
He chuckled softly. “Patience, Ms. Short. Patience is the virtue that makes dreams come true in this town. All will become clear soon.”
As they turned onto a darkened industrial street, Elizabeth reached for the door handle. “I’ve changed my mind. I’d like to go back now.”
His hand shot out, gripping her wrist with shocking strength. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
For the first time, he turned fully toward her, and Elizabeth caught a glimpse of his face—utterly handsome, severe, with eyes that seemed to gleam unnaturally in the dim car interior.
“Who are you?” she whispered, panic seizing her like a phantom.
“Just an errand boy.” He maintained his grip, seemingly without effort.
The car slowed before an unmarked building, its windows dark, save for a faint red glow emanating from one upper floor. The engine cut off, leaving them in silence.
“Please,” Elizabeth said, her voice barely audible. “I don’t want this. Whatever this is. I don’t want it anymore.”
“What you want is immaterial.” He leaned closer, and for one terrifying moment, she thought she saw something shift in his face—a momentary transformation into something inhuman. “What matters is what you are.”
“And what am I?”
His smile widened. “The gateway.”
Then he opened the car door, and as he did so, she managed to wrench free of his grasp, throwing open her own door and bolting down the dark street with no destination beyond away. Her heels clattered against the pavement, slowing her down. She kicked them off, continuing barefoot, the rough concrete scraping her feet. Occasionally she’d step on something sharp, causing her to cry out, but she had no choice but to keep going.
Behind her, she heard nothing—no running footsteps, no shouts. Just silence.
Somehow, that was worse.
The street turned a corner and ended at a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Elizabeth followed it left, into an alley that stank of garbage and urine. Her lungs burned, her legs trembled with exhaustion. She needed to find a main road, a telephone, a police officer—anything.
The alley opened onto another deserted street. Elizabeth paused, bent double, gasping for breath. When she straightened, he was standing ten feet away.
He hadn’t been there a second ago.
“How—” she began, backing away.
“Running only makes it more difficult,” he said conversationally, as if they were discussing the weather. “For both of us.”
Elizabeth turned to flee in the opposite direction but the man was fast. His hand clamped over her mouth. Sharp pain exploded at her neck.
Her world faded to black.
At dawn, a vacant lot in Leimert Park received its grisly offering. The body had been arranged with artistic precision—positioned just so, a macabre display for the morning jogger who would discover it.
The newspapers would soon call her the Black Dahlia.
But to the figure watching from the shadows as the first police cars arrived, she was simply the beginning.
1
LENA
Blood red.
The dress, the gloves, the shoes, the lipstick.
I’ve always been told as a redhead that I should avoid the color, that the combination is too garish, that I would look like a blood stain.
The thing is, I like looking like a blood stain. I like that when the men in the crowd watch me with those cruel and hungry eyes, that I come across as a warning. Of course, they don’t realize it. It’s all in the subconscious, that deep, hidden part of us that Freud liked to go on about. More often than not, that layer is where I have the most power. I think a lot of women carry their power there, whether they know it or not.
“Five minutes, Miss Reid,” Anne says, poking her head in the dressing room.
I eye her in the mirror and smile at the sight of her cherubic brown face. I quickly raise a finger. “Hold on,” I tell her, getting out of my chair. “I missed you the other night.”
I reach into my vanity case and pull out a paper bag, wincing at the grease spot in the corner, then stride across the room in my stockinged feet, and hand it out to her. “Sorry, one of the sandwiches is probably a little stale, but I made the other one just before I came here.”
She gives me a shy look, hesitating before she accepts them. I’ve only been singing at The Emerald Room for two years, but Anne seems to have come with the institution. I also know she has two small children to support and barely makes enough money to survive, her husband having died during the war. I try to kick back what money I can to her, at least when Marco isn’t looking, but I can always bring her extra food. The woman is too skinny and I know whatever food she has is always going to her kids. Sometimes I wish I could sit her down and make her eat it in front of me.