Why aren’t I getting a medal for this? She was pathetic and stupid. All she did was curl up and scream like a baby. “Ooohh! How could you do this? Oooooh! Please stop!” Ooooh, what a bitch. She wasn’t near as good as Amber. Maybe next time I’ll try a baseball bat. That should be fun.
Terryn got ready for the funeral all alone in her basement apartment. As she dressed, it was with the careful slowness of a woman much older than her own twenty-six years. Each movement and action was chosen with an almost ritual concentration that she somehow felt reflected how much Katie had meant to her.
Terryn hadn’t made a lot of friends in this city. Most were coworkers and of them Katie had been her closest. She was too focused on her work and a little shy, so making friends had never been easy for her. Katie was the only one who could ever get her out of her shell. It was her influence and support that got Terryn to explore outside her comfort zone. With a no-nonsense approach, she took the lead on the whole BDSM mystery, and without her Terryn would never have had the guts to try. Katie had always pushed Terryn to let herself go and let her inner wild child play.
She looked in the mirror and could almost hear what Katie would’ve said: “C’mon, Terryn. You’ve gotta sex it up if you don’t want to spend all your nights with a battery-operated boyfriend. Black is so not your color—why don’t you wear that bronze dress we bought in SoHo? It looks fab on you and you know it.”
The phantom Katie she visualized was dancing around the room like the real Katie had always done in life, never still for a minute. Her boundless energy propelling her from one spot to the next like one of the ballerina figurines in a jewelry box, head high, arms raised, and she never stopped twirling. With perfect clarity, Terryn could see Katie march right up behind her, put her fists on her hips and challenge, “Let your hair down, for crying out loud. And put on some makeup. What are you doing? Going to a funeral?”
With a hiccupping cry, Terryn ripped the black, shapeless dress from her body and flung it across the room. She then yanked out the clips holding her bun in place and threw them with enough force that one broke when it hit the wall. With visions of Katie’s laugh and her challenging remarks still whirling through her mind, she grabbed the dress Katie had picked out for her from the back of the closet. It was clingy and sexy and completely inappropriate for a funeral, but she didn’t care.
This was for Katie and she would do her proud.
Brice got to the funeral late. The mourners were filing by the front slowly to give their condolences to the family. It wouldn’t give him a lot of time to observe everyone but he’d hang back and see what he could. He always came to the funerals if the killer was still at large. The way people acted gave him insights that led in some very fruitful directions. He was scanning the crowd of somber and weeping mourners when he caught sight of Terryn. She stopped his breath.
Standing at the back of the room, she was dressed in killer heels with spikes that had to be five inches at least. Her long and shapely legs were displayed to mouthwatering perfection in a dress that was sin in material form. It was the color of the desert at sunset and it presented her body like a gift. Every inch of her was outlined in silk. The endless lines of her legs were bare up to mid-thigh, where the dress lovingly clung then embraced an ass that was so flawless in shape it made his palms sweat. That glorious auburn hair had been straightened and it glowed against her shoulders like polished copper. She would’ve stood out in the middle of a Hollywood red carpet, but in this setting she shone like beacon in the night.
“That’s some dress, Red,” he whispered from behind her.
She turned to him with a slight grimace and said, “I know. I had an aneurism or something.” She gestured
Terryn got ready for the funeral all alone in her basement apartment. As she dressed, it was with the careful slowness of a woman much older than her own twenty-six years. Each movement and action was chosen with an almost ritual concentration that she somehow felt reflected how much Katie had meant to her.
Terryn hadn’t made a lot of friends in this city. Most were coworkers and of them Katie had been her closest. She was too focused on her work and a little shy, so making friends had never been easy for her. Katie was the only one who could ever get her out of her shell. It was her influence and support that got Terryn to explore outside her comfort zone. With a no-nonsense approach, she took the lead on the whole BDSM mystery, and without her Terryn would never have had the guts to try. Katie had always pushed Terryn to let herself go and let her inner wild child play.
She looked in the mirror and could almost hear what Katie would’ve said: “C’mon, Terryn. You’ve gotta sex it up if you don’t want to spend all your nights with a battery-operated boyfriend. Black is so not your color—why don’t you wear that bronze dress we bought in SoHo? It looks fab on you and you know it.”
The phantom Katie she visualized was dancing around the room like the real Katie had always done in life, never still for a minute. Her boundless energy propelling her from one spot to the next like one of the ballerina figurines in a jewelry box, head high, arms raised, and she never stopped twirling. With perfect clarity, Terryn could see Katie march right up behind her, put her fists on her hips and challenge, “Let your hair down, for crying out loud. And put on some makeup. What are you doing? Going to a funeral?”
With a hiccupping cry, Terryn ripped the black, shapeless dress from her body and flung it across the room. She then yanked out the clips holding her bun in place and threw them with enough force that one broke when it hit the wall. With visions of Katie’s laugh and her challenging remarks still whirling through her mind, she grabbed the dress Katie had picked out for her from the back of the closet. It was clingy and sexy and completely inappropriate for a funeral, but she didn’t care.
This was for Katie and she would do her proud.
Brice got to the funeral late. The mourners were filing by the front slowly to give their condolences to the family. It wouldn’t give him a lot of time to observe everyone but he’d hang back and see what he could. He always came to the funerals if the killer was still at large. The way people acted gave him insights that led in some very fruitful directions. He was scanning the crowd of somber and weeping mourners when he caught sight of Terryn. She stopped his breath.
Standing at the back of the room, she was dressed in killer heels with spikes that had to be five inches at least. Her long and shapely legs were displayed to mouthwatering perfection in a dress that was sin in material form. It was the color of the desert at sunset and it presented her body like a gift. Every inch of her was outlined in silk. The endless lines of her legs were bare up to mid-thigh, where the dress lovingly clung then embraced an ass that was so flawless in shape it made his palms sweat. That glorious auburn hair had been straightened and it glowed against her shoulders like polished copper. She would’ve stood out in the middle of a Hollywood red carpet, but in this setting she shone like beacon in the night.
“That’s some dress, Red,” he whispered from behind her.
She turned to him with a slight grimace and said, “I know. I had an aneurism or something.” She gestured
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