Read Online The Butterfly Clues by Kate Ellison - Free Book Online Page B

something.”
    “It was my mother’s grandmother’s name,” I explain as he twirls me back in, then puts his hand on my lower back and begins a waltz. It makes me shiver, but I don’t pull away. I blabber on, “My parents said that when I was born, my hair was thick and dark, like hers. They were going to name me something else but when they saw me, they were sure I was her, reincarnated.” I pause; he dips me. Electric heat races up my back. “My parents are kinda weird,” I continue, feeling Flynt’s big hand around mine, guiding me in circles. I count each revolution in my head: four, five, six. “Or, I mean, they were weird. Now they’re not anything.” I bite my lip, wishing the words back. “So, what’s the story with your name? I’ve never met anyone else named Flynt.”
    He drops my hand and does a goofy ballerina twirl, arms raised above his head. “Just a nickname. After Larry,” he says as he twirls farther away.
    “Larry?” I repeat.
    “Larry Flynt.”
    Now that Flynt isn’t leading, I don’t feel comfortable dancing. I hug my arms across my chest, squeezing my fingertips hard into my shoulders; each finger, three times, push push push. Thirty; thirty pushes. The number relaxes me; my neck releases, I shake my head.
    Flynt raises his eyebrows. “Mr. Flynt happened to be quite the porn-o-graphy mogul back in the day. He was a pretty famous smut publisher and owned a chain of strip clubs and all those sorts of things.”
    I squint at him. “So, what? You’re secretly a porn mogul?”
    “Not exactly.” He laughs. “You actually never heard of Larry Flynt?”
    I shake my head again and Flynt reaches out, chucks my chin like I’m six and not sixteen. “You really are from Lakewood, aren’t you?”
    “Just not too much of a porn buff,” I say stiffly, jerking away.
    “Hey, hey.” Flynt’s voice is soft. “I think it’s cute. I think it’s great, in fact.”
    Cute. Great. Like beautiful : words that have never applied to me, words I always thought were meant for different kinds of girls.
    “People started calling me Flynt because when I first moved to Cleveland from Baltimore, I earned most of my money in strip clubs.” Flynt hurries to explain when I raise my eyebrows. “I sketched strippers for their clients. You know, they don’t allow cameras in the clubs. I was a one-man service industry for the service industry.” I can tell he used to use this line a lot. He raises his eyebrows up and down, cartoon-like. Teasing me.
    But his reference to strippers has distracted me.
    “So, then maybe you remember Sapphire?” My voice sounds weak and high. “You know. The stripper—the friend of mine—who was murdered last week? Maybe you’ve sketched her?” My mouth and throat are dry, itchy, waiting for his response. He’s got to know her. How could he not? The breeze picks up. The city below looks like it’s on fire.
    Flynt shrugs. “I don’t know. I mean, there’s like half a dozen clubs in Neverland alone, and strippers in and out of them constantly, too many to keep track of. I only know a few of them, really.” He is watching me sideways.
    And what comes to me, a certainty like a rock in my stomach, is: he’s hiding something.
    “She worked at Tens,” I say, “Do you know Tens?”
    A few seconds pass; he seems to be thinking. “Yeah, I know Tens,” he says finally. “I haven’t been in a while, though. Maybe Sapphire started there after I’d already stopped coming by to draw.”
    Another rock drops in my stomach. He’s lying. I don’t know how I know. I just do. My heart is a great thumping whale within my chest. I count rooftops in the distance. Eight red. Four deep blue. Five light blue. All bad. Bad bad bad. The nervous feeling is creeping in, wrapping itself around me, serpentine. But —I reason with myself— if I group the blues together, four light and five dark makes nine. Nine is very good.
    “I’m thinking of stopping by there soon, actually,”