True Evil_A fast-paced psychological thriller that will keep you hooked Page 8

“Oh,” I said, relieved to know Mom wasn’t about to join us. “Are you going to show me the studio?”

  She nodded eagerly. “Yes!”

  “Okay, let’s go and check it out then.” I put her down on the ground and took her hand.

  Ariel leading the way, we walked into the warehouse, which was parted into a few sections. We walked through a narrow hallway with poor lighting. Along it, there were doors that had been left ajar.

  “It’s here,” he said and took a sharp right into a big space with a large easel in the middle, lots of sunshine pouring in through windows along the edge of the high ceiling. A medium-sized canvas sat in the easel, untouched, its whiteness glaring in the plentiful sunlight. A few others were stacked against each other on the floor, leaning against a wall. Apart from a couple of side tables with some brushes and lots of paint on them, a large mirror on the opposite wall, and two folding chairs, there wasn’t much else in the space. It had a nice energy to it, the faint sound of traffic entering in through a window that had been left ajar. I could see myself doing some work in here, already feeling inspired to fill that blank canvas with color.

  “My daughter Shanit wanted to become a painter when she was a teenager, so I had this studio fixed up for her,” Ariel explained. “She only came here a couple of times, then she got bored with the idea.” He sighed with disappointment. “It’s been empty ever since. Seven years now. There’s a kitchen and a bathroom on the other side. There are two more rooms.” He motioned with his hand at the thin door we had just passed through. “You can use one as a darkroom to develop pictures if you want. The other to shoot in. It has great light. Any materials that you need, let me know. Money is not a problem. I’m just so happy you will be using it. I’ve always wanted an artist in the family.”

  I smiled at him, sincerely grateful. Maybe I would enjoy painting even more than taking photos. I had never had access to my own studio and the materials I had used had been limited. I would definitely like to take some pictures in a studio setting, learn how to use a darkroom. Vintage photography had always fascinated me. “And I’m so happy to be using it, Ariel. I’m excited to get back to work. Maybe my first painting could be a portrait of you and Neera?”

  I held my breath as I waited for his answer. Painting the two of them would be a great way to get to spend time with them. I’d take my time with it, get to know both.

  Ariel looked like he carefully considered my proposition. “I’d love that, but I’m not so sure we’ll be able to keep Neera in one place for long. She loves to run around and can never sit still.”

  “I can too,” she said and scowled at her father. “I want to be painted. Please, Daddy? Pretty, pretty please?” She batted her eyelashes at him, knowing he’d be helpless against her charm.

  And he was. “Fine,” he sighed. “But we can’t start today.”

  “When would be a good day to start?” I asked, pleased with the outcome.

  “On Saturday.”

  18

  I spent a couple of hours with Ariel and Neera that ended with an early dinner at a local pizzeria. The more I got to know both of them, the more I wanted to protect them from Mom. Watching the loving way the old man interacted with his young daughter, I thought it was impossible for him to be a psychopath. No, Mom must have him fooled like she had everyone else.

  When I walked into my building later, I was determined to get Sophie to defect from Mom and work for me instead. As I knocked on her apartment door, I had a plan worked out in my mind—I’d take her to a bar and get her drunk. There were plenty of dive bars in our area. A friendly guy named Jorge at the gym had mentioned that a couple of them didn’t bother to card their customers. Jorge had even given me names of the bars in case I ever wanted to go get drunk.

  I was convinced the only reason Sophie was helping Mom was because she desperately needed all the money Mom could give her. If she paid out-of-state tuition at John Jay like she’d told me, she had to cough up close to twenty grand a year. That wasn’t peanuts and I didn’t think she was working anywhere. The idea of being debt-free once she’d graduated must be pretty appealing. So appealing that she’d be willing to help Mom get me, a guy who was bad anyway, back in jail. I just couldn’t see her being another psychopath. There weren’t that many around. But of course I knew she could be and that maybe I liked her too much to want to accept the truth. Well, even psychopaths could break, I told myself bitterly. I’d had plenty of experience with sick people, not only having grown up with Mom, but also from having spent my teens in juvie. A large part of the population there was decidedly psycho. If Sophie was one, too, I’d make her break and at least tell me the truth. I was even entertaining the idea of using minor force to get her to talk. I wouldn’t hurt her, just scare her a little. Of course, I couldn’t do anything like that in Sophie’s or my apartment. No one could see or hear me laying a hand on her. I was pretty certain there was surveillance equipment around even if I hadn’t managed to find any.

  I sincerely hoped it wouldn’t have to come to that.

  I heard footsteps near the door and then how someone opened it. Sophie appeared in the doorway, wearing a short skirt and a striped sweater.

  “Hey!” She smiled at me. “What a nice surprise! Wanna come in? I was just about to make something to eat. Are you hungry?”

  “No, I’m good,” I said and entered her place, which was sparsely furnished. There were no rugs on the hardwood floors and nothing on the walls. There was nothing on the shelves in the bookcase in the living room. No curtains anywhere, only blinds. Basically, it looked like someone was in the process of moving in. Or out. The place certainly had an impersonal feeling to it. “I just had some pizza. What were you planning on making?”

  “I don’t know,” she said and walked into the small kitchen. “It depends on what I have.”

  She opened a cupboard and peeked inside, then the fridge and checked it out. She also checked out the small freezer at the top. There wasn’t much to eat anywhere. “Hmm,” she said and closed the fridge door. “I didn’t think I had that little around. I guess I’ll have to go down to the bodega and buy something to eat. I don’t think the grocery store is open now.” She faced me. “Wanna join me?”

  “Sure.” Great, I thought as she stuck her feet into the same pair of red Converse sneakers she had worn the other day. I had wanted to get her out of the apartment and now she herself was suggesting it. A few seconds later, we were walking out of her place.

  “Hey, how about we go eat something at Papi’s down the street?” I suggested. That was one of the places where they apparently didn’t card anyone.

  She glanced at me quizzically. “I thought you said you weren’t hungry?”

  I grinned at her. “I could have some nachos. I’m suddenly having this craving for nachos with lots of salsa and guacamole. My treat. How about it?”

  She laughed and shook her head. “You’re so weird! But, okay, fine. Let’s go have some Mexican food. I’ll be wanting a margarita, just so you know. Or two. I’ve been there before and they don’t card, thank God. You’ll be paying for my drinks as punishment for dragging me into a bar when I should be home studying.” She winked at me.

  I tried not to stare at her in awe and just silently thanked my lucky stars that she was doing everything I wanted her to. I’d be happily paying for more than two margaritas to loosen up her tongue.

  “Sure,” I said and smiled. “I have plenty of cash on me, so feel free to have as many drinks as you want. Too bad I can’t have any.” I made a sad face.

  “You can’t?” She looked disappointed. “Why not?”

  I tossed a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure no one was near us. “Um, besides being 18, I’m not allowed to drink while on parole. I’m not about to take any risks.”

  “Oh, right. I don’t blame you. That sucks.”

  “It sure does.” I nudged her lightly. “But please don’t let that stop you.”

  “Oh, I won’t.” She giggled happily
.

  I felt a tug in my heart then. I’d be so incredibly disappointed if this great chick was a psychopath. I muttered a quick prayer that she wasn’t.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Just working my lips. They felt a little stiff.” I pointed. “Look, we’re here. Are you sure you want to eat Mexican? We can always go somewhere else if you want.”

  “No. No, I love Mexican food. And I’m very much looking forward to drinking those margaritas, too.” She walked in ahead of me and made a beeline for a table in the back. It was dark inside Papi’s and fairly crowded for a weekday night. I liked it that way; it would give me and Sophie the privacy I craved for this conversation.

  I slipped onto the wobbly chair on the other side of the little table, Sophie already sitting down. A chubby, young waitress came by and dropped off a menu on the table.

  “Excuse me,” I called after her. The girl stopped and turned around.

  “Can I have a margarita with no ice?” I asked her.

  “Sure,” the girl said. “Do you want that with salt on the rim?”

  I shot Sophie a glance. She smiled and nodded.

  “Yes,” I said to the girl. “And can you please bring a Coke with no ice?”

  “Coming right up,” the girl said and disappeared. I turned to Sophie, who was studying the menu.

  “See anything you like?” I asked her, annoyed that the waitress had only brought us one menu. It wasn’t that busy here. She could have spared two.

  “Yeah, lots,” Sophie said. “I think I’m gonna have the shrimp burrito. I love shrimp.”

  “Me too!” Again, I marveled over how much we had in common. Please, God, don’t let her be a psycho like Mom, I quietly implored. I’ve already suffered so much. It wouldn’t be fair.

  We spoke about what else we liked to eat until the waitress returned with our drinks. She put them in the middle of the table, which was kind of rude but expected. She clearly didn’t take her job all that seriously. Based on my limited experience in the restaurant business, that is. Still, I couldn’t see the guys at Laslo’s being so… flippant to customers.

  “Have you decided what you want to eat?” the waitress asked me. I had decided that I didn’t want to deal with her more than necessary, so I just said, “Yes. A shrimp burrito and an order of nachos with a side of guacamole and salsa.”

  She scribbled down the order and took the menu, then took off. I raised my Coke glass.

  “Here’s to you being my neighbor,” I said and Sophie clinked her glass to mine.

  “And you being mine,” she laughed and had a large gulp of the margarita. “Oh, by the way, I forgot to warn you. I’m a lightweight in the alcohol department, so you might have to carry me home after a few of these.”

  Perfect, I thought. The night was just going better and better. I could hardly wait until she was sloppy drunk and told me the truth about herself.

  19

  Much like Sophie had promised, by the third margarita, she was drunk. She had drunk the previous two in less than thirty minutes, basically chugged them. I wasn’t complaining; the sooner I could get her to talk, the better. We had gotten our food, which had also been dumped unceremoniously in the middle of the table.

  Sophie had been telling stories about her life back in Jersey where she was from and what it was like to go to school at John Jay. Nothing too revealing but definitely entertaining; she cracked herself up more than once. Now I wanted to move on to the reason we had come here, though. I wanted the truth.

  I leaned toward her, placing my elbows on the table, then said in an undertone, “I know you’re working for my mom, Sophie. How much does she pay you? At least your college tuition, right?”

  The smile on Sophie’s face withered. Good. I had caught her off guard. She licked her lips and blinked a couple of times, then said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She so did, though. It couldn’t have been more obvious.

  “I’ll tell the police what you’re doing if you don’t tell me,” I stated calmly. “At the very least, they’ll be wondering where you’re getting all that money from given your background.” She had told me that her dad had died when she was just a toddler, and her mom worked as a grade school teacher, having supported both her children on that modest salary. Despite that the family had struggled financially, Sophie claimed to have had a happy childhood.

  “Don’t make me do that,” I continued. “I really don’t want to have to do that, Sophie.” I had no idea if what I was accusing her of was true—I was only making an educated assumption—but I had nothing to lose. And the police part sounded good, even if I didn’t think they would be going through her bank account based on my flimsy accusations. Being a criminal justice student, she must know that, too. Even so, all of a sudden, she broke down crying. Hard.

  Her reaction was so unexpected that I was at a loss of what to say next. All I could think of was grabbing some of the paper napkins from the small metal stand between us and stuffing them into her hands. She brought them to her face, blotting her wet cheeks and reddening eyes. I didn’t think she was wearing any makeup because the avalanche of tears created no streaks.

  After several uncomfortable seconds, she blew her nose and took a deep breath, controlling herself somewhat.

  “Um, I’m sorry,” I muttered, feeling like an ass. She seemed really upset. I hated making anyone upset, especially a girl I liked. It dawned on me just how much I liked her then, too.

  She held up a hand and had a sip of her third margarita, which was almost finished.

  “Do you want another of those?” I asked and nodded at the glass.

  She shook her head. “No, I’ve had too much already. Told you I was a lightweight.” She smiled a little through the tears. “Sorry for bawling like this, but I just couldn’t help myself.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” I said. “Just please tell me why you’re so upset.”

  She sighed then, her plump chest heaving under the sweater. Gazing into the distance, she said, “Because you’re right. I do work for your mother. And I feel terrible for having agreed to do so now. Now that I’ve gotten to know you and can tell that you’re not the bad guy she had sworn you were.”

  I relaxed, trying my best not to stare at her. I’d been right all along. Thank God I had taken the chance and just gone for it… Clearly, I had good instincts.

  “Please tell me why,” I said quietly. “Please tell me everything. I’m not mad at you and I swear I won’t tell anyone. Not the police and certainly not my mom. She’s a very dangerous person. Trust me, it’s better she doesn’t know what you’ve just confessed.”

  Sophie sighed and wiped at her cheeks and eyes. “I’m not a student at John Jay.”

  I frowned. “You’re not? But I saw you there the other day?”

  “I go there sometimes, pretending like I am a student. But I’m not. I never got in. My grades weren’t good enough and also I couldn’t afford the tuition.”

  My lips parted. “Really? So what do you do during the day then? Do you work?”

  She glanced down at the table, at her short, pink-painted nails. “I’m a stripper. Well, I used to be. I stopped now that I have money. These days I’m spending my days at the library, studying to improve my grades from high school.”

  With looks like hers, she must be making a killing, I couldn’t help thinking at the same time as the thought of her stripping excited me. I quickly replaced the images with ones of a particularly hairy, stinky busboy at Laslo’s. “How did you meet my mom? At the strip club?”

  She smiled unhappily. “Kind of. She walked by outside on the street once when I’d finished work about three months ago. I work at a club in midtown. On the eastside. She dropped her purse and lots of stuff flew out on the ground. I helped her pick it up. That’s how it all started.”

  I cocked a brow. “Started?”

  “Yes, she and I got to talking and then one thing led to another. I don’t know why,
but it was just so easy to talk to Jennifer. We went to have coffee and I completely opened up to her. She told me she wanted to help me leave the club and go to school instead. Do something better with my life. In exchange for helping her out, she would pay me $200,000 cash. She might even be able to get me into John Jay. She has some contacts there, she claimed.” Her tongue darted out and she wetted her lips. “To be honest, all I wanted in that moment was the money she could give me. I had some bad credit card debts and I wanted to cut down on the stripping. If I can turn a couple of my C’s into A’s, I should be able to get in on my own.”

  “Did she give you all the money yet?”

  “Only one hundred. She’ll give me the rest once you… you’re back in prison.” Another crying jag attacked her and she grabbed for fresh napkins. “Oh God, I’m… I’m so sorry! I knew it was wrong to accept her offer, but I was just so tired of being a stripper and I didn’t know how to stop. The money’s so addictive. Anyway, the more I got to know you, the worse I felt.”

  I took her hand and patted it awkwardly. “It’s okay. Everyone makes mistakes. At least you’ve realized you shouldn’t have done what you did. Plus”—I smiled conspiratorially at her—“I think you’ll be able to keep the hundred she’s already given you.”

  20

  When we walked home an hour later, I had learned that I had been wrong about one of the things I had assumed. Mom had hired Sophie to seduce me, but not so that she could get me back in jail on a rape charge. Given Sophie’s background being a stripper, it would be difficult convincing a jury that I had raped her. I could totally relate to how Mom must have been thinking. It might sound like a cop-out, but raping a stripper was just too risky. Mom wasn’t about to screw up again. Instead, the plan was that Sophie would trick me into beating up a guy who had beaten her up, hopefully killing him in the process. Someone would be filming the incident, sending it to the cops, and then I would be toast.