His heart continued to vibrate between his ears, a loud ringing, and he couldn’t hear anything but his internal organs working, working. Heart pumping blood through his veins, his head swelling, filling with certain knowledge that he would be discovered.

He escaped home. Locked, bolted the door. Ran into his bedroom, slammed the door as he tossed his laptop onto his bed. Angie’s soundless scream vibrated in his head and he sank to the floor.

You’re dead. You’re dead.

Several minutes later, he rose unsteady and walked to his desktop computer. Booted the hard drive. The ritual of the computer checking files, the fast zip-zip of the hard drive spinning, soothed him. A few deep breaths later and he almost stopped shaking.

He logged onto his e-mail and clicked on the MyJournal link.

Tribute to our friend Mirage.

Angie’s page, Angie’s online name. But not Angie. A sigh of relief whistled through his lips, and he focused on the “Tribute.” He quickly realized that the author of the journal entry was one or more of Angie’s friends.

I remember a day last month when Mirage went to work. I stopped by to visit, even though it was raining hard. It rarely rains here, but that day it poured.

He thought. That was…late January. Had to be. There were only a couple days last month that it rained.

Mirage got off early because it was so slow, and we sat in the corner talking about our first time…you know, the first time we had sex.

Eager and anxious and horrified, he read on.

I was a late bloomer. My first time was only three months ago, shortly after I started classes at the same university where Mirage and our other friends go. His name was, oops! Can’t say his name. Okay, his “name” was S. and he’s a junior. Plays water polo. Fabulous body.

The first time was icky, but S. told me the second would be better. It was…Mirage promised me my first “real” orgasm would be wonderful (you know, the kind that isn’t self-induced) and she was right. S. went down and licked me until I orgasmed and I swear I saw fireworks…

Fists clenched, he read on. Each of Angie’s friends wrote about their first time, and as the stories went on they became more lewd and detailed, just like Angie used to write.

I broke up with S. when I started seeing S… whoops! Same initials, different guys, hahaha. S2 was really experienced. You know, an older man. And he did things to me that made my head spin…

One night on the beach behind his apartment we made love in a sleeping bag. The possibility of being caught in the act was such a turn-on. I never thought having a guy suck my tits would be so sexy, but when S2 did it I felt hot from the inside out…

At the end, he had the three whores figured out.

Abby wrote about her first time, first and only boyfriend. She was in high school, it was in the back of his car, and she was still dating him though he went to college out of state.

Kayla was a dyke. Well, “bisexual” was probably the politically correct term, since she screwed both men and women. Whore.

It was Jodi he was shocked about. Jodi who had dated the two S’s. Jodi who he’d thought was the nicest of Angie’s three friends. The one he least expected this bad behavior from.

He knew it was her because of the last line she wrote.

Mirage was the best friend I could ever have. She convinced me to cut my hair, which I had barely even trimmed in forever. I cut it to my shoulders, added some highlights, and haven’t been without a date since. She brought out the best in me, inside and outside, and I’ll miss her forever.

He remembered the exact day Jodi had cut her hair. At the time, he didn’t think she was flirting, just proud of her pretty style, but now he knew better. Now he knew the truth.

Fucking whore.

He closed down the browser, unable to read the journal anymore, though he knew he’d be back online later. To read it again, to see the truth about the girl he never expected to kiss and tell.

So, she likes her tits sucked? Maybe she’d like them sucked right off her fucking body.

Pulse racing, he slammed a tape into the VCR. It was by far the most vicious of the five, and usually he couldn’t watch it. He didn’t like the blood. But this time he needed it, this time he would force himself to watch the whole thing.

The slut was thrown onto the cement floor. Fucked in the ass while her head banged against the wall. Blood, black in the grainy, colorless film, trickled from her mouth. Then, chained against the wall, arms and legs spread wide. Discoloration covered her body. He watched her mouth open, her vocal cords stretch. A whip came out, the dark stripes dripped down, down.

She stayed like that for a minute, crying, hanging against the wall. She was taken again, by a different man. Then another. Three men. They shared.

Disgusting. He would never share.

Then the worst part. Except for the first time, he always turned off the tape after the third guy screwed her.

But not now. Both repelled and fascinated, he forced himself to watch.

The first man came back, and he could see his profile. Hard. He brought the woman down off the wall and threw her on a mattress in the corner. The angle of the camera changed. A close-up of him pinning her down with his body. Entering her.

Then the knife. It came out fast, from under the mattress. He pulled her head back by her hair and with one swift, deep stroke across her neck blood sprayed everywhere. The walls. The mattress. All over the killer as he arched his back and orgasmed.

His stomach churned at the sight, but still he watched as the woman bucked in her last response to inevitable death; as the blood spurted, a drop fell across the video camera’s lens.

Drip, drip, drip.

Blackness.

He wiped his face, surprised that sweat poured off his skin. His body shook and he looked down, saw that he had come in his pants.

He hid the films, went to the bathroom, and showered in icy water. Soon, his blood cooled, his heart slowed, his body returned to normal.

And he came up with a plan to deal with whores who kiss and tell.

ELEVEN

CARINA ARRIVED AT THE STATION early Wednesday morning, having barely slept the night before. Every time she dozed off she pictured Angie dead on the beach, wrapped in three garbage bags. The longer this case went unsolved, the edgier she got. Though it had only been forty-eight hours, she kept waiting for something to break.

It was the manner of death. Restraining the victim. Gluing on a gag. Raping her. Washing her body, then suffocating her. Definitely weird. And for all the lack of evidence, the ritualistic act, it still seemed sloppy. Did Angie’s killer put her body on the beach for a specific reason? Or out of convenience? Why so public? Because he didn’t fear discovery, or because he was thumbing his nose at the police? Or some bizarre reason only the killer would know?

Her few sleeping hours were dominated by disturbing dreams about Angie; in her waking hours she thought about her conversation with Nick Thomas.

Would she turn in her own brother?

First, she couldn’t imagine any of her four brothers raping and killing a woman. Nick seemed certain Steve Thomas was innocent. Wouldn’t she immediately defend her brothers, then ask them what happened? She couldn’t blame Nick for his loyalty.