There were two parts to this thought. One was, oh, God, I’m going to prison. The other was, oh God, that was good.
At least she had turned 16. If only she were 18. If only she were not his foster child. If only he could get a grip on himself. If only. If only.
Myron had no idea what he was up against. In the year since the girl came to live with his family, she had said little out loud, but she had said much in other ways.
The slow strolls between the bathroom and her bedroom with the loose towel slipping. The prolonged stares over the dinner table directly into his eyes as Mrs. Blade served broccoli or mashed potatoes or pork chops to the children, the real children.
Kristanabel was no child and perhaps had never been. The Blades knew little of her past, especially that she had killed her parents in cold blood while they slept.
They knew nothing of her cunning, her remarkable intelligence, that she had neither morals nor heart. They were deceived by her calm face and occasional sweet smile.
Then one day it happened. Words were whispered in the dark evening hallway as Mrs. Blade washed dishes. Hands moved this way and that. A wicked young smile here, heavy breathing there.
Just a few moments in the hall shadows, the two of them.
* * * *
This was not their first visit to the Marbol Hotel. It was their fifth, and each was better than the last. Both felt that way, but for different reasons. As he breathed harder, she tightened the rope, the trap. She dug the hole deep and dark.
He looked at her. She had filled out over the past year. She had arrived thin. Now she was rounded. Her hair was long and blonde, and there were freckles.
There was a knock at the door.
Myron jumped up naked, rushed over and opened it a crack. Two cold blue eyes below a buzz cut stared at him. Whatcha doing in there, sport?
* * * *
(One of a series titled The Marbol Hotel.)