Page 53 of My Killer Blind Date

Zoe. Did he grind her up and divide her into bags? This is only twenty-ish pounds, though. Oh my God, is he pulling a Hannibal Lecter? My gag reflex activates and I swallow down bile.

It doesn’t fit the pattern, I remind myself. The other two bodies turned up mostly intact. But maybe he’s changed his strategy? Do serial killers do that?

Either way, I can’t be sure unless I get a sample of it. I could take a whole bag, but it will leave a noticeable gap, and I’d prefer Liam not know I’m on to him.

I move a bag to the sink and run some hot water over it, just enough to loosen some of the meat at the side. I count to thirty. Then, grabbing a paring knife from the knife block, I scrape out a sample. Ew. It’s squishy in my fingers. But where to put it? Gah, I should have thought of that first! That’s when I hear noises from the bedroom.

Fuck! Move, girl! Slimy meat patty in one hand, with my other hand, I open and close drawers, one after the other, searching for a bag, no longer worried about noise. There! A sandwich bag! My hands are shaking as I rip it open with my teeth and palm the meat sample in. I don’t have time to fully close the bag before I thrust it in my purse. I grab the original big ziploc and fling it back into the open freezer, slamming it shut behind me. Then, I practically sprint toward the front door, tear it open and slam it shut just as I hear Liam’s sleepy voice calling out, ‘Margot? Margot, are you still here?’

I run down the stairs, taking them two by two, keeping my contaminated hand elevated, because gross. I don’t breathe easy until I’m hopping on the bus to head back north to my place.

The single seat behind the driver is free, and I fold myself into it, grateful for the tiny bit of privacy as I rummage for my hand sanitizer and practically squeeze the whole thing out on to my hand. Then I text George that I’m headed home safe, with our code word bumfuzzle that ensures it’s really me.

I lean my head against the bus window, feeling the rattle and sway, the comfort of movement. I don’t know how to process everything I’ve learned tonight. He bought Zoe’s art. Then he hid it in his closet. But during our kayaking date, he feigned ignorance when I dropped Zoe’s name. If he was innocent, he would have owned up to knowing her, or at least her work. You don’t buy an expensive piece of original art and forget the artist’s name.

Should I call Barnett? Is this enough to get him off his ass? No. A painting in a closet will sound just as far-fetched to him as a tattoo and a vibe.

The next logical step is to go to the gallery that sold that painting to Liam. Could they know something? I text Arjun directly. Hey A, what’s the name of the gallery you helped Zoe get into?

As I hop off the bus and make the short walk home, my mind replays the evening and it strikes me what a chameleon Liam is. Our first date, he was the attentive question-asker. Our second, he took a turn for disarmingly candid. On Navy Pier, he was tender, romantic, a little silly – until his dark side flashed through. Kayaking, he was avoidant as hell. In his apartment, with the ganache and the whiskey and his whole ‘you look better without makeup thing,’ he’s back to that perfect boyfriend material template. Is any one of these versions the real Liam? Or does he keep it all hidden … until he strikes?

Chapter Seventeen

‘So … good weekend?’ I say, leaning against the doorframe of Elsie’s office on Monday morning in an attempt to look both friendly and casual and like I don’t have ulterior motives related to suspicious freezer meat. The Coroner’s Office does DNA testing and we have a daily FedEx pickup pile in Elsie’s office. She’s sitting behind the desk in her usual high-collared white shirt, her hair pulled back in a ponytail with her trademark black bow. I just have to find a way to sneak the sample into the pile for expedited testing.

‘Fine,’ Elsie says, then turns back to her typing.

‘Do you have time to, uh, help me with a thing?’

She flicks her gaze my way. ‘No.’

OK. So she’s not up for being my gal pal. But it was a long shot.

My phone vibrates – it’s Arjun, with the name of the gallery he helped Zoe get into, and the direct phone number to the owner, Simon. Score. I’ll text him later and see if I can get an appointment. There’s also a text from Liam last night that I haven’t answered. Everything ok? Sorry I fell asleep on you. Lmk when you’re home safe? And another from half an hour ago. Hey, I really enjoyed our time together. You free tonight? I still have those chocolate cakes …

But back to the issue at hand: getting Elsie to leave her office.

‘Well, it’s not for me,’ I continue. ‘It’s Bill. He told me to ask you for this old death certificate.’ I happen to know the oldest ones are not digitized, but are sitting in bankers boxes in a storage room in the basement. ‘It’s for Beatrice Miller, from fifteen or twenty years ago?’ It’s a made-up name. A time range long enough that she’ll have to check multiple boxes and move shit around to do so. She won’t find it. But it should keep her occupied for at least fifteen to twenty minutes …

Her eyes become lasers. ‘Bill needs this?’

‘He said it’s urgent.’

‘Let me talk to Bill.’ She picks up the desk phone.

‘No!’ I shout. ‘Bill is on the phone with, um, a detective. Something about a subpoena? He said not to bother him for the next hour. He said to give me the paperwork, once you find it. It’s for a thing I’m helping him with.’

I’m fully aware this will come back to bite me if Elsie mentions it to Bill, but that’s a problem for Future Margot.

‘I’m not sure if you know this, but you have really bad dark circles under your eyes,’ she says.

We stare at each other for a full five seconds – but I’m not breaking first.

‘Fine.’ She stands and shoos me out of her office. And then, before my disbelieving gaze, she follows me out and locks her office door behind her. ‘I’ll be back,’ she says in a tone that leans toward threat rather than promise, and gives me a piercing glance before walking off down the hall. Wow – that girl does not trust me. And you know what? That’s fair, considering I just lied to her face.

The second she’s disappeared, I jiggle the doorknob just in case luck is on my side. It’s not. Fuck. Why didn’t I watch some YouTubes on picking locks after my failure at Liam’s? Aren’t credit cards supposed to work? I plunge a hand into my purse, my fingers brushing the meat baggy as I search. Got one! I slide it into the door and pump it up and down in the crack. Nothing happens. Next, I pull out that used and abused hairpin swimming in the bottom of my bag and stuff it into the hole. Come on. I jiggle, then jiggle more aggressively – and the door clicks open.

Oh my God, I’m a lock-picking genius!