Free Kill You Twice by Chelsea Cain Page B

an investment in your recovery,” Prescott said.
    Gretchen rolled her eyes.
    Susan didn’t know what to say. It was all she could do to muster a grim nod. Of course Gretchen was medicated. But Susan had not been prepared for the shape that she was in. She wondered
if Gretchen could read the surprise on her face. But of course she could. Gretchen could read everyone.
    Gretchen’s bloodshot eyes went to the plastic chair next to her bed. “Let’s get started,” she said.
    Susan took a seat in the chair. Prescott leaned against the wall and folded his arms.
    “What do you want to tell me?” Susan said.
    “Turn it on,” Gretchen said.
    It took a second for Susan to figure out what she was talking about, and then she realized what Gretchen meant and fished the tiny digital recorder from her pants pocket. An awkward moment
followed as Susan realized that there was no bedside table to set it on, so she would have to hold it, which meant getting closer to Gretchen. Susan scooted the chair forward a foot, just close
enough that she could pick up Gretchen’s voice on the recorder, and not an inch closer.
    Gretchen lifted herself up onto her elbows until she was sitting up in bed, her back resting against the wall. She moved sluggishly, like her head was heavier than normal. The threadbare gray
cotton V-neck pajamas made her look even feebler.
    If Gretchen Lowell hadn’t murdered so many people, Susan might have felt sorry for her.
    “When I was sixteen,” Gretchen said, “I killed a man named James Beaton.”
    Susan leaned forward. Gretchen was staring off into the middle distance. Susan glanced back at Prescott. He was leaning against the wall by the window, watching Gretchen with his beady shrinky
eyes. Susan glanced down to make sure the red light was flashing on her recorder.
    “He was married,” Gretchen said, “and I asked him to meet me in a motel room, a place called the Hamlet Inn, in St. Helens.”
    St. Helens was an hour west of Portland along a highway popular with bicyclists despite the fact that they were routinely flattened into roadkill by passing semis. It was a small town.
They’d named it St. Helens because there was a volcano in Washington State named St. Helens and, for a few weeks a year, when the cloud cover lifted, you could see it from the town. That had
always seemed kind of sad to Susan—naming a town after something that wasn’t even in it.
    “It was the first time I used a scalpel,” Gretchen said. She slurred when she spoke and Susan had to listen hard to make sure she was making everything out correctly. “I had
everything I needed in a canvas shoulder bag. I handcuffed his wrists to the headboard and his feet to the legs of the bed, so that he was spread-eagled.” An angry rash crawled over
Gretchen’s jawbone and up her cheek. “He thought we were going to have sex,” Gretchen said. “Even after I put the duct tape over his mouth, he wasn’t afraid. He liked
it. I was naked. I could have done anything to him. He was so hard he was grinding his hips against the sheet. Some people like it rough.” Her eyelids were heavy. She smiled to herself.
“Sometimes it’s not the people you expect,” she said.
    She lifted bloodshot, bleary eyes to Susan’s.
    Archie. That was where Gretchen wanted Susan’s mind to go. But, whatever fucked-up relationship Archie and Gretchen may or may not have had, there was no way that Susan was going there.
“Continue,” Susan said.
    Gretchen smirked. “Like my acquaintance, James Beaton. He was married, but you and I both know how that goes.” She lifted her chin toward Prescott. “Susan has daddy issues,
Jim,” Gretchen said. “She likes married men. Unavailable men.”
    Susan cut her off. “He gets it,” she said.
    Prescott hadn’t moved. He kept up his silent vigil at the wall, his arms crossed, expression impassive. Susan couldn’t decide if he was a really good psychiatrist or a spectacularly
bad one.
    Gretchen’s