Free Topping From Below by Laura Reese

him into custody. He freely admitted his interest in bondage and punishment, but denied he killed my sister. With no prior arrests, no history of violent behavior, no physical evidence to place him at Franny’s apartment, they had to release him. I obtained a copy of the coroner’s report and made my own conclusions. I don’t know how he did it yet, but M. is responsible for her death.
    I take a shower, then wonder how to dress. I want M. to be distracted this evening. I squeeze into my siren’s outfit, guaranteed to seduce, then lure a man to his destruction—a form-hugging red knit dress, thigh high, with the back cut down to my waist. I put on red lipstick the color of a maraschino cherry, slip on high heels, then grab a coat.
    When it’s close to seven, I drive over to his house and sit out front in my car, a maroon Honda Accord, for several minutes. The darkness of the night is blue-black, the sky as glossy as ink, and the shrubs and trees, devoid of sunlight, have lost their color. There is a gathered, closed-in feeling to Willowbank after nightfall; a crepuscular claustrophobia sets in. Overhead branches and vines intertwine in a shadowy bower; walls of hedges, dense and impenetrable, form a verdant screen that surrounds and encloses. I think of what I am about to do. I could go home and let the police handle him as Ian has told me so many times. But even as I’m thinking this, I’m opening the door to my car and getting out. I head up the long cobbled walkway to the front porch and ring the doorbell. Light from inside seeps through the drawn curtains, setting the picture window all aglow. Above the door, a bug light shines down on me and makes my hands look yellow and jaundiced. I wait under the light, the night air cold on my skin.
    M. answers. He greets me with a warm smile and ushers me into his home. I feel a nervous flutter in the pit of my stomach. This is the man who most likely killed my sister. He is tall, with thick, dark hair that falls voluptuously over his high forehead, and he’s dressed in black: black leather shoes, black slacks, a black cashmere sweater. He looks elegant in an understated way, with a simple gold watch clasped to his wrist.
    In the foyer, I get an uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu. His house is exactly as Franny described it in her diary. He takes my coat, then shows me around—but I already know what to expect: earthy tones, hardwood floors, spacious rooms, comfortable furniture. It is the home of an organized man living alone, without mess or clutter. I look out the glass doors at his backyard and see his black Great Dane hunkering in the shadows. M. tells me his name is Rameau, after a French composer of the late-Baroque era. We go into the kitchen, which is well stocked and orderly, with modern appliances and fixtures that obviously did not come with the original home. While he prepares dinner, I chat with him, mentally recording each word he says. Gravid with expectation, my senses are heightened, sharply attuned to his every nuance. Perhaps I am mistaken, but regardless of his casual manner, each word he speaks and each gesture he makes seem fraught with special significance and hidden meanings.
    This man is a killer, I think, and I try to keep the nervousness out of my voice. M. moves around the room gracefully, perfectly at ease. He pours both of us a glass of white wine, then goes back to the stove, checks under the lids of several pots. His geniality flusters me a little; he seems almost likable. I hadn’t expected that. I ask him what he’s cooking.
    “Salmon steaks,” he tells me. “I’ll broil them in a few minutes.” He lifts the lids. “A dill sauce for the fish, asparagus with cashew butter, gingered carrots.” He looks over at me. “I didn’t make dessert. Franny told me you didn’t eat sweets.”
    I freeze at the sound of my sister’s name, then slowly swallow what’s left in my wineglass and set it on the tiled counter. Instinctively, I gauge