Severance, Washington is a small census designated community tucked off the Peugeot Sound. It’s an isolated anomaly of a small town on the outskirts of the resort towns that run along the bay. I would have never thought to look for her there.
My first instinct is to get in my car and drive across the country. But by the time I’d gotten back to Ithaca, I’d already talked myself out of it. I also doubted my 2013 Prius would make it.
In the end I decide to take the train. I buy a ticket leaving bright and early tomorrow morning. I’d learned to pack quickly and lightly on the campaign trail; I pack two travel suits, a long sleeve polo and two Oxfords in one bag. I get no sleep and wake up at 4am ready to start the path to closure.
When I get to the train station I text Cami and Mark to let them know I’m headed west. Cami texts me a good luck Bitmoji and Mark calls me immediately.
“You’re what?” Mark says on the other end of the phone.
“I’m taking some time off.” I duck into a quiet corner of the train station, “I’ve got to get this divorce taken care of.”
“Paris”, Mark’s tone is abrupt, “Let your lawyer take care of this. I’m calling Gina--”
“Mark I got this. I’ll be back at the end of the week.”
“This is not a good time. We need to keep up the momentum. The Party is behind you if you want to run for state senate or make the move to the Midwest.”
“Talk to Cami about it. See what she thinks is best. I’ll be back in a week.”
There is a long silence.
“Oh”, Marks says, “So… are you two back together? Or is the junior campaign manager making the calls
now?”
“ Right now we are not back
together”, Mark liked Cami but our on-again-off-again relationship made him
nervous, “I trust Cami. With any luck in
a few years she’ll be my future first lady. Please. Work with her.”
“…okay. Just let me send you some info about Rochester and Nebraska. Just to get your opinion.”
“Fine. Then take a fucking vacation, Mark. You deserve it.”
+++
I’m nervous my first night on the train. If my memories of the home invasion are triggered I’ll scream all night in my sleep. The nightmares are always so vivid. Years ago a doctor had prescribed me a cocktail of drugs that would give me a dreamless sleep. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. When the train attendant helps me get my bed down in the sleeper car-- I feel the need to warn him.
“I …if you hear me screaming…just wake me up. “I tell them, “I have…awful night terrors.”
The young man looked alarmed, but if I have a nightmare he’ll be thankful for the heads up. My drugged sleep feels heavy. I wake up feeling hungover, but my throat isn’t burning which means I’ve managed to sleep through the night.
On the second day I have two transfers. By the third day I’d already gotten bored of binging the TV shows Cami kept pestering me to watch. I’d read two books and worked on my memoir. I’m lost without work. Usually my campaigns and appointed government positions kept me busy. My small law practice usually filled in any gaps but I was on a hiatus. A few of my fellow passengers are up for chatting. I give them bits and pieces of my story. The further west I get, the less relevant being the failed mayoral candidate for the city of Ithaca becomes.
+++
Trains don’t go to Severance.
On the fourth day I get off in Olympia. The muggy chill in the air feels heavier than the sharp snap of an East Coast fall. I pick-up a rental CRV and head to the north side of the Puget Sound. The farther I get from the city the more breathtaking the scenery becomes, I can’t stop looking at the serene bays and picturesque inlets.
It’s getting late and the sunset is a beautiful purple blue gradient in the sky. It reflects off the water like a piece of art. I admire it as I make my way across the sound. I stop when I reach a clearing and take some pictures for my Happiness file. I turn the phone for a selfie when a loud pop sounds off in the distance. I scan the tree line but everything looks calm. There is nothing for miles except the trees and the sound. It’s actually makes me a little uneasy.
I drive for another 30 minutes until I reach a long winding road on the edge of the forest. The sign for Severance is covered in so many stickers that I almost miss the turn
As I drive through the main street I pass rusted boats and vessels docked in the inlet. Severance is nothing like the cozy western stylized resort towns I’d stopped in for gas. Aberdeen’s streets had gleamed with inns, upscale cannabis shops, coffee shops, seafood restaurants, and stylized chain restaurants.
Severance has none of that. The main road is faded and riddled with potholes. The mismatch buildings are faded utilitarian linoleum models from the late 90s. I drive past a gas station, a truck repair shop and a small camping supply store before reaching the Days Inn. The hotel is right next to the inlet and boatyard. As I get closer I see a sign pointing to the Elma Park camp ground and lake about 25 miles south. According to Trip Advisor Elma Lake was apparently an off the beaten path place for local hikers and campers look to avoid tourist. From what I’d researched, the town was founded to house loggers in the 1930s—now much of its economy was repairing and building boats for the resort towns.
Inside the Days Inn a woman around my age is sitting at the check in desk. Her blue curls are piled at the top of her head and she peers at me through neon green glasses.
The lobby is somehow still fashioned in early 2000’s pastels and smooth wood accents. A card table with coffee and pre-packaged breakfast pastries welcomes me in the lobby.
The woman leans her chair back to peer out the window at my CRV. It is parked next to the trucks and vans loaded with outdoor equipment.
“You just getting into town?” she asks.
“Yes. I’m Paris Prince. I have a reservation.”
“I’m Beverly”, she says, “You—here for business or pleasure.”
“Business.”
“Oh, what kind of business.” she is still looking at my car and
I notice she’s writing my license plate down.
“Uh…Legal.”
“Oh---a lawyer?”
“Yes”, I say.
“Your types usually stay in those Airbnb’s in Aberdeen or up in Olympia. Is this some sort of lost bet or YouTube challenge thing?”
“Uh. No. I’m sorry. I’ve…had a long trip and I’m exhausted. Is my room available?”
“Only rooms left are on the bottom floor.”
“That’s fine.”
“Any trouble you Dial 9 …it will get you right to Nate “
“Nate?”
“Deputy Sheriff.”
“Ah…that’s…good to know.”
She hands me a digital key card.
“Welcome to Severance, Mr. Prince.”
+++
I’d been tied and bound more times than I can count. I’d found part of myself when I gave into that vulnerability. That submissive urge. It felt free to be vulnerable and at someone’s mercy. I hadn’t understood the safety and comfort of being a submissive until my wife became my Domme. I submitted to her for a decade and it wasn’t until that moment that I understood how important our consensual relationship was to the physical acts we did together
The intruders used the black and red ropes I’d found comfort in and turned them into something vile. I’d awoken to the two strangers wrenching me from my bed; they’d painfully tied and gagged me—
Sera.
I managed to turn my head and saw the absolute mess they’d made of her face. The two bloody lamps they’d beaten her with lay haphazardly on the floor near her body. She’d also been tied up. One of the intruders kept watch over us while the other ran back down to Sera’s dungeon to find more rope and restraints.
Seraphina groaned.
It was both the best and worst sound I’d heard all night. Sera tried to sit up and untie herself. She looked confused and disoriented. The man watching us panicked. He started bashing her head with the lamp until she was unconscious again.
Eventually I’m dragged down the steps with little prompting or care. One of the intruders headed back upstairs to finish stealing while the other kept his gun on me. I tried to commit the intruder’s faces to memory. When they were done stealing they dragged a crudely bound Seraphina down the stairs. Seraphina kicked and pulled at her restraints.
The men began to argue.
I wanted to tell Sera to stop fighting. If we don’t cause a fuss--they will leave us alone.
“It’s okay, Sera”, I told her. My words were muffled around the gag. That’s when I saw the gun. That’s when I realized why they hadn’t bothered wearing masks.
“Please”, I begged them through the gag, “Please. Please.”
Seraphina was quiet. Resigned to her fate.
The men flipped us face down and removed the restraints. I turned to look at Sera. This was the end. I hoped I did well with my 33 years. Sera’s eyes were trained on the man holding the gun. She wasn’t going to beg for her life.
I had one last request though.
“Can…we…I…hold hands. Please—“
Instead of answering they shot my wife three times and then me. My ears popped. The pressure and force of a bullet was intense. The heat was unexpected. Then they ran like cowards.
The pain was slow and then raged all at once. I opened my eyes so I could look at my wife one last time. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the bullet holes on her shoulder and leg. My mind couldn’t comprehend that I was looking at my dead wife. I’m glad she died first so she wouldn’t know what it was like to live without me.
It will be at least two days until anyone comes looking for us. What an ugly sight we’ll make.
“Love you”, I managed my last words to her then settled in for the next part.
Then Sera began to crawl---
My hotel door burst open. Beverly and a husky looking janitor rush into my room. To my shock--the janitor is clutching a rifle.
“What the fuck?” My throat burns and I reach for the water bottle near my nightstand.
“I heard screaming”, the woman says.
“Fuck. I was having a nightmare.” I scream pulling the sheets around me. The janitor lowers the rifle.
“That didn’t sound like a nightmare—“
“Well it fucking was. Get out of my fucking room right now.” I snap as loud as I can. I check my phone and see it’s nearly 3 in the morning.
They leave and I lay down out of breath. Adrenaline still coursing through my body. There is no way I was going back to sleep. I shower and change. I feel awful for the tone I took.
I don’t go back to sleep.
I read and work on my memoir through breakfast then spend the rest of the afternoon on my laptop. I read through Marks’ email about my best options for campaigning. I polled well on the New England/New York political circuit--but maybe it was time for a change.
Around 1pm I finally get up to look for my ex-wife. I put on my black suit and matching cap because of the chill in the air, then grab the divorce papers and nestle them in my leather messenger bag
I stop at front desk where Beverly is clocking out. I put on my best smile. The woman doesn’t look impressed.
“Beverly--I’m so sorry about last night… I have nightmares.”
“Obviously.”, she says raising an eyebrow.
“I…survived a pretty brutal home invasion some years ago. At night it just…comes back to me. I have C-PTSD and I’m still working through---you know what? I’m so sorry. That’s what I wanted to say. You don’t want to hear all of this.”
Beverly is visibly pallid and waves over the burly man from last night. His name tag has ‘Jasper’ on it. I gather he is in maintenance.
“…and…Where are you from again?” Jasper asks.
“New York.”
“How did you get those scars?” Jasper speaks up again.
“Uh, childhood accident. Anyway, I’m sorry. I was embarrassed. I shouldn’t have cursed at you. I am so sorry. Maybe I can buy you lunch--”
“How tall are you?” Beverly asks.
“What?”
“How tall are you…also are you adopted?”
“Um…five-six and …no?” I think on this, “Wait. Actually. I was adopted by my foster father. I didn’t know until I was older. When he passed away I found out so…”
I shut myself up. I was oversharing again. Also I was closer to 5’5” but my shoes had lifts. They just stare at me. I decided to take my leave. Fuck Portland. Severance is weird.
Google Maps hasn’t been updated in 15 years so I drive around until I spot a sign for the post-office. This one shares space with a bait and tackle shop that also sells camp-ready food. The young man working the front desk does a double take when I enter.
“Gnarly body mod”, he says gesturing to my mouth.
“These are scars”, I explain.
“Same difference”, He says giving my suit a once over, “Are you with like....from the Inspector General’s office?”
He looks outside and takes note of my rental car.
“I’m looking for the owner of a P.O box.”
“Sorry, dude. I can’t give out info on customers”
“Okay. I understand. Well let’s say I’m looking for a resident. Not a customer per say. I’m looking for Seraphina Prince…or Grigori. Tall… blue eyes...accent.”
“Yeah. Real quiet.”
Shit. She was here.
“I’m her ex”, I say holding out the divorce papers, “I just need to get these signed. It’s nothing malicious.”
He nods, “Yeah. She mentioned she used to be married . . . she’s pretty chill.”
Great. Now I’m finally getting somewhere.
“Do you know where I can find her?”
“I don’t know if I should…”
“Look at me. She could eat me. I won’t hurt her.” I slide him my old business card.
“Treasury Director? You said you weren’t a fed.”
“I’m not—I was a city government official. I’ve actually been laid off for a few months… but the point is—look I’m not trying to cause trouble. You can Google me.”
He leans back and studies me.
“…If you were looking for a place to chill you may want to head to The High Noon”
He dramatically winks.
“What is that? A strip club?”
His nose wrinkles. “It’s a bar.”
+3+
The High Noon is a basement level bar underneath a small strip of linoleum storefronts on the edge of town. Whatever stores had been at street level are long gone. I jog down to the basement level entrance. When I enter a tiny bell rings. I expect everyone to look up when I enter but no one even shifts.
The bar is large and spacious with spread out tables. It’s flooded with natural light from the windows. The walls are covered in Americana Bric-à-brac, photographs and motorcycle paraphernalia. There is a small wall of self-serve beer and wine taps. Two women are at table in the corner chatting. A man is sleeping at the bar and another three men are sitting around a table with their eyes trained on the hockey game. I hear a roar of laughter from a backroom I can’t see. I scan the bar several times before my eyes go to the bartender.
I can only see them from behind but I register the golden brown messy crew cut. I catch a glint of an oversized silver dagger earring in one ear. The bartender pulls their faded oversized flannel tight, then leans against a support beam while absently polishing a glass—casually watching the game on TV.
Just an ordinary day.
Or so she thinks.
It’s her though.
Her height is unmistakable. She turns and I get a glimpse of her profile. I’m frozen in place and tongue tied. What do you say after almost 7 years? Maybe this was a bad idea. I should go.
She turns to put up the glass up and locks eyes with me. My heart drops and picks back up. The years have defined her features. She’s not wearing make-up and I can see how the scars from that awful night have weather her face. There are soft lines around her full lips and where her jaw tightens into a sharp angle. I can tell by the way the thin white shirt underneath her flannel clings to her that she has kept in much better shape than me.
“Sera”, a short bald man jogs in form the backroom, “Can we get four of the Titanic Iceberg Voodoo IPAs. I’m on a roll with the motherfuckers, this one is one me.”
The guys watching the game chuckle a little at the absurd beer name.
Sera turns from me and nods to the man. She turns back to me briefly before gabbing four bottled beers from a fridge under the bar. She gestures to a seat at the end of the bar then disappears in the back.
I pull myself up on a bar stool and pretend to read through the list of beers offered.
“Hey, sugar”, a young woman barely in her 20s with pale skin and dark hair comes around the bar. She sets a tray down and studies me, “You new around here?”
“I’m visiting. Why does everyone ask that?”
The woman looks out the window and clocks my rental car.
“You’re joking right? Anyway I’m Madison. What can I get you?”
“I’m actually here to see…” I gesture because I can’t say her name.
“Sera? Awww. She doesn’t get many friends visiting.”
“I’m her…ex actually.”
“Okay. I see.” she leans in, “I bet you could use a drink on the house then. My dad owns the place so it’s on the house.”
She gestures to where the bald man had disappeared off to.
“I’ll just have a soda water with lemon”
She serves the drink with ease and grace. I down it like its scotch. When Sera makes her way back to the bar, Madison makes an exaggerated ‘OMG’ face then makes herself scarce.
Somehow I’d forgotten how tall Sera was. I’d forgotten what she really looked like. For so long I’d only seen her in my nightmares of that night and the hell that followed. My eyes travel up from her narrow waist to her broader chest and shoulders. She adjusts her flannel since I’m practically leering. Her eyes are as piercing blue as I remember. Cold too. Colder even. I’m a little surprised by her white gold septum ring and the network of tiny earrings in her left ear—ending with that dangling silver dagger.
Not silver. White gold.
“You look great”, I tell her. It was stupid. I sounded like a fucking idiot who only cared about appearances but it was a reflex to compliment her. Truthfully, I wasn’t a fan of piercings. She knew that and was probably about to call out my BS. Instead she says:
“…You too.” Fuck her voice is deeper than I remember. Then she adds teasingly, “Well…I can’t tell underneath all the makeup.”
She swipes at my face with a cocktail napkin which takes off a thin layer of my concealer and tinted moisturizer. Barley two seconds and she was already needling me. Fuck. Now I can’t stop thinking about needles. Her and needles.
“I’m in the spotlight a lot”, I explain.
“Yeah…I’ve seen your pictures online.”
“You finally got on social media.” I say trying to keep it casual. Was this all we had now? Small talk.
“Not really”, she says refilling my soda water. ”I was just…following your campaigns.”
“Really? Which race?”
She considers this while artfully placing a lemon and lime in my glass. Her shirt lifts a little and I clock the deep valley there.
“Morris Country District Attorney….Cape Cod City Council…Bridgeport District Attorney… and Ithaca mayor.”
“Wow”, I say into the glass, “So…all of them?”
“I guess so”, she says picking up a rag and intently cleaning a small portion of the bar, “I donated like $20. The queer community around here is rally into supporting the Coastal and Midwest candidates.”
“Oh. Well. Thank you for your donation.” The realization that she could have easily reached out but never did suddenly hits me, “You were clearly following me but never felt the need to reach out? I had to rely on the kindness of strangers to find you.”
“Me reach out? You left me behind,” she lowers her voice.
“You walked out”, I can’t believe I have to remind her of this, “You were supposed to visit Aria for two weeks and just never came back.”
Her voice is a whisper now.
“Back to what exactly? You sold the house and moved to Morris County while I was gone.”
“You knew we were moving. If you would have calle—“
“You never fucking called.” She said
“Neither did you. You just never fucking came back.” I can’t hold back the upset in my voice.
“You didn’t fucking want me to come back.”
“I…I—“
“We’re not doing this, Paris “, she says taking a deep breath. Just like that all the frustration falls out of her voice, “It’s been seven years. There is no point fighting now. We both…left.”
She’s right. Our marriage hadn’t ended because we fought or fell out of love. We’d just quietly and slowly left one another behind. The invasion and everything that followed had blown shit up and left us adrift.
“I guess you know why I’m here.” I say.
She raises the side of her mouth into a half smile, “Does it have something to do with the young blonde always standing with you in pictures?”
“Look, Sera I—“
“It’s all good, Paris. Really. Congratulations. You should have sent the papers through my lawyer.”
“Cami and I aren’t together right now. We might be in the future…I…are you mad?”
“No. It’s time, right? You have the papers?”
I nod.
She reaches underneath the bar and uncaps a BIC pen. It hits me that if we’d done things different… we would have had been celebrating 20 years of marriage. Our marriage… our relationship was about to end with a few strokes from a dirty chewed up BIC pen.
“Where do I sign”, she asks.
I tuck my bag out of sight. For some reason I wasn’t ready for it to end like this. At the end of a mostly empty bar in a strange town in between orders for IPAs with a stupid names. It shouldn’t be that simple.
“…I left the papers at the hotel”, I lie, “Also we have some financials to go over--”
“Talk to my lawyer. Whatever you think is fair—“
“Please, Seraphina”, I ask but is comes out like begging, “Let’s just handle this face-to-face. No lawyers.”
She puts the pen away and pours me another seltzer water. She leans in a little close when she sets the drink down and I catch a scent of her cologne. It’s similar to my herbal lemon soap. Just a touch smokier.
“Fine. I get off at ten”, she says.
“Okay. I can wait around.” There is an awkward silence as she leans against the beam and turns back to the game on TV.
“I always knew you’d make a good bartender.” I can’t help but to fill the silence.
She shrugs. Her eyes are still on the game, “I’m just part-time.”
Sera turns her attention to a man cashing out for the night. Despite the bars quiet sleepy feel they have a sleek high-tech point of sales system. I also clock a shit-ton of security cameras.
“It’s getting dark. Do you want me to walk you out?” Sera asks the man as he drops some change into a tip jar.
“I’m alright Sera. You be careful.”
“Yes, sir”, she says as he heads out. She takes the change he put in the tip jar and adds it to the register.
I open my phone hoping that will make the time go by faster. I get pretty engrossed in looking at condos in Wichita. Maybe I was ready for the Midwest jump. I’d probably need a 3 bedroom if Cami and I got back together. She’d want a study of her own and I’d need a home office. I could also see Cami’s parents coming to visit a lot. I switch to a four bedrooms search. Sera would probably void our post-nup so I’d have some extra funds to work with.
Sera.
When I look up Sera is walking Madison to her car. They are talking quickly with lots of hand gestures. I catch the moment before Sera comes back in. She shakes her head as if mentally preparing herself to come back in and deal with me. I try to stay quiet when she is back behind the bar but fuck it.
“So…you ran all the way across country to become a bartender in a small town?”
She shakes her head.
“No. This place just kept me.”
“Do tell.”
She shrugs.
“I did go to Leon and Aria’s. Leon’s neighbor was selling this old RV. My plan was to drive myself back to Harrison County in it. But…once I started driving I couldn’t stop. I felt safe in there watching the world go by. I kept waiting for you to call and ask where I was. Every day you didn’t call…I felt relieved. Somehow one more day on the road turned into a month…then a year…then two…”
I nodded. It felt the same way for me. One day I was buying a house in Morris Country waiting for my wife—the next day it was 18 months later and I was buying a condo in Bridgeport and running for city council. By the time I started my third campaign in Suffolk County the pain of not having my wife was buried so deep she didn’t even feel real.
Sera continues, “About five years ago my RV broke down outside of Severance. I had to get a job to pay for repairs… This place sort of grew on me.”
I’d never allowed myself to miss Seraphina. At some point I’d just accepted that part of my life was over. I just let the wound heal over instead of getting actual closure. I hadn’t even realized there was a wound until just now.
I change the subject.
“You said you were a part-time bartender. What do you do when you aren’t working here?”
“Competitive bodybuilding.”
I almost choke on my water, “What…are you serious?”
This amuses her a little.
“Yeah. Leon started doing it for extra cash a few years ago. He got me into it. Mostly Weight and Powerlifting in the spring. Fitness competitions and tournaments in the summer. I like the structure. There is a lot of control and discipline. Plus I get to drive all over.” Her eyes wander to the television.
Well, that definitely explained why she was so built.
She takes an outdated iPhone out of her pocket and shows me a picture of her and three tanned and heavily muscled women. They are all wearing a face full of make-up and monochrome workout gear with the logo of a trendy fitness program. They look to be in a bar and are all wearing sashes and tiaras holding big margaritas. Seraphina towers over the women. She has a heavy bronze medal around her neck. Her smile is a little forced and she’s on the outside of the group. I zero in on her wavy platinum blonde and pink fauxhawk.
My thumb slips and the next picture is her alone in front of an Instagram wall for the Southwest Iron Goddess competition. I let my finger slip again and this time she’s on a hotel couch wearing boy shorts and a cropped Y2K Playboy Bunny tank top, her hand is tucked into her shirt so her abs are casually showing. I quickly Airdrop the photo to my—
Sera snatches her phone back and rolls her eyes at me. I can’t believe she had pink hair. I didn’t know that because all these years had turned us into strangers. The person who used to be my entire world was a stranger to me.
“Um”, I start while Sera’s eyes are on the TV, “… do you still see clients.”
She looks at me and pours another soda water. A hint of that familiar cruel smile plays on her lips. She eyes me carefully. It is what she used to do when she’d figured me out.
“A few. The scene is a little different out here. It’s more casual and lumped in with all the other alt-lifestyles.”
I nod and get real interested in my napkin all of a sudden.
“So…how much do you charge?”
She laughs deep and low. It goes straight to my groin.
“I know what you like Paris Prince. I don’t really do the stilettos and sexy femme fatale strict wife thing anymore. But there is this gorgeous girl near Tacoma who --”
“How much?” I ask again.
“$95 for the hour”, she says, “Is this why you needed to divorce me face to face.”
“No”, I say truthfully, “But if you’re available. I’m game.”
She studies me then pushes back against the bar, “Cash only.”
+3+
Sera’s house is close enough to the bar that we can walk. It’s hodge podge residential neighborhood below the hill and about half a mile from the bar. The eclectic residential street is right up against the forest. The small colorful houses are unevenly spaced along the pot-hole ridden street. On the walk over I’d spotted 6 federal residential ordinance violations. The neighborhood is a bizarre mixture of abandoned homes, empty lots and abandoned homes turned warehouse. I had to get a peek at the zoning laws here.
Sera’s boss, Scott Dodson, had been okay with me waiting in the bar while she closed up. She worked fast after closing. Every movement was neat and economical. This was routine to her and she took the same care she did when we used to spend late nights cleaning New Aeterna. She still didn’t carry a purse and just grabbed a hole-ridden blue sweatshirt on the way out. She still has a slight almost imperceptible limp from the attack.
Her house is at the end of a lane. It’s sort of isolated since the other houses around it are either dilapidated or just gone. The beat up little house is painted a bright green with crooked dark green shutters. The door is painted a dull shade of yellow and the tiny yard is enclosed by a rusted chain link fence. There are a few thriving marigolds and mums planted outside.
Strangely, the little house is attached to an oversized garage that’s almost bigger than the house. Sera grabs her mail from the crooked mailbox out front. The warped front steps squeak underneath her weight. She enters at an angle to avoid the wind chimes hanging above the door. I notice the outside light is cloudy with a few flies trapped in it.
I only get a glimpse of the inside of the house, but it’s enough to see all the interior walls are gone. The small house is just one big room. The back of the house is slightly elevated and is taken up by a king sized bed covered in clothes, books and sketchbooks. There is a portable dryer open in the middle of the living room area with clothes spilling out of it. Half empty grocery bags, shoes, mail and stacks of newspapers are sprawled over every surface. Oversized bottles of protein powder, vitamins and supplements cover the floor and counters.
Sera places the mail on a precarious stack of mail then opens a side door. I realize it leads into the attached garage.
“After you?” she says and I duck in under her arm.
The garage calms my anxiety a little. It’s orderly and smells like disinfectant. There are black gym mats on the floor and some pretty expensive looking weight lifting equipment pushed to the side. I look up and see a suspension rig that blends in with the garage mechanics. Studio lights are installed in the celling and the filter on them gives the room a hazy glow. The walls are painted black and lined with black tool drawers. Every surface gleams and there isn’t a speck of dust or rust.
I spy a cart in the corner and the glint of sharp silver tools makes my blood warm. She directs me to a bright red filing cabinet set up in a corner. Next to it is a table and chair. Sera pulls out the chair. I take a seat.
She shuffles through the cabinet and pulls out a packet printed on red paper. It’s a basic hourly BDSM session contract. It looks like one of the thousands of templates you could buy offline. She seems to have traded in Mistress Athena for just Athena.
“Here is a list of what I offer”, she sets down a laminated paper, “Sex and penetration of any kind is illegal so it’s not an option...but you already know that, don’t you. If something you want is not on here don’t ask. Assume it’s a hard limit. Understand.”
“Yes.”
“Write on your form what’s a soft or hard limit. Sign the contract and then we can have a little fun, pet.”
“Sera you know my limits—“
“Fill it out”, she snaps pushing the forms toward me, “You have ten minutes. If you need more time you’ll need to earn it. I know we haven’t started yet but I do not like back talk. You should know that.”
Sera heads back inside the house and slams the door hard. I consider the list. It had been years since I’d really thought about what I wanted. The attack had taken this from me.
Months after the attack, if I got drunk enough I could engage in some chatroom roleplay submission. Even then I would hesitate and second guess. My stint in the Suffolk County had introduced me to high society kink. I’d met a couple at a gay sex club in East Hampton where I was doing a fundraiser. I told myself I was ready again. I figured I’d be more comfortable with two people, I thought maybe they would balance each other out. I was very very wrong.
I trust Seraphina though
She is the best as far as I was concerned.
I’d gone to therapy. I was making breakthroughs. I was ready to submit again.
Most people took my involvement in the BDSM community as an odd curiosity even though legalizing sex work is my biggest platform. I didn’t seem like the kinky type when I was politicking. I was straight-laced and amiable. I was open about my involvement--- but didn’t feel the need to provide details about my personal relationship with my Mistress. Vice had written a badly researched article that labeled me a lawyer and manager for a high-end Domme—which wasn’t untrue.
There were a few jokes on online and I even got blasted a few times on conservative talk shows-- but that was it. I never campaigned with a partner. Mark made it clear to everyone that my relationship status wasn’t up for public consumption. Those who knew I had a wife assumed she stayed out the spotlight because of the attack. Everyone else just assumed I was single.
Truthfully? My marriage to Sera was obligatory. It came second to our Dominant/submissive relationship. I existed to worship, submit to and please her. The pressure to preform and please my Mistress helped me thrive personally and professionally. Control always looked good on her. The world had taken so much of control away from her and I’d given it back to her ten-fold. That somehow made me feel unstoppable.
I reach into my jacket for my fountain pen. There is no checkbox on this form that will give me that …though there are two small typos I correct. I clip the cash to the form.
Sera comes in to check on me. She is eating what looks like a sliced turkey breast, raw shredded carrots and a fried egg out of meal prep container. She frowns when she sees the corrections.
“Three minutes”, she says.
“I’m almost done--”
“Don’t talk unless I give you permission.” She snaps. I wait patiently until the timer goes off. She pulls the paper away from me and pulls my chair out from the table with me in it. “There is a washroom in that corner. Take off as much as you want. I’ll be right back.”
She goes back into the house and after a few seconds some soft music I can only describe as lo-fi trap folk acoustic starts to play. I head to the small washroom where there is a tiny shower, toilet and bidet. The place has been scrubbed clean including the grout. I pull off my vest and unbutton my shirt. I opt to keep my shirt on. I didn’t want her to see my looser skin or the way my chest was starting to sag a little. My nipples were still pierced. I liked how rebellious they made me feel when I was in long bureaucratic meetings.
A handmade basket beside the sink is filled with local artisan organic soaps, deodorizer, body sprays and lotions. None of them smell like the familiar scent she is wearing.
I head back out and Sera is standing by the door. She has changed into a leather t-shirt and black cargo pants with a chain looped around a studded belt. She’s taken out the earrings but kept the septum ring in. For the first time I clock the half-sleeve tattoo on her right arm. Her shiny platform Doc Martens gives her an extra inch of height. She smells like mint and more of that lemon bergamot cologne. My lemon bergamot cologne.
“Let’s see what you remember”, she says walking around the small space. Instead of the click of heels I follow the sound of the chain clipped to the belt loop, “One.”
I remembered the three positons Athena liked her subs to assume. I lower myself to my knees in front her. Knees shoulder length apart, back slightly arched, hands behind my back, eyes forward or on her shoes. I was ready to listen and obey. In a side mirror I see Seraphina watching me. She looks uninterested. Maybe she’s tired after working all day. I should have thought about that.
She walks around me (wasting away a few minutes) then suddenly grabs a handful of my hair. She yanks my head back and chin up so I’m looking at her.
“That’s better”, she says. Even with my face titled up I still don’t look her in the eye. That would be disrespectful. She deserves all the respect and reverence I can give. “Look at me. Keep your eyes on your Master Good. Fuck. You’ve just gotten more handsome with age. You must think so highly of yourself Paris Prince. ”
“No—I”
“Paris”, she laughs that deep fake sexy laugh, “We’re not in your campaign office or with your girlfriend. You’re in my house and in my house my pets don’t speak unless I allow them. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mis--Master”, the words feel heavy on my tongue.
“What are we going to do with you, little prince? Oh…I know.”
She pulls out a pair of tight leather cuffs and starts to put them around my wrist. I start to panic but before securing them she wipes the leather with disinfectant. She then pulls down a chain lead from the suspension in the ceiling.
She attaches the chain lead between the cuffs so my arms are raised and above me. She pushes a button on the wall to shorten the lead and increase the tension. She walks around me twice (buying time) before slipping on a soft velvet blindfold.
She adjust my shirt so it hangs off my shoulders and I feel the smooth tip of a leather crop on my chest. My heart speeds up. I’m suddenly not sure about this. The sting of the leather comes out of nowhere, the pin pricks of pain wake my skin up.
I was doing it. I could do this again.
She runs a finger over my arm, she is tracing the pigmented raised scar that goes up my arm and down my shoulder. It’s not from the invasion. She’s never seen this scar.
“What’s this.” she asks, “I don’t remember this.”
“I got sick a few years ago. It was an infection. It’s fine now.”
“You’re covered in scars aren’t you”, she says more to herself.
I hear her running the bathroom sink, then she steps back inside her house for a few minutes. She pushes what sounds like a cart over to me.
“You know what I think?” she whispers into my ear, “I bet you haven’t eaten anything all day.”
I swallow dryly.
“Open”, she says and I feel her gloved thumb at my mouth. I open hesitantly and the bitter sharpness of a dark chocolate square coats my mouth followed by some ice cold water. Next she nudges a spoonful of sugar into my mouth. Then a spoonful of a delicious lightly sweeten cashew or almond butter. Next is lemon juice-- I spit it out and she forces me to take another spoonful. My anxiety kicks in out of nowhere. This was my ex-wife. The partner I’d let go of. I’d shown up unexpectedly and demanded a divorce from her so I could marry someone younger. Why had I let her tie me up? Sera could be cruel and vindictive.
I am at her mercy. She is going to push me and make me eat a dead animal because of what I did to her. I can already taste the blood in my mouth. I push back against the spoon trying to force its way in.
“Open”, she orders but I don’t. She holds the back of my neck and shoves the spoon between my lips and I catch traces of the almond milk mixed with something salty. I blink beneath the blindfold and realize the salt is my tears. I feel the spoon at my mouth again. She is waiting for me to use my safe word but I can’t for some reason.
“Open”, she snaps again pulling my hair so tight my scalp burns. The added sensations sends my synapses in all sorts of strange places. Pain. Pleasure. Shame. For some reason I don’t like any of it. Tears stream down my face and I feel like I can’t breathe.
“Fuck”, Sera scrambles to take the blindfold off, “Calm down. Breathe. It’s okay.”
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My eyes are bright red and my skin is blotchy
“I’m sorry. I-I…my anxiety... I…” I try to explain myself. I hadn’t reached for anxiety meds in months and my brain is begging for it now. I try to control the flood of fear coursing through me. It’s so powerful.
“You don’t trust me”, she says more to herself, “If you felt anxious you should have used your safe word.”
“I just…It’s been a while. The last Doms I was with really pushed me. “
“Then you’ve had shitty Doms”, she says, “With me you use your safew—“
“We never used one before—“
“When you’re in my house you use your safe word. Let me hear it.”
“Crimson.”
“Again”
“Crimson.”
“I like how that sounds”, she says, “Do you have meds?”
“Yeah, in my bag.”
She jogs in to the house and comes back with my anxiety medication. She also grabs a towel from the bathroom and wipes the tears from my face. She spends more time on my scar than needed. I notice she is in no rush to release my arms and I don’t mind. She shakes out two pills and puts them in my mouth and offers me another sip of water.
“I’m sorry”, I manage and I don’t just mean about the safe word, “I’m so sorry, Seraphina.”
She leans in a little closer and I know if I adjust a little I’ll be able to kiss her, so I do. Her lips are soft and open. It’s familiar and comforting for a few seconds before the adrenaline in my bloodstream intensifies the kiss. Her tongue slips into my mouth and she gently cradles my chin, I bite her lip when she tries to pull away and her lips find mine again.
Sera’s left hand digs into my hair keeping my mouth to her, her other hand unbuttons her pants until they hang low—exposing the very thin G-string cutting into her hips. If she wanted to use me for her own pleasure then so be it. At this point I was so desperate to be of use to anyone. Especially to her. I still craved pleasing her.
“Money”, I manage to say breaking the kiss
“What?” She says softly. A little breathy.
“Money. If we’re going to fuck—“
She laughs, ““We’re not going to fuck--”
“I need my money back. Just in case.”
She rolls her eyes but I didn’t want to risk it. Sera jumps to her feet and jogs back into the house. I only have a second to reconsider before she stumbles back in and stuffs the cash into my pocket and kisses me again. She breaks away long enough to unclip the lead attaching the cuffs to the suspension
Because my ankles and wrist are still cuffed together I lose my balance and land on my side. Sera gently kicks me onto my back and clips a metal lead to the collar around my neck. She takes a seat in the folding chair and wraps the--my lead tight around her wrist. Her other hand is inside her pants circling her clit. Every overworked muscle in her arm tenses and flexes the harder she works close. I hadn’t thought a man tied up and helpless on the floor would still get her off, but it does and very quickly.
“Fuck”, she says to herself then to me.
She walks over to me. Her pants are still hung low and I get a full view of the solid V shaped muscles cut into her wide hips. From this angle I can see her G-string is soaked and clinging. Sera pulls off my belt and wraps the end around her hand. Maybe I was going to get what I deserved for being a fuck up husband for almost seven years. She doesn’t hit me. She tosses the belt on the floor and unzips my pants.
“My sweet prince, I’m fucking you for the rest of the night.”
“Fuck. Crimson. Hold on. I can’t.” I say then clarify, “On this floor. My back is really fucked up.”
“What did you do to your back-“
She stops realizing it’s my injury from the attack. A tiny shell had buried itself there causing inoperable damage. She closes her eyes and thinks for a good long minute. I take it she didn’t take clients in her home or her bed.
She unclips my ankles and wrist. I stand and follow her back into her house. It’s only a few steps to the slightly raised level in the back. She pushes me down on her cluttered unmade king sized bed. She slides a few therapeutic pillow underneath me and it does wonders. Sera starts methodically removing my shirt and pants. She folds my clothes neatly and puts them in a laundry basket by the bed. I take a glance around the messy area. There are clothes, books, phone cases, supplements, adult coloring books, stuffed animals, pencils, notebooks photo albums and weights everywhere--no condoms. She runs her fingers over the scar from my bullet wound.
She turns her attention to my boxers and rolls them down. Her hands wrap around my erection and I pull away a little
“I…um…I had some labs done last week before the election”, I start rambling, “I’m clean. If you don’t have… I mean.”
Sera studies my face. She’s confused at first but quickly realizes what I’m asking. It’s the conversation that I still hadn’t mastered at 40. Almost 40. Fuck me.
“Oh, I haven’t had sex in like…. 5 years?” she says passively and pulls off her shirt. I get an eyeful of the work she’s done to her body. Her muscles were slightly flexed and looked hard to the touch. Admittedly, it wasn’t the body type I usually went for my partners.
“Five years? Are you serious?” I ask.
She shrugs.
“I used to go down on the widow down the way when she brought me dinner on Sunday but she moved away in… yeah. Five years ago.”
Was I supposed to tell her I had amazing sex seven weeks ago with my gorgeous blonde ex-girlfriend/junior campaign manager after a disastrous Buffalo Fundraiser? I oddly felt like I’d be winning something.
“Okay. Do you like…take steroids or …use needles.”
“I had a blood test before my last competition.”
That wasn’t a no to the steroids question. I hold back on lecturing her about the use of steroids. She’d clearly put a lot of work in her body-- she didn’t need that shit.
She opens her nightstand and pulls out a pair of dull bronze handcuffs. My wrist instinctively go above my head so she can secure my hands. My heart is hammering at the anticipation. She secures them tightly and I feel…strangely whole. Her eyes and hands roam my body. Slowly taking in the power I gave over so easily to her.
I keep my lingering gaze respectful and docile as she slides off her faded cargo pants and thong. I still get overwhelmed from a little anxiety and averseness but I can’t take my eyes off her body. I take in her muscular thighs and imagine them around my waist. Her tan skin is dotted with a few stretch mark and raised red areas I assume are from laser hair removal.
“What about…birth control”, I remember to ask. Sera rolls her eyes. That I hadn’t missed as much.
“I still have the implant.”
“Okay”, I say officially done with my questions.
Sera works a few drops of lubricant over me and the artificial warmth takes me by surprise. She climbs off the bed, moves a few piles of clutter around and comes back with an unopened pack of rubber bands.
“Is this okay?” she asks working the rubber band around my balls into makeshift cock ring. I nod. She shifts her weight to straddle me and guides me in. My hands want to instinctively go for her familiar wide hips but the restrains won’t let me. If she hadn’t been fucked in five years I doubted I could give her what she needed. I never could before. Sure, I could make her orgasm but so could our shower head. In our relationship sex was more of a utility. For intense satisfying sex she had other partners.
She starts to slowly rotate her hips, her muscle tense and relax in a slow controlled rhythm around me. My cock gets even harder at the stimulation. I close my eyes and will myself to relax and mindfully enjoy the sensation. It was good but would have been better if I was bigger. I shake my head and remind myself not to think like that. This was about pleasure and there was more than one way to experience that. My balls feel heavy and painful. I’m glad for the makeshift cock ring or I’d have embarrassed myself.
“Look at me when I’m fucking you”, she orders. I hadn’t even realized I’d closed my eyes. I take in every inch of her bare skin and the deep color of her nipples. I feel like I can’t hold back anymore and the band is getting tighter and tighter.
Sera gently lays a pillow over my face which somehow calms me down. After a few minutes of riding my cock I hear her reach over to her night stand. Then I hear a low powered vibrator and feel a few more warming drops of her herbal scented lubricant. She presses the pillow harder over my face and my adrenaline spikes as I struggle breathe. Her strong thighs have me locked in place. She sighs a little in frustration and I feel a few more drops of lubricant.
She presses the pillow harder against my face, the restraints at my wrist rattle with the instinct to t defend myself. The fear mixed with the pleasure has all my sense working overtime and I start thrashing and involuntary scrambling for fresh air.
She turns the vibrator back on, I feel a few residual tremors. The vibrator shuts off and is replaced by a low whistle. Her body tenses against mine and I can her a moan caught in the back for her throat. I realize noise must be a device sucking on her clit. If my hands were free I probably would have turned it all the way up to torture her.
Her pussy constrict like a vice around me and contracts erratically followed by a flood of wetness and string of curses. She pulls the pillow off my face and snaps the rubber band apart. I come instantly and loudly insider her. Sera falls forward but catches herself. She plants her arms on either side of the bed frame and her head drops slightly. She’d caught herself from falling on me. After a few seconds she pushes herself up to a siting positon. Her eyes are watering and I’m a little disappointed she’d not wearing eyeliner. Her lips is bleeding and I can see a slight mark from where she’d bitten it.
She pushes her damp hair back and glances at her watch then checks her phone. Her mind is clearly somewhere else. Now that my head is clear I realize she hadn’t smiled once this evening and seems annoyed that I’d come inside her.
“You okay?” She asks catching her breath and going back to her phone.
I nod because I’m exhausted and can’t quiet find my words yet. She stumbles off the bed and heads into the tiny bathroom next to the bed.
She showers with the door open and the small house fills with that familiar lemon bergamot scent. She was definitely using the same small-batch soap as me. She steps out with a towel around her waist and pulls on a loose cropped tank top that barley covers her broad chest and a pair of tight gray boxers.
“You are so fucking hot.” I finally say.
“All those degrees and that’s the best you can come up with?”
I think on it.
“Yes.”
She uncuffs me from her bed and helps me sit up, “You should see me when I’m training for the season. I’m just conditioning until spring.”
She tosses me a t-shirt and I pull it on.
“Sera, I can’t believe you compete and nothing comes up when I Google your name.”
She sits back down on the bed with her legs crisscross and massages a cooling salve around my chafed wrist.
“I pay for this extremely expensive service that removes my name from search engines”, she explains.
“You really didn’t want me to find you.”
“It’s wasn’t that. I…I didn’t want the home invasion story to show up when people searched me.”
Fuck. Of course.
She rummages in the kitchen then comes back to bed with spoons, twos jar of nut butter and metal water bottles. I quietly drink the water. There is a chalky lemon aftertaste that must be some sort of supplement.
“Are we going to talk about this?” I ask to cut the silence, “Clearly there is still something between us.”
“Sex was never our problem.” She says pointedly offering me the molasses cashew nut butter. She opens the dark chocolate and almond.
“What was?” I ask.
“You”, she says softly, “Watching you use that awful night to propel your fucking career. God. What you said at the trial—“
“It wasn’t a trial. It was a sentencing hearing. The brothers pleaded guilty--”
“Those brutal fuckers shot and left us for dead in our house. How could you forgive them-”
“That isn’t why you left.” I deflect.
“I was a mess. You remember. “
“You were supposed to come back from Leon’s after a week. How did it turn into almost seven years?”
She frowns.
“I could see online that you were living your dream on the campaign trail and I was…really content on the road. Maybe we needed space to heal. Maybe all the space made us realize we didn’t need each other as much as we thought.”
I study a spoonful of the surprisingly tasty cashew butter.
“I always needed you, Seraphina.”
“It wasn’t just me you needed.” A tinge of annoyance is back in her voice.
“Sera.”
“Be honest, Paris. What’s the real reason you were in no rush to find me.”
Fuck it.
“. I didn’t just want my wife back. I wanted my Mistress. That’s how I dealt with my shit. You weren’t ready to be a Domme again and I couldn’t handle it.”
“You needed professional help Paris. Not a Domme or to run for District fucking Attorney.”
“I had to run, Sera. It’s how I dealt with it. I couldn’t miss out on my first campaign. I was fine. “
“You weren’t fine.” she says, “That bastard raped you—“
“Stop.”, I snap, “Shut up. It’s not the fucking same. I don’t even fucking remember it. I just remember getting shot at like a damn fucking animal. SHIT. FUCK. Sorry. I’m sorry. ”
I don’t know why I am yelling. Sera looks rattled. I never yelled at her like that. She would have never allowed it. An unsteady but familiar silence stands between us. She takes the utensils and nut butter containers back to the kitchen. I reach to fill the silence.
“Sera. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I’m sorry I couldn’t handle your pain. I’m so sorry I didn’t fight harder for you. “
She sits back down and shakes her head. She wipes away one of my stray tears and presses her forehead to mine. I kiss her lightly on the lips. She adjust her position to straddle my lap. I lean back a little to balance out her weight. She touches her nose to mine and lets her thumb trace the scar on my cheek.
“Paris. I’m okay now. I’m sorry we couldn’t heal together. I’m so sorry it had to end like this.”
“Me too.”
I tilt my chin up so I can kiss her. For the first time I let my hands run over the smooth ridges and curves exposed by her crop top—then I delve under to her tightening nipples. The shape of her body is familiar in many ways but different in most. I gauge her reaction with each touch trying to figure out what was still okay and what wasn’t.
The steady exploration of her body turns into sex. She lays back on the bed and lets me kiss and run my hands through her hair and over every limb. I trace each tattoo on her arm, the detailed lines of a mandala blend into a contemplative medusa which bleeds into a sea of violets. She tenses under my touch, the tension goes all the way up to her arms. Now that they are flexed I can see that the ink was placed to curved and wrap around the bulging muscles there. I don’t remember when I started fucking her but I remember when it ended. I looked down and couldn’t believe someone so perfect, beautiful was giving their body to me for my own selfish pleasure. I don’t last long after those thoughts. She lets me trace a finger below her belly button and massage her toward a small orgasm.
When I lay back down I notice how quiet it is. The only sound is the music was still playing in the garage and the quite creak of her bed. It was like we were the only ones alive on this vacant lane. Sera had clearly carved a simple slow-paced life out for herself that was in stark contrast to my fast-paced East Coast elite bubble.
“I need a drink”, I say. I’d experience way too many emotions for one day.
Sera sits up, “I don’t drink when I’m training. I do have this shit Scott gave me at our Halloween party. It’s like a sangria but with mulling spices.”
“I’ll take it—“
Blue and red lights flash over Sera’s face. Sera turns towards the front door and pads across the little house open it. I put my pants on just as she opens the door. I move close enough so I can hear what’s going on but stay in the living room area.
A tall handsome man in a deputy sheriff uniform is on the other side. He tilts his hat down to Sera. Sera’s posture is tense but her profile remains relaxed.
“Sorry to bother you so late Sera. We got a call not far from here.”
“Was there another one?” she asks in a low whisper.
The deputy turns off his radio and nods.
“Who?” Sera asks
The deputy looks down the street again before leaning in and whispering.
“Paula Felton and Mia....” he says. I’d been on enough police reform committees to know the deputy is breaking protocol by telling her this, “I’m just gonna take a look out back. Drive around the neighborhood. “
“Fuck. Paula. Oh, fuck…fuck” Sera says and takes a set of keys from the bowl by the door, “I’ll open the back gate. Fuck. Fuck.”
The deputy keeps his tone even but Sera’s reaction had thickened his voice with emotion, “Okay. You got your windows and door locked? I had to remind Larry and the boys.”
“Yeah”, she says grabbing a pair of Birkenstocks stacked in the corner. She turns away from the deputy. Her hands are shaking as she slips her shoes on. The fuck? The deputy turns his radio back on, when he looks up he takes notice of me for the first time.
“Who is this?” the deputy asks.
“My hus--ex-husband”, she says and that hurts more than I expected, “Paris Prince. Paris this is Deputy Sheriff Nate Sanders.”
We shakes hands. I perfectly execute what I called the executive handshake. It involved a sturdy stance, strong grip and perfect timing.
“You’re out pretty late, sir.” Sanders says
“Uh, no…Not exactly.”
Sanders doesn’t seemed phased by Sera’s messy house but his gaze does linger on the bed and the fact that I’m wearing one of her t-shirts.
“I see. How long you in town for Mr. Prince?”
“Not long. Just need to get …our divorced finalized.”
“I know how it is”, he says but I know he doesn’t mean it.
He tilts his hat again and Sera follows him outside to open the back gate. She waits by the window while he searches for…something. Then he hops in his cruiser and heads out the neighborhood.
“What was that all about?”
Sera looks up incredulous, “Wait…You don’t know?”
“No.”
“I guess news out here doesn’t make it to Albany.”
“Ithaca. I live in Ithaca now.”
She shakes her head and pushes a pile of weight lifting magazines, porn DVDs
and junk mail onto the floor. She drops a huge stack of newspapers on the
table. The front headline says sit all:
Severance Serial Killer Stalks The Night
“….you live in a town with a fucking serial killer.”
I pick up the thin local papers. The front pages is filled with eerie black and white photos of victims. Most appear to be women. I immediately begin scanning the articles.
“Seven victims in two years? Fuck. How can you feel safe here?”
“It’s not what you think”, she says
“What do you mean? Look at this. You could be vulnerable.”
“They have it wrong.” Sera says.
“Who?”
“The newspapers…Nate. Everyone. The recent murders, like the one tonight, is being done by a…copycat.”
“What?”
She reaches in the back of her mostly empty kitchen cabinet and pulls out a small bag of pot
“The real Severance Stalker died back in August”, Sera explains, “These new murders are being done by someone else.”
“How could you possible know that?”
“Because I killed the real severance stalker and buried him in my backyard four months ago.”
+++
AN
Dun Dun DUN
So…yeah.
Also this is what Sera’s faux hawk looked like except pink and platinum blonde.
https://www.pinterest.com/pin/140806231221823/