Punishment With Kisses Part 8

Suddenly it dawned on me. It was all perfectly clear in my head, every reference illuminating and concise. Tabitha was The One. As perverted and horrible and wrong as it sounded, I was certain that Ash was f.u.c.king our stepmother. I had always read DDO as Daddy-O, a vapid salutation Ash used on our father when she was disobeying. Isn't that right, Daddy-O? She said it at the gala before she died, and on the night she was banished to the pool house.

Oh G.o.d, as violently ill as I felt that night of the break-in, the night of Ash's murder, the night Shane left, that was nothing compared to how I felt right now knowing with almost sureness that my sister and the woman we both called stepmonster for years were having an affair. In Ash's journals it was clearly going on for at least two years, maybe more. When-no, how could this have started? How could Tabitha have betrayed Father? And in the end, was she another of Ash's perverted pick-ups or something more real?

Was she another jilted lover who thought Ash got what she deserved, or was she as torn up as I was about her death? Ash wrote so often about The One, as a sort of ominous force, yes, but also as the sole arbiter of her happiness. Clearly she had a power over my sister-did this also mean she was her murderer?

Chapter Fourteen.

It took me months to begin to understand what transpired between my sister and Tabitha. I could see the path I was on so much more clearly now. I'd dipped my foot in the pool of Ash's s.e.xual depravity and instead of recoiling I'd discovered that I might really like to take a swim. Somehow, just learning of my sister's s.e.xual power buoyed me. Maybe by f.u.c.king my way through life, I'd learn the secrets that everyone wanted kept from me. Maybe by recreating Ash's s.e.xual adventures, I'd gain some of that power too.

Daddy-O probably thought learning of Ash's depravity would shatter me, but really, it freed me up to become something entirely new. Three years since Ash's death and I had become a new woman. I was...uncontrolled, liberated like Ash was from all the artificial constraints of polite society and all the bulls.h.i.t artifice that the average American lived with. My nights had become more exciting than I could have imagined when I was with dull ol' Shane. How ironic that I once wanted her so badly I would have given her anything, even my livelihood. I now thought of her as sort of a dullard, a weight I escaped, awakened not just by Ash's murder but by the pa.s.sing of the guard in my family. Ash's journals weren't windows to her soul; they were portals to my own.

My bosses at the newspaper could see the change in me right away, too. They took me off that mandatory leave and, best yet, off that stupid slush pile of c.r.a.ppy freelancer pitches. If I had to read one more misguided pitch on the benefits of Botox, I would have lost it. What part of alternative newsweekly did these writers not understand? Now I was actually out in the field, following leads, writing articles, and making deadlines. In the months following the break-in I had become something of a social b.u.t.terfly. It didn't hurt that I was the only reporter at that paper who had her finger on the pulse of Portland's dirty underbelly. Well, h.e.l.l, it was not the pulse my fingers were tapping, but each night I did find a great outlet for my creative juices and in the morning I got to type it up and submit it. I spent part of my time writing traditional news articles and the rest undercover as a culture columnist. I was now PDX's Lipstick Lesbian, the anonymous s.e.x columnist who took on-don't forget up and under-Portland's s.e.xual playground and told the tales. I had topped nearly every girl at the paper and even two of the gay boys played bend over boyfriend for me. h.e.l.l, the guys in the mailroom looked like they were going to blow when I walked by now, but I had my sights set on bigger things. It was my boss Ca.s.sandra who I wanted to really make cream, but she insisted on maintaining her "boundaries." I figured after a few more of my masturbatory columns she would be putty in my hands, but who could wait?

"h.e.l.lo, Megan," Ca.s.sandra said as I walked through the door to her rather tiny office. I was wearing a pencil skirt and a white oxford shirt that was missing a very pivotal b.u.t.ton. I knew she was interested when her gaze fell immediately to my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. But she was still coy, still worried about propriety and about the power dynamics of being my boss. Still, she practically licked her lips when she asked me, "What's up?"

G.o.d, didn't she know I just wanted to f.u.c.k her so badly, right there and then on her white Formica desktop with the other reporters scurrying around outside?

"I just ran across a Goth strip club with a lesbian domination night. Want to join me there?" I twirled pieces of hair around my fingers, flicking the end on my tongue like a Long Island Lolita.

Ca.s.sandra was clearly aroused, her face flushed with excitement though, as always, she played it cool. "I'm not sure that's the best use of my time. We're on deadline for the hospital administration story."

I moved into the office, closing the door behind me and flicking the lock sideways. Alone, that was how I wanted us. The boss lady looked like a doe trapped in my headlights, but she didn't want to lose her administrative decorum. I couldn't stop dreaming about pulling off those wire-rimmed gla.s.ses and pushing my head down between her ample thighs. I had wanted to see her "O" face for weeks now and I was finally bold enough to just take it this time.

"I'm pretty busy, Megan, if we could..." I pulled her chair from her desk, rolling her lap out toward me so I could hitch up my skirt and straddle it. I put my fingers, still damp from touching myself in the restroom, on her lips and blew, "sh-sh-sh" at her. She resisted, briefly, but by then I had pulled open my shirt and thrust my chest at her. She complied, her protestations a distant memory in the face of my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. It was hard to find a lesbian who didn't like me with my shirt off.

I arched my back so my whole upper body leaned against her desk, a pile of pens and paperclips and corporate ephemera stabbing at my flesh, and my legs entwined around her waist like a squid pulling its prey underwater. Though I wanted to force myself on her, playing the top dog in this little erotic battle, I figured the way to win her forfeiture was to let her think she was the one in charge. She wouldn't have to admit defeat that way. And if I had learned anything from Ash it was that if you open yourself up for the taking, someone would always want you.

And Ca.s.sandra did. She wanted me badly right now, so with the simple arch of my back I let her know she could have me. And she did. My panties were gone in seconds and her hands were groping me up and down my body. Boss lady apparently wanted me quite badly and I was thrilled to oblige. She tried to talk, but I shushed her again, and the whole move must have emboldened her because within minutes her fingers were inside me, balled up into a delicate little fist that was engulfed by my c.u.n.t. I bit down hard on the palm of her free hand to keep from screaming and even still I came with an eruption of grunts and groans that I was fairly certain the entire office had heard.

As I lay there, spent and sweaty, I noticed Ca.s.sandra-her clothes amok, her hair askew, her office trashed-looked positively aghast. Apparently she didn't often let pa.s.sion overcome her-at least not in the workplace-and no doubt by now she was deciding just how she'd spin this to the rest of the staff. It's not easy for the big cheese to live down that she had f.u.c.ked the newspaper's adventure s.l.u.t.

Personally, I felt great. There was something about boss lady that intrigued me more than the other tricks I'd had lately, and while it wouldn't stop me from checking out the lesbian action at Club 69 tonight, it might at least entertain me a little bit longer.

"How about we finish what we started here?" I didn't wait for Ca.s.sandra to reply. "Let's say around seven at my place." I straightened my skirt and walked back into the newsroom, smiling broadly at anyone who looked my way. Yeah, that's right, I just banged the boss. How do you like me now?

"I feel like I have a huge hole in the middle of my soul that I've been trying to fill with an endless parade of women." I was trying to shock Dr. Finnigan. She wasn't really my shrink. She was my psychiatrist neighbor. She had lived in my building for years, but it didn't dawn on me until now how useful she could be in helping me understand my sister a little bit more. I took her a cup of tea the same day I took Ca.s.sandra and though I didn't plan to f.u.c.k Finnigan, I did hope she was as easy to crack.

"I guess, Megan, the question is why you feel like you have a huge hole in your soul."

Finnegan had to be at least sixty, with long gray and white hair, a slight overbite, and half a dozen cats. She listened intently whenever I talked and never seemed to pa.s.s judgment on what I was saying. I did so like trying to shock her though. So far I'd recounted every single s.e.x act I'd experienced and t.i.tillated her with a list of aberrant behavior I'd tried out with past lovers, from last week's threesome to a costumed gang bang. Some of the stories were mine; many more were actually entries from Ash's journal. I wanted to know my sister, and if I couldn't decipher her life-or death-maybe Dr. Finnigan could.

So far the lady was unflappable. Even still, these thrice-weekly encounters were becoming mandatory pit stops for me. Work, Dr. Finnegan, a night of f.u.c.king, and back again. It was more healing than confession, and Finnegan made a better priest than any I'd seen. But tonight, I didn't feel like going to confession. The hole in the soul was Ash's. I had bigger fish to fry.

"I've got to go, Dr. Finnigan. Big date, you know?" As the graying doc looked curiously askance, I swooped up my stuff and bid adieu. "You're not the only one who likes p.u.s.s.y."

I air-kissed my way out the door and back to my apartment. I'd hardly changed a thing since Ash left it to me. The more I came to know my sister through her journals, the more I found myself becoming the woman she was. One night before going out, I rifled through the bottom drawer of the vanity and pulled out that aging bottle of Nana de Bary perfume, emboldened with a woman on the front-naked, except for thigh high boots. Each time I spritzed Ash's old perfume on me, on my neck, wrists, belly b.u.t.ton, it was like a pilgrimage to another time and place. I was venturing outside my life and inside Ash's. By the time I made it to the club, I had to admit, I even looked a little like Ash now. As I strode down the long mirrored hallway leading from the box office to the main showroom, I couldn't help but look fondly in the mirror and watch myself walk by. How many times had Ash gone out like this? How many times had she spritzed Nana de Bary and been inspired by that woman wearing the thigh high boots? Plenty, I was sure because Ash's trench-the only other thing I was wearing over the boots-was saturated with the stuff. I wondered what Dr. Finnegan would say about that?

The real s.e.x diary of Ashley Caulfield, November 12 I've wanted her from the moment my eyes first shone on her. Not in the way I was supposed to, but in the deep, aching need only a woman scorned could have. How could The One be here for him and not for me? I remember making my first move. She laughed and fended me off like the schoolgirl that I was. But I knew then as sure as I do today that she wanted me just as badly as I needed her to. I saw it, h.e.l.l, still see it in every look she gives me. She tried to hold back, to temper herself, to tell me it's not right. But I knew that desire could only be held at bay for so long. Finally, on one of the many occasions when we were left all alone in that big house, I made my move. n.o.body can resist supple young flesh, least of all a woman in a bad marriage to a much older man. I was her pa.s.sport to pleasure. She was my punishment with kisses.

Oh no, Ash was a bad girl at school today. She can't go on the weekend trip with Megan and Daddy-O. But it's not my fault. You remember how hard high school was, right? After all, it was only two years ago. She tried to fight it, but there are just some things I can do that a man can't, and even at seventeen, I was already an expert at them. She joined me by the pool one day when no one was around. I watched her watching me and I knew she was lonely. He had wronged her, too. She wanted me like everyone else had, but with her I wanted to give in.

She watched me put suntan lotion all over myself, long, smooth strokes meant to remind her how young and supple and flexible I was. And when I was done, I looked her squarely in the eyes and said it.

"You want some?" You should have seen her face pale.

"Excuse me?" She tried to regain composure, but I knew she was mine right then and there. I pulled my arms under my bikini straps, flipping my wrists upside down so they were bound with my straps and my b.r.e.a.s.t.s were bared.

"I'm all tied up. Maybe you can help me out?" Any man her age would have jumped on me right then and there, but The One wasn't easy. She bolted from the pool so quickly I was scurrying after her with my hands strapped to my sides, bikini twisted up around my waist.

I found her in her bedroom and we tumbled onto the bed like two lovers with a death sentence hanging over their affair. I devoured every inch of her until, panting, she begged me to stop. I can still imagine her that day. Her flaxen hair matted and stringy from the pool, her bronzed skin the perfect setting for the most beautiful blue eyes I've ever stared into.

It was never as glorious as it was that first day, but for years it was amazing still. She tried to call it off repeatedly, but each time I threatened to tell Father what she had done. I loved her and was willing to do anything to keep her. But still, she left, again and again. She called my bluff and wouldn't see me, wouldn't touch me, wouldn't hold me anymore. It's a cruel fate, to be discarded by the woman you love.

Each time I believed it hardly mattered. Love was dead and I took refuge in the c.u.n.ts of strangers, each ignominious hookup a reminder that I'm a b.i.t.c.h, hardened to the meaning of love.

Oh, The One, how could you leave me like this? Last week, I told Pat I needed something really shocking to stir me up. Something more than a c.o.ke-snorting wife swap-not that those modern day key parties aren't fun, but I need more out of my adventures. And this time Pat delivered.

Pat had me dress up in this little flapper dress with champagne-colored fringe and a hemline that barely covered my crotch. I wore peep toe Christian Louboutin heels with little black bows. Besides the Nana de Bary perfume, I wore nothing else, not even a bra. Pat put on a large leather mask that covered my eyes completely, and had me follow him to the taxi and then up two flights of stairs at our destination. There was a scratchy old jazz record playing, something that recalled a Mississippi bluesman's deal with the devil, and a lot of hushed whispers. Pat led me to a bed or a divan or something and sat me there, closing a door behind himself. I could hear more talk outside the door but couldn't hear what they were saying. I was tempted to lift up the mask, to figure out where the h.e.l.l I was, but hadn't I been the one to ask for this mystery?

Soon, the door swung open and there were hands grabbing at me, pulling my arms back and my legs apart, and before I could even say anything my mouth was full too. I didn't know how many people were there that day, or even if they were all women or men. I was never sure how safe I was, though I never bothered to protest. Yet with all that danger, with twenty? Thirty? strangers having their way with me, I was still fairly bored, albeit a bit nonplussed. Who were these thirty strangers who so desired to have me bound and gagged? What were their lives like? Was this a thrilling night or an everyday occurrence? What had they done to be here?

I felt a little out of my body that night. Sure, an o.r.g.a.s.m is an o.r.g.a.s.m, but when it's not with The One, there's a pure hollowness to my s.e.xual conquests. I f.u.c.k 'em and leave 'em, but it doesn't even matter to me. I watched a doc.u.mentary about Annabel Chong once. The p.o.r.n star had s.e.x with 251 men. She was all post-feminist, women's s.e.xuality is maligned, and there are double standards. All true, all things I agreed with, but when I watched her banging those dudes, I knew this wasn't about feminism or double standards or even her pleasure. Somebody had taken power away from Annabel Chong and she was getting it back, one hairy dude at a time. I just saw a little girl lost in all that carnality. Not the viper wh.o.r.e her fans wanted to see, but a little girl who probably never meant to take things this far. I recognized the same look when Pat showed me the Polaroids of that night-the hordes of women, each wearing a macabre, smiling carnival masque, penetrating me in nearly every possible way.

I've been behind the green door, and without The One, it's an empty, hollow journey.

I was trying to tell Dr. Finnegan about one of Ash's last journal entries before her death, and I could tell the doc was a little disturbed.

"The thing is, Dr. Finnegan, I'm worried about, um, my sister's ex."

Finnegan was silent, looking pained. "You mean the woman she called the one?" I had refrained from telling Finnegan that The One was probably my stepmother Tabitha.

"Well, yeah. I don't know how much of her diaries are real or fantasy. It all sort of blends together. h.e.l.l, in my own life I don't know anymore."

"Do you feel like you're losing touch with reality, Megan?" Finnegan was being concerned, I was sure, but it dawned on me that she was a licensed shrink. If, G.o.d forbid, she thought I was slipping out of reality she could probably have me locked up.

"Oh no, no, nothing like that." I backpedaled. "It's just that sometimes I feel like someone is watching me. I can't explain it. In her diaries, Ash says that her, um, The One, hires a private investigator to follow her. I don't really think a PI is following me, but the break-in has me on edge I guess, so I'm always watching over my shoulder. Maybe I'm just as paranoid as Ash was."

Finnegan was thoughtful. "Megan, it's hard to know in our grief and loss sometimes where the lines are between fantasy and reality. I can tell you've gone through a lot of changes this year, and I was wondering if there's a healthier way to channel your energy than reading these diaries and acting out your sister's adventures in the name of journalism."

The old lady was a lost cause. She had slipped into shrink speak and I could tell our next scene would include a lecture about healthy s.e.xuality. That was a little more than I could handle right now so I played down her questions and ducked out of her apartment gracefully.

If Tabitha or Father or even Ash's killer had hired someone to spy on me, I had to figure out what they were after before they found it-or before they killed me to keep it hidden. Moreover, I wanted to give them a little show for their money. I would respond to the surveillance the same way Ash did. I started with my little black book, courtesy of sis.

"Bethany, hi, this is Megan Caulfield."

The voice on the other end of the line sounded sleepy. I pictured sweet Bethany Hanks in her pj's and was even more interested in ticking her off my list. "Yes, Ash's little sister. I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee sometime?"

"Sure, yeah, okay."

We made a date for Tuesday and I was free to dial up another of my sister's old pals. Thus would begin my month of f.u.c.king my way through all of Ash's old conquests. Whoever wanted me followed would be getting detailed reports of my liaisons. If the killer was one of Ash's lovers, I'd be getting to her soon enough.

Chapter Fifteen.

The private d.i.c.k that was hired to follow me was worse than a wise guy in an old Columbo episode. Old flatfoot was easy to spot and even easier to lose. If he was supposed to curtail my activities in any way, he most certainly failed. I was so bored with the surveillance that I tried for a while to find creative ways to give flatfoot the slip. I climbed out the bathroom window at Saucebox, took the fire escape at Powell's, hid in a Porta-Potty at the Jazz Fest for an hour. After a while I grew bored with my own shenanigans and decided to turn the tables on him. After a week of following the gumshoe hired to follow me, he just seemed to disappear.

Good riddance. I a.s.sumed by now that his reports back to the home office-whoever that client was-had given them enough salaciousness to work with. Subject had s.e.x in parking lot of the Egyptian Club. Subject took a shot of ecstasy and danced at the Crystal Ballroom with twelve different women. Subject flashed me her t.i.ts in the men's section of Fred Meyer. I had worked my way through Ash's Rolodex. Tina, Julie, Evy, Beatrice, Leisha, Susan, Ariel-I bedded them all and made sure the private d.i.c.k was around to see it. Or at least hear about it through the walls of my otherwise soundproof apartment.

The thing that happened, though, was that with all this baseless eroticism, I started to wonder about this woman that Ash pined after for years. How could one secret ten-month love affair affect the next several years of her life? It had always seemed like Ash could have anyone she wanted, her pick of the litter, so to speak, so it made me wonder, what was so d.a.m.n special about Tabitha, the stepmother I barely knew?

All the signs pointed to Tabitha being the one Ash was in love with, and now, thinking back on the things that Ash had said and done, it seemed obvious, like a giant dumbbell hitting me over the head. Of course it was her all along. But how, why, when? Had they been lovers only that year and never again, or had their affair resumed years later? How could this one woman-a high school educated gold digger Father had married for her youth and beauty-have so enthralled a savvy girl like Ash?

I started to realize that the only way to understand Ash was to understand the woman she was in love with. Had her forbidden attraction to our stepmother gotten Ash killed? Did one of her other lovers fly into a jealous rage when they learned Ash would never love them the way she loved Tabitha?

My quest needed to change. I had to give up my erotic explorations in search of something deeper: the story behind this mystery. Just thinking about it was nerve-wracking, as I realized that I didn't know where to start. And if I hired someone, I was almost positive it would get back to Father. Did he even know about his wife's illicit Sapphic indiscretion?

I needed to find out who Tabitha really was. My Junior League charity-driven stepmother? My sister's true love? Or some sick Sapphic version of Mary Kay Letourneau who preyed on my vulnerable sister? I decided not to trust a PI. I was capable of doing the job myself. So I followed Tabitha from the estate to the bank to the florist, where almost all of her stops were pedantic and typical. She volunteered once a week at some charity, though she was rarely there long enough to get her hands dirty, so I a.s.sume she was gabbing and dropping off a check. Poor Father-cuckolded by a young wife who just spent his money and screwed his daughter. Still, there was something captivating about Tabitha and her secrets. She had the ability to surprise me sometimes. Last night, she was at the Q Center at a lesbian literary salon, in a red dress and a black wig. The other day, I watched her walk into Union Jacks, a rather notorious strip club in town. Even when she was incognito she was cautious, constantly looking around furtively, ducking in and out of aisles so she was harder to track than one would imagine a suburban housewife would be.

By now, I realized she was no ordinary housewife. Tuesday's journey was most intriguing. She parked her car at Lloyd Center Mall, got on the railway to downtown, then got off two blocks from the river and walked to a giant gla.s.s building called The Pinnacle. I followed her inside at a safe distance, but by then had lost her to the crowds around the elevators. I'd never been to this part of the Pearl District and couldn't imagine whom Tabitha could be seeing there. Again today, she did the exact same thing. Only this time I managed to watch which floor her elevator stopped at-fourteen-and so I followed her up on a different elevator. She was in loft 1411, a corner unit at the end of the hallway, loudly playing that Eric Clapton song "Tears in Heaven" over and over again. I waited in the utility room down the hall, peaking out through the door's tiny hatched window every time I heard a new shuffling, mumbling, or electronic noise, but it was over an hour before I saw anything. Tabitha reappeared in the hall, distracted but red faced and empty-handed, and to my surprise, the door shut on her coat and she broke down crying in the hallway, trapped in the door. Instead of opening the door, she tugged at the camel colored trench, eventually tearing a swatch from it. She turned the k.n.o.b to make sure the door was locked as she looked nervously up and down the hallway. She looked like a trapped woman, and not just because of the coat.

As soon as she'd rescued her now tattered coat from the door she ran to the elevator as if she couldn't wait to get out of there. Funnily enough, I couldn't wait to get in that apartment. I grabbed the pocketknife thingy from my purse, a rather humorous gift from a former lover who, after I ditched her, suggested that since I had b.a.l.l.s I should act like a man. Little did either of us know at the time I could use the little contraption to break into an apartment. Fortunately for me, as I was struggling to open the little knife, I leaned on the door and realized the leftover fabric from Tabitha's coat was wedged in between the door and the lock, so while the lock was set, the door wasn't pulled all the way into the frame. I guess since Tabitha only pulled, not pushed, the k.n.o.b, she had no idea her lock paranoia didn't pay off. I just pushed the door open and walked right in.

As soon as I did, I felt like I had been hit over the head. I fell to the ground and pa.s.sed out and when I awoke, it was dark inside and I was cold and damp, still lying on the floor. I gave my eyes a few moments to adjust then I crawled to the table in search of a lamp to flick. As soon as the apartment was flooded with light, I remembered why I was instantly struck. It wasn't a bop over the head that did me in. It was the sight of the larger than life shrine to my sister. There were photos of Ash everywhere, along with some of her jewelry and trinkets, and right at the center of it all were Ash's two missing diaries that were stolen from my apartment. I felt like I was in a horror movie, my own Silence of the Lambs, with mementos from the murder victim all around me. Had Father and Tabitha lured me away from the apartment with that bulls.h.i.t lecture so Tabitha could break in and steal these things? Why were there vestiges of my sister everywhere in this loft?

I stayed in the apartment the rest of the day, rifling through the drawers and cabinets. I tossed through the closet, a veritable smorgasbord of outfits and disguises that would fit Tabitha and my sister both. While the front room was an Ash shrine, the bedroom was an erotic play land. The armoire held leather couture of all sorts, whips, floggers, masks, even a face mask with a leather d.i.l.d.o attached where the mouthpiece would normally be. How could that even work? Handcuffs and feathers and oils and tons of silicone toys were strewn about. There were erotic magazines, including dozens of old copies of a black and white lesbian magazine called On Our Backs. There were more than a couple of Pookie Michaels films, each emblazoned with my sister in all her glory on the front of the box. My G.o.d, my stepmother knew about my sister's p.o.r.n past. What else did she know? What did Father know? Had he been here? Or was this apartment Tabitha's secret love nest?

I read through the remainder of Ash's journals, the ones that were taken from me and another I had never seen before. She talked about lesbian play parties and orgies and showing a group of women how to have a.n.a.l s.e.x with some girl named Tristan. Clearly, there was pathos in there, a desire to t.i.tillate and shock the reader-which was who? Tabitha? Me? But so much of it was matter-of-fact. I couldn't help but be turned on, and the one way I could stick it to Tabitha for stealing my sister was to m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e in her bed. I grabbed the red dress from the other night and put it on. It smelled of Nana de Bary perfume and perspiration and desire and maybe a little shame. Or maybe that was just me. I didn't know, but I was aroused by the magazines and the movies and the orgies and I plunged my hand between my legs and just started rubbing like crazy until I felt everything constrict and I began to scream like a banshee.

Only, this time I didn't feel good afterward. I felt...guilty. I was at the foot of a shrine to my sister, in my stepmother's dress, in the house of a killer-maybe-and I was feeling jealous and aroused and focusing on having an o.r.g.a.s.m? What kind of monster had I become?

I was so aghast at what I had done, what I had become, that I did the only reasonable thing: I demolished the apartment. I took all of my rage out on the furnishings. Nothing would wash away my guilt like showing Tabitha I was on to her, on to them. I slashed the sheets with her scissors, tore up the sofa pillows, and emptied all the dresser drawers. And then I did the most devastating thing: I destroyed the shrine to my sister's memory. I tore down the photos, threw all the trinkets in the fireplace, and shoved the journals into my bag. I stood there in the middle of the room, knee deep in destruction, and wanted more. I wished I could see Tabitha's face when she walked in and found what I had done.

But like any artificial high, my demolition-fueled delirium ended abruptly and sent me spiraling into the seven rings of self-deprecation. How could I have done what I did? Where did that violence, that hatred come from?

I thanked all things holy that Tabitha had not been there during my annihilation frenzy, because I feared what I might have done if she'd been in the room. Would Tabitha have ended up in little pieces on the floor, mixed in with the shredded remnants of her loft? Was this the same impetus that had led to my sister's death?

I did not see Tabitha's face when she discovered what I had done to her loft. We did see each other at dinner not too long after and she was as stone-faced and cordial as ever. Father was as cold and withdrawn. He lectured me about the deficient career choices I had made and the dire economic impact I could expect to harvest from such poor selections. Apparently, Father did not approve of his surviving daughter becoming a journalist, especially not one who regularly wrote about having s.e.x. I had had no idea he even read my column. While he was intent on belittling me, I was feeling rather pleased with myself for having garnered his attention. Who knew that was all it took. Maybe Ash started filming p.o.r.nos for the same reason. Could she have felt as invisible in this house as I had?

No. I didn't think so. As Father continued to belabor the point, I pushed my chair closer to Tabitha's. In doing so, the back of my hand brushed her thigh. A charge of electricity snapped between us like static cling and then was gone. Perhaps I'd imagined it. Tabitha sat prim and proper with perfect posture in her chair as though nothing had happened. Maybe it hadn't. Or were her cheeks just a little rosier than they'd been a moment before?

"Just how safe are all theseum" Father struggled for the appropriate couth wording. "These dealings? How safe are they, Megan?"

Having long lost interest in his paternalism, I allowed Father to drone on. I wasn't about to ease his consternation regarding my column, but the truth of the matter was that my own interest in the subject was waning. I didn't think I'd be Portland's adventure s.l.u.t much longer. My pa.s.sion was too big to be bridled by this city's handful of underground erotic adventures. I needed to be a pioneer in a different way, to open up a new s.e.xual frontier. Just how, I didn't know yet. I imagined Tabitha opening up to me like a desert flower, and it was my turn to blush.

"You don't want to end up like your sister," Father concluded.

With that, I came back to the conversation. "You mean dead on the pool house floor? I can't imagine how that would happen to me, Daddy-O. Don't you agree, Tabitha?"

I winked at her. I was bolder now, too. I wasn't just little Megan, peering out a window at my sister's Sapphic fun. I was the master of my domain and I was the one calling the shots in life now. Tabitha should fear me, because I was on to her little game. Maybe she even wondered why I hadn't already told the cops about her secret double life. But I was keeping something for myself.

Still, when the color drained from her face, I instantly regretted the flippant way I'd recalled that traumatic night. I didn't see Father raise his hand. Rather than warning me, the light breeze on my face only confused me. For a millisecond. Until his palm reached my cheek. The slap was so fierce it rattled my fillings loose and knocked my molars akimbo, the way earthquakes displace fence lines. I was sure it left an angry, crimson handprint behind, far outshadowing the pink of my blush.

Tabitha inhaled so sharply it sounded like the door of an airplane being ripped off mid-flight and pa.s.sengers were being sucked out by the vacuum it created. "Bradford Thomas Caulfield!" She shrieked like an angry mother condemning and errant child. "Apologize!" Tabitha yelled.

"I'm sorry," I responded automatically.

Tabitha ignored my authentic act of contrition.

"Bradford." She demanded.

Oh, my G.o.d, I realized, looking at the determined set of her jaw, this woman was f.u.c.king hot. There was something about courageous women that turned me on. No, not courage. It wasn't bravery that lead a diminutive female of the species to stand up to my father and demand an apology-it was recklessness, a sheer and utter disregard for one's personal safety. And I'd never seen anything s.e.xier.

Father did not apologize. He had never once acknowledged personal wrongdoing in all the time I'd known him. When things went so unbelievably wrong that he could no longer ignore them, he always managed to find a convenient patsy to blame it on. I wasn't even that alarmed by the whole scene. I had changed from the kid who wanted only to please her father and fall under the radar, in my sister's shadow. I was older and bolder and less interested in making Father-or anyone else for that matter-happy. I left the table with Tabitha still glaring at Father. They would probably fight for hours over the disagreement, but for me it was water off a duck's back. I needed to get my beauty sleep. I had more spying to do in the morning.

Ca.s.sandra, who I bored of after a week or two of tumbling and floor exercises, was just embarra.s.sed enough about dipping her pen in the company ink, that she allowed me the freedom to make my own hours at the paper-as long as they were opposite to her own.

So I started working from my home or the coffeehouse nearly as frequently as I made it to the office. That gave me more time to watch Tabitha. The funny thing was, the more I followed her, the more intrigued I was by the woman. She was such an enigma to me. Every day there was something unexpected in her life. Last week, it was Taboo-an adult store where she spent an hour, while I waited for her to leave, keeping tabs on the door from the parking lot across the street. What could a woman do for an hour in an x.x.x video store? Did she actually watch the films there?

Yesterday, she disappeared into a house on 82nd Avenue that had a giant sign outside announcing it as a business named Honeysuckles, and billing itself as a "lingerie experience for men." What the h.e.l.l was Tabitha doing at all these places? I thought my s.e.xuality was aberrant, but hers, well, it made me look like a castoff from Little House on the Prairie.

The more I saw Tabitha in these playlands, the more intrigued I became. I wanted to know Tabitha-not just biblically, but as a person. I wanted to know what brought her to these places, what her fantasies were, and who she wanted to share them with. Just who was this woman? Did my sister find out about her secrets? Was that why she was killed?

Chapter Sixteen.

It's an old adage that often the truth isn't what we are truly seeking. I was starting to think that might be the case for me. I had been following Tabitha for weeks now and I was noticing that I was feeling as enraptured by her as other women were over my sister. I started inconspicuously following her to stores, cafes, and even to a strip club, although I could never go in to these venues for fear of being caught spying on her. Instead I hunched down behind the wheel of my rental car, eating Doritos and watching. Watching to see how long she was inside and when she did come out whether she was still alone. Tabitha remained alone-going in and coming out.

Soon, watching from afar just wasn't enough. It was no longer giving me the thrill I'd had when I originally started stalking her. I decided to escalate. I managed to "b.u.mp" into her at a few establishments she fraternized, the ones where I could randomly imagine turning up.

To my surprise, Tabitha didn't seem frightened to see me. Quite the opposite. She seemed genuinely happy to have happened upon me. Usually she'd invite me to lunch or out to the house or just to finish up her shopping with her, the latter of which I did enough times that I was starting to enjoy it.

"Try these!" Tabitha smiled and threw another set of trousers at me.