When She Was Bad: A Thriller Read Online Free

desk, pressed another button. “Walter, we’re, ah, ready for Ulysses now.”
    4

    In the days that followed Mervin’s death, Lilith’s conscience never troubled her—she had no more conscience than a cat, and a good deal less curiosity. In a way, it was as if she came alive only when threatened; in the absence of danger she was content to spend her time soaking in the hot tub or basking like a lizard on the sun-warmed patio behind the pink house.
    Then one morning Mama Rose announced at breakfast that she had to go into town to take care of some errands, and all but insisted that Lilith come along. Wearing an oversize leather bomber jacket, the girl rode pillion on Mama Rose’s baby-blue Sportster with her cheek pressed against the other woman’s broad back, the wind in her hair, and the scent of greasy leather in her nostrils.
    But instead of traveling into Redding or Mt. Shasta, which was usually what was meant by going into town, Mama Rose drove Lilith to a generic-looking motel coffee shop in Weed—padded vinyl banquettes, Formica tables, travel posters depicting a matador, the Matterhorn, and the Eiffel tower. There were only three other customers: a middle-aged couple at the counter, and a guy with a gray ponytail who slipped out as soon as Lilith and Mama Rose arrived.
    Lilith asked for a latte, though how she knew she preferred lattes when she didn’t know her last name or where she came from was another of the questions she had steadfastly declined to ask herself. Mama Rose ordered an espresso, installed Lilith in a booth over by the plate-glass window, then excused herself to visit the ladies’ room.
    Mama Rose still hadn’t returned by the time the coffees arrived. Lilith, wearing a T-shirt and low-cut jeans under the borrowed bomber jacket, was thinking about popping into the ladies’ room to check on her friend when the middle-aged couple approached her booth.
    “Mind if we join you?” the man asked her. Big, bald, and homely as a manatee, he wore a garish Hawaiian Sunset hula shirt, rumpled plaid Bermuda shorts, black ankle socks, and shapeless, gunboat-size beige Hush Puppies.
    “I’m Dr. Cogan, this is Mr. Pender,” said the woman, a slender, forty-something strawberry blond wearing a russet blazer over a crisp white blouse and matching skirt.
    “Sorry, I’m with a—” A friend, Lilith was about to say, when she heard the unmistakable rumble of a Harley engine; she turned toward the window just in time to see the blue Sportster fishtailing out of the motel parking lot. “What the fuck’s going on here?”
    The man sat down next to her, blocking her in. Judging by his looks, he might have been a retired professional wrestler—a heavy, not a hero—or a circus strongman gone to fat. The woman sat facing her and reached across the table to pat Lilith’s hand, saying, “Don’t be alarmed, dear—we’re here to help you.”
    Lilith jerked her hand away violently. “I’m not alarmed,” she said, surreptitiously palming a sharp-tined fork—it was either that or the butter knife. “Just tell me what the fuck’s going on.”
    “You don’t recognize either of us, then?” asked the woman. Her reddish-blond hair was cut in a rather severe helmet shape; she had mild blue eyes and a long, somewhat rabbity nose.
    “Maybe I do and maybe I don’t.” Under the table, Lilith’s hand tightened around the fork handle; she visualized herself jabbing the tines into the man’s eye, then climbing over the table and running like hell for the door. “What’re you, on TV or something?”
    “With this face?” The man grinned as he picked up Mama Rose’s untouched espresso; the little cup all but disappeared in his hand. “Waste not, want not,” he said, then glanced casually under the table, toward the fork clutched in Lilith’s fist. “Mind if I borrow that for a sec?”
    Their eyes locked—one of those she knew that he knew that she knew moments—then he gently prized the fork from