SNAPPED: THE CHELSEA CHOKER EXCERPT

CHAPTER 1

MAX

I was on a mission that night to do the bidding of my mentor, my champion, my hero, the only person in the world who understood me and listened. He has taught me everything I know: patience, skill, persistence, and the most important factor—no remorse.

Nash knew me before we even met. He knew my loneliness, my desperate need for attention and love, my yearning to belong somewhere, to someone. He had appeared when I was at my lowest. Homeless, living on the street, afraid every night, and hungry.

It was a simple gesture. He’d asked if I wanted to join him for dinner at a diner around the corner from where I hid in the shadows. I’m not even sure how he saw me. I’d thought I had done an expert job camouflaging myself from the strangers who passed by every day, but he’d looked right into my eyes as I peeked through the cardboard box I called home.

Famished and stretching my dollars, I’d agreed to go because I knew he couldn’t harm me in such a public place. Besides, we were about the same size, and I thought I could handle him if he got any ideas. I’d heard people on the streets sometimes did favors for money or food or just a human touch. I wouldn’t go there. Prostitute myself out of need. I was on the street because I sought my independence. I wanted control of myself, not constantly doing what others told me to do.

So, I went with him, but I made sure the terms were clear.

“Just dinner, right?”

“Yes, just dinner. And conversation. Is that okay?” he’d asked.

“I guess it depends on what you want to talk about. I don’t answer questions I don’t want to, got it?”

“Agreed.”

We’d gone around the corner to the diner, where we sat in a corner booth. Nash hung his jacket on a hook on a post separating the stalls, and there we sat, looking one another over.

“My name is Nash. What’s yours?”

“Max.” I’m not sure why I’d told him the truth. I glanced around. There were enough people in the diner that I’d felt safe if this guy was a perv.

“Hello, Max. It’s very nice to meet you. Would you like to hang your jacket up?” He’d motioned to where his own black jacket was hanging.

“No, I’m good. I’ll just put it here.” I nodded to the red vinyl seat next to me as I wiggled my arms free of my jacket sleeves.

The waitress had come over with two glasses of ice water, tossed two straws on the table, and handed a menu to each of us. She didn’t seem to care that I wasn’t exactly the cleanest looking person in the place. “You need a minute?”

“Yes, thank you,” Nash had answered.

He’d opened his menu and looked it over. I opened mine and pretended to read it, but I was looking at him. There was nothing special about the guy—middle-aged, white, gray in his hair and beard—with more gray sprinkled in his beard than his head, small, black-framed glasses that sat right at the bridge of his nose, which was straight and proportionate to his face. Just your average guy. He dressed well, probably had money, and had a soft, southern drawl when he spoke. I couldn’t figure out what was happening. Was he just a friendly guy doing his good deed for the week, or was there something more dangerous happening and I just couldn’t see it yet?

“What looks good to you, Max?” Nash had put down his menu, slid the paper off a straw, then placed it in a glass and taken a sip.

I did the same. Picked up a straw, stripped it of its paper wrapper, plopped it in the other glass, and took a long, steady drink. I was thirsty and the icy water felt good going down my throat.

I’d asked, “Is there a limit?”

“What do you mean?”

“To how much I can spend?”

Nash had laughed a little. “That’s very considerate of you, Max, and no, no limit. Order whatever you like.”

The waitress came back just then.

“Are you ready, or do you need a few more minutes?”

“I believe we are ready. Right, Max?”

I’d nodded yes.

“I’ll have the turkey dinner special and a cup of coffee. Max?”

“I’ll have the cheeseburger deluxe with regular fries and a Coke.”

The waitress took our menus and trotted off.

He’d sat there looking at me with a grin on his face. I have to admit it was a little creepy, but I was used to creepy. People called me creepy.

“Would you mind telling me about yourself, Max? Where are you from? How did you end up living in a box on the street?”

“I don’t know,” I’d said, shrugging my shoulders.

“You don’t know what? Where you’re from or how you ended up homeless?”

I didn’t want to answer a bunch of questions. For all I knew, he was a cop or a private detective sent by my crazy father to find me. That thought had made me smile. My father couldn’t give a shit where I was—he would never spend money to find me.

“I choose to live on the street. It makes for good people-watching.”

“It must get scary sometimes, not to mention cold and… lonely.”

“I have plenty of friends. The homeless are their own community—we look out for each other.” I’d lied. I didn’t talk to anyone, make eye contact with anyone, or accept anything from anyone unless they dropped it at my feet. Like this one time, this guy was going around handing out socks and baggies filled with toiletries to all the vagrants. When he got to me, he’d squatted down in front of me and tried to start a conversation. I didn’t even look up. He gave up and left the stuff on the ground next to me. When he was out of sight, I grabbed the baggy and socks and put them in my secret hiding spot.

“How long have you been here in the city?”

“Long enough. How long have you lived here?” Let’s see how he likes a million questions—I’m full of them.

The waitress had come back with our drinks and dropped another straw on the table for my Coke. That one I didn’t open. I’d save it for another day, another use. Nash took his coffee black, which hadn’t surprised me. His slim physique made me think he watched what he ate, so no sugar in his coffee.

“I just moved here recently from the South. My work has brought me here rather unexpectedly.”

“What do you do?” I didn’t care what this guy did, but if I asked the questions, I was in control of the conversation.

He’d sat looking at me for a few seconds, which made me uncomfortable, and then he answered.

“I’m an appraiser.”

“What do you appraise?”

“I can appraise almost anything, but I work mostly in the arts. Specifically, medieval paintings and sculptures…weapons.”

“Oh.” My disinterest had oozed from every pore.

The waitress slipped our plates in front of us and asked if we needed anything else. Nash answered no, and she moved on to the next table. My empty stomach grumbled with hunger, but I didn’t show it.

I’d inspected my burger—lifted the bun, took off the tomato and lettuce, added some ketchup, replaced the bun top, and cut it in half. I’d taken my time savoring that first incredible, delicious bite. The juice and grease from the meat ran down my chin, the gooey cheese mixed with the bread and burger in my mouth—it was heaven. And it was all I could do not to moan as I’d washed it all down with a slurp of my soda. My God, this might be the best damn burger I’ve ever had, I remembered thinking.

“How’s your food?” he’d asked. “Any good?”

“It’s okay,” I’d said, my mouth full of ketchup and French fries perfectly cooked, as only diners seem to know how to do—crunchy on the outside and tender on the inside. I’d looked around, feigning boredom with the entire scene, but really, I’d been excited to be having my first hot meal since I couldn’t remember when.

He’d seemed amused as he ate his own dinner. I’d observed how he’d cut his meat, piled some stuffing on top, added a little cranberry sauce, and finally impaled a green bean with his fork before stabbing the neat stack of food and eating it. The perfect bite. He did that with every mouthful until he finished the last morsel.

Conversation was sparse while we ate. Nash tried once more to get me to spill my guts, but I’d share nothing personal with him. I still couldn’t tell if he was some kind of freak or not.

Now I realize how lucky I was that night.

The waitress came back and asked if we wanted dessert.

“Chocolate cake,” I’d said. She nodded as she wrote. “To go. And a tuna sandwich,” I added. I’d glanced at Nash to see his reaction. There was nothing, not even a blink.

“And you, hon? Refresh your coffee or something else?” She nodded her head in Nash’s direction.

“Yes, a little more coffee, please. But no dessert.”

I’d wanted to get out of there, but I wanted that chocolate cake more, so I sat fidgeting, waiting for the cake. I slipped my jacket back on so I could make a fast exit when the waitress came back. This guy knew where I slept, and I was antsy to move somewhere else. It was easy to move when your home was already in a box.

The waitress returned, but only to refill his coffee, and she waddled off again. I couldn’t help but stare at her colossal ass. It was some behind she had. It seemed to move separately from the rest of her body as it jiggled and wiggled under her waitress uniform, contrary to the rest of her body. Momentarily, it amused me, but then I sat, impatient, trying not to make eye contact with Nash, wishing the food would come already.

He sipped his coffee and peered over the rim at me. I’d felt his eyes on me, examining me, trying to pry into my brain.

“Thanks for dinner. It was good,” I’d offered.

“You’re welcome. And thank you for joining me. I don’t enjoy eating alone; it was nice to have a sinner companion.”

“What?”

“It’s nice to have someone to eat dinner with.”

Oh, dinner.

The waitress had returned with a brown bag. I’d stood, taking it from her hands, and looked at Nash. “Yeah, it was cool. Well, bye.” I headed for the door before he could say another word.

That was months ago, and since then, things have changed. Nash gave me projects to undertake at his command. The current mission was a soccer chick.

I was watching her play on the brightly lit field down by the piers. She was number seven and moved well; the muscles in her legs defined, her dirty blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, her face pink from exertion. Her team was winning, thanks to a goal she’d just scored. My job was to swap my Poland Spring bottle, which I held with the sleeve of my sweatshirt so as not to leave any fingerprints, with her identical bottle. Nash had spiked the water in my bottle with a sedative.

Patience was the first thing Nash had taught me. I paid attention like any good fan as I inched closer and closer to Seven’s gym bag, thrown on the ground next to the field. Mimicking the action of the game, I moved to either side of the bag. No one paid any attention to the lone figure cheering the team on at the sideline. The other spectators concentrated on the fast-paced game.

Her team was about to score again, and I prepared to swap the bottles. I stepped closer to her bag, and it happened. They scored. I threw my hands up in the air, pretending to cheer, and “accidentally” dropped my bottle on top of her open bag. I bent over and picked up Seven’s bottle instead. Standing, I clapped my hands for the team and took a swig from her bottle, just as if it were my own. It was too easy. Keeping my head down to avoid any cameras, I retreated to the fence and found a place to wait for her near the exit.

The game ended, and Seven headed to the sidelines. She sat down on the turf next to her bag and took a quick sip from the bottle I’d dropped before replacing her cleats with a pair of flip-flops. She chatted with her friends as they gathered their belongings and then she took a nice, long drink. The women walked casually toward the exit as the next game got underway. A few hung back to watch the game start, two others headed toward the porta-potty as my intended walked toward the gate alone.

Seven exited onto the sidewalk, took a left, stopped for a moment as she finished the water, and threw the empty plastic bottle into the trash. I stood in the shadows as she searched in her bag and pulled out her phone. She started down the sidewalk again as she checked her messages.

I followed a few feet behind, knowing the drug in her water would hit her hard and fast, and it did. She swayed and staggered to the chain-link fence that surrounded the field, dropped her phone and almost fell over when she attempted to pick it up. No one else noticed the woman having a hard time standing. I stepped in quickly.

“Hi—are you okay? I’ll get that.” I bent down and picked up her phone.

She looked at me, her eyes half-closed, watery. Her chapped lips parted as her jaw slackened and she struggled to draw air. She leaned against the fence to keep herself upright, her body betraying her, morphing from solid muscle to a fluid mass.

“Here, let me help you.” I took her arm around my neck and pulled her close. Her feet dragged along the cement. “Let’s find someplace for you to sit.” I helped her along the dimly lit sidewalk. Bystanders paid us no mind. People in cars passed us, clueless as to what was happening.

We came to the corner, where there was a small park area at the end of the stadium. I steered her into it and over to some full bushes. She could barely stand as I eased her onto the ground and laid her on her back.

It was so easy. So much easier than Clara and Wayne, which was messy, even though I don’t remember whacking at them. I remember what it looked like when I was done, so much blood everywhere, on the floor, the couch, the ceiling… everywhere.

And it was easier than my first with Nash. The nerves were calm. The doubt eased. The guilt quieted. I knew what I was doing now as I donned a pair of kid leather gloves and slipped the silky blue ribbon around her neck, and knew how to do it efficiently, quickly, silently.

COMING 2024!