Speak No Evil_ A Novel - Allison Brennan [24]
At first, nothing jumped out at them. On the right was an avatar, a photo icon of something brownish that Carina couldn’t make out. She leaned closer.
“Will, tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re not.”
“Damn.” The avatar, which was Angie’s personal calling card in cyberspace, was a close-up of a nipple.
“Think it’s hers?”
“Read the text.”
They stared at the computer. Carina didn’t consider herself a prude, but the sexual content in Angie’s journal was detailed enough to make a sailor blush. And glancing at Will, she saw that he was equally uncomfortable.
The last entry was dated February 10, the day before she disappeared.
This morning I woke up horny. You know how it is, you have this great sexy dream with a couple guys and then the damn alarm rings and you just know the vibrator isn’t going to satisfy. So I went over to T.S. He’s on my way to class, he always wakes up with a rock-hard dick, and he never says no.
She went on to describe exactly what “T.S.” did to her in great detail.
“Holy shit,” Will muttered. “What was she thinking?”
Carina shook her head.
They skimmed the journal entries. Every entry had dozens, even hundreds of comments. Most from men posting lewd pictures of themselves.
You’re so hot, come over to my place.
I’ll show you what rock hard really means.
I’ll fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before.
“Winners, all of them,” Carina said irritably. “And she thought this was fun?”
“Young and stupid,” Will said.
Angie Vance, straight-A student, had been playing a dangerous game that may have gotten her killed. Any number of sexual deviants could have been after her, men who thought she’d be into whatever sick fantasy they had. What if one of these men had tracked her down? What if she’d said no? Would that have set him off, knowing she’d slept with all these other guys, why not him? Would he then have stalked her, kidnapped her, killed her?
They skimmed the entries for any comments related to Steve Thomas or Doug Masterson. They found several entries they believed referred to each of them.
On Monday, she wrote:
D.M. is cheating on me. I suppose it shouldn’t bother me, but I’ve been faithful to him since we started sleeping together. How do I know? The smell of sex. I know what D.M.’s bed smells like after I’ve fucked him. I went over last night without calling and the scent wasn’t mine.
Was that why my mother kicked my father out of the house? She came home and smelled another woman?
Well, all bets are off. If he can screw around, so can I. I sometimes wish things didn’t end the way they had with S.T. because he’s exactly what I need right now. D.M. was rough and tumble, a hard, fast fuck that made me scream. S.T. was slow and easy, patient, like a tightening spiral until I quietly exploded.
Sometimes a girl needs to be fucked. Sometimes a girl needs to be loved.
“Sometimes,” Carina mumbled, “a girl needs a good shrink.”
Will looked at his notes. “Mrs. Vance said Angie’s father left them when she was a toddler. Think she’s looking for a surrogate daddy?”
“Hell if I know, but I have friends without a dad in their lives, and they don’t sleep with multiple partners twice their age.”
Farther down the journal they found this interesting entry:
January 19. Okay you jerks out there. You know who you are. Let me tell you what it is. If you think you can scare me into needing your protection, you have another think coming. S.T. this means YOU. I don’t need you and I don’t want you. Stay away from me because it’s all in your head, got it?
The restraining order was dated January 20.
“It sounds like she knew Steve was reading her journal, presuming he’s ‘S.T.,’ ” Carina said.
Will pointed to the screen. Photos. “Click there, Carina.”
She did and immediately thought they’d accidentally hit a porn website.
Under the heading “Dicks I’ve Loved” were close-up pictures of male genitals in various states of arousal.
Under the heading “Me, Myself, and I” were close-up pictures of the female anatomy.