Maya spun and slashed into the shadows. “Come on, bitch. Let me see you.”

  “How about you come to me. I am a friend. Let me show you more about your people. Let me help you find a better life. I know you are curious about the other side. Don’t you want to know if your sister will change? She doesn’t know, does she?”

  Magdalena didn’t know.

  She didn’t know it was one of the reasons she was so good at track. This wouldn’t be a period or sex talk; it was you are a mythical creature talk. Whoever this woman was, she knew about them.

  But Maya did know her sister would change. The older she got, the more she could smell it on Magdalena. This woman was trying to lure her out. It wouldn’t be the first time she was underestimated.

  “Like I said, you first.”

  The Weaver stepped out from behind shadow to the light of the parking lot. She was small—couldn’t be taller than five foot, olive-skinned, with hair that was completely white. She dressed in a fluffy fur coat, black jeans, and a black turtleneck with suede stiletto boots that had a heel as sharp as Maya’s switchblade. She pulled the fur closer to neck, the tresses caressing her cheek from the cold breeze,

  “Do I look like someone you should fear? My name is Isabella, darling. Some call me The Weaver, but you can call me sister, if you like.”

  This woman scared Maya to the marrow, yet there was something stuck up about the woman that took her back to the days of high school. There was no masking that condescending tone—same one she got when she took her envelopes of singles to the bank for deposit. Mother always said listen to those jungle instincts. It was what kept their ancestors alive and it would do the same for her. This gift skipped her parents, but not the knowledge.

  “The Weaver. Really? Like The Mandarin? Get the fuck out of here. I don’t know who you are, lady, and I don’t wanna know. Don’t follow me, stay away from my family, or I will cut you so fucking deep you’ll need more than stitches.”

  The Weaver’s tranquil expression changed. Suddenly the shadows that blackened her eyes also weaved across her face. Tiny sutures formed around her mouth and hairline. In that moment, she could have been a walking, talking rag doll brought back from the depths of hell.

  This was the person murdering all those women. It was just a feeling, but based on what they were saying in the papers, something in Maya’s gut said it was true. Another woman?

  The Weaver turned her hand over to reveal a syringe falling from beneath the long sleeve. Her stance poised to attack. Maya took a step forward to receive this woman’s blows. She wanted to change so badly, her joints ached to pop out of place, to shed skin for fur and fangs. A loud bang of the back door opening startled them both. It was Tyson and Jimmy with two other dancers, laughing and talking amongst themselves. Within seconds, the woman disappeared into the dark. Maya propelled herself forward, then stopped before she was overcome by the night. Maybe this is what this woman wanted.

  —

  She parked across the street of the house where Magdalena was staying. Carved pumpkins already sat on the porch with a harvest wreath made from plastic ears of corn and different shades of orange leaves hanging from a door.

  The rest of the neighborhood was quiet with only the wind breaking against bare branches of the trees and the occasional barking dog. Cars and homes, all dark and still. It was safe, for now. When the family awoke, she would have a long, difficult talk with her sister. It was an excellent Saturday night, despite the strange turn of events, so they would go to Shipley’s Donuts for breakfast. Anything and everything they wanted on the menu.

  She caught her reflection—what a damn hot mess, her hair out of place and stage make-up not quite wiped off. God, she was tired. Needing something to keep her awake, Maya fished into her bag for two leather garters. She would make something special for Magdalena instead of sleeping, in case that woman decided to make an appearance. She knew about them. What else did she know?

  —

  It was too early for the diner to be busy, which was good. They needed privacy. Home would have been better, but Maya wanted to treat her sister. Hell, she also needed a treat.

  The end table near the bathrooms would keep them at a distance from those already seated, and the flushing and whirring of hand dryers would mask their conversation. The waitress handed them menus with a sleepy half smile and walked away. Maya shifted in her hard pleather bench with the phantom feeling of the G-string riding up high again.

  “Magdalena. I’ve been trying to do my best since mom and dad been gone, but I need to be honest with you now. We aren’t like other females.”

  Oblivious, her little sister read the menu with delight. “No shit. I still love you though.” Magdalena put the menu down and took Maya’s manicured hand into her own. “What you do for us, for me. I’m doing my best to make good on it. I miss Mom and Dad every day.”

  Hearing this from a sixteen-year-old kid nearly broke Maya. No, she had to be strong, alpha. She was mother, father, provider, protector. Before she could speak, the waitress returned to take their order. Both always had the blueberry pancakes with a side of bacon. When the waitress left again, Magdalena returned to her intended speech.

  “I think someone is watching us and they can’t be trusted. I think they want to hurt us. I need to know you will always be alert. Run like hell, but just in case, keep this on you at all times.”

  Maya took a switchblade and a leather garter fashioned to hold the weapon from her bag and slid them across the table. “I’m going to show you how to use it. For now, you first and foremost run as hard as you can if trouble finds you. Use this as a last resort. Okay? If a woman approaches you with white hair… No, any woman we don’t know approaches you, don’t listen to her. Just run. Promise me to avoid anyone we don’t know. Remember the name, The Weaver or Isabella. I know the first one is stupid. Just keep eyes and ears open.”

  Magdalena looked scared, confused. She took the switchblade and garter off the table and placed them in her backpack. “What is this really all about? Is it that stuff in the papers? The nuns keep saying you reap what you sow. But you know I don’t believe that.”

  Maya’s cheeks went red with anger, not shame. What would those women have to say about her other identity, the big, wild cat inside? “We will have another talk later. I need time to think. I have to work tonight, so stay with a friend again, if you can. If not, I’ll take time off.”

  “No, it’s fine. Me and Samantha were going to… Also, no offense, Sis, but you look terrible. You need some sleep.”

  Sleep sounded great before Maya had to slip on those heels, put on her face, then crimp her hair, teased real high. Extra hairspray tonight to hold it all together. Maya spent the rest of the meal listening to Magdalena update her on school.

  —

  Maya was out as soon as she pulled the comforter over her body. She dreamed of her grandparents roaming the land before immigrant was even a word.

  Her dream became a memory of her father working next to her, bopping his head around to Low Rider by War when it popped up on her playlist. Their garage was an altar of car parts and American sports paraphernalia.

  Maya awoke to her alarm, crying into her pillow, feeling more alone than she had in months. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d shared a bed with anyone. But tears never got anyone anywhere. The back of her hands wiped the dampness from her face. Time for another day of hustle and coffee, maybe a shot of tequila during hair and make-up. But first, Magdalena better be done with homework because it was time for her first lesson on how to use a blade.

  —

  Maya held up the knife—about the size of an iPhone. The handle was polished wood from a ceiba tree. Maya and her father kept the blades in top condition, always sharpening them on a whetstone and oiling the handles. If you couldn’t shave or trim your split ends, it wasn’t sharp enough.

  “This switchblade has been in our family since Papa was a kid. It’s from Mexico. He said he carried it around because he was always getting hassled for speaking Spanish and English. Don’t lose it or break it. See this button? This is where you release the blade.”

  Magdalena watched, wide-eyed. Her sister manoeuvred the knife from her pockets like a ballerina gliding and leaping across some fancy stage. This was a dance with danger that could end in death.

  Maya closed the blade and handed it to her sister. “Now your turn.”

  Magdalena reluctantly took the knife. It was awkward to hold, much heavier than a pencil. She didn’t like weapons. Books and sneakers were the things that made her happy, but this was important.

  She couldn’t blame Maya, feeling scared, doing this all alone. There were times she felt guilty for being a burden. Magdalena wasn’t a baby; she heard her sister’s muffled cries. She knew men never called or came around. Magdalena did notice once a month her sister would leave overnight. She prayed her sister had some sancho waiting for her somewhere, loving her. It was highly unlikely, but it was a nice telenovela fantasy she wished for Maya.

  Every second of Maya’s life seemed to revolve around Magdalena’s success, leaving nothing for herself. Magdalena would learn the art of the switchblade to give Maya some peace of mind, to show her she could take care of herself. She would never waste a second of her sister’s sacrifices. Maybe after this, Maya would show her how to do her hair so fierce it didn’t dare to move.

  They practiced for an hour, concluding with throwing at a bullseye attached to the tree in their backyard. Magdalena’s right shoulder felt sore from the repetitive action. But she was used to a little pain during practice. The day went quickly and ended with Maya pulling herself up by the sides of her string bikini to head to work.

  Chapter 4

  Maya sat at the bar chatting with a regular because Sunday was the slowest day of the week. The regulars didn’t always go for a private dance, but they still tipped her for time while they spilled their life worries on the counter for her to mop up with a cocktail napkin. It was the same price as therapy after a few hours, but she assumed this was easier.

  It was almost time for her break when a tall, solidly-built man looking like a gringo, vaquero bull rider walked in. He was some Marlboro Man. Maya couldn’t help to notice his polished brown boots and wranglers that snuggly outlined his ass. His shirt was a pristine shade of white, starched as stiff as her hair. But mostly she noticed because he looked out of place. He was having a heated conversation with the bouncer, his eyes searching for somewhere to look that didn’t include women in various states of undress. Definitely not here for tits. He wore his badge on the outside of his jeans next to an exposed gun.

  Maya’s stomach seized.

  Was someone from the club dead? Did something happen to her sister? Maya thought her sister would be safe at a friend’s house. From what happened last night. it seemed the stitched woman liked privacy. This killer was smart, discreet, as cold-blooded as they came.

  Maya had never been sky diving, but she imagined being tossed out of a plane without a parachute was the closest thing to finding out someone you loved was gone forever. The same feeling when a doctor told them their parents were dead. Maya had to know. She strode over to the bouncer and the cop.

  “What’s going on, officer?”

  He looked at her, then immediately turned away. His expression revealed slight embarrassment, not wanting to appear unprofessional by ogling. The slight flush of pink on his freshly shaven face was turning to a splotchy crimson. His lips had a natural pout that looked supple with a smearing of chap stick. She wondered if it was the flavored kind.

  “Uh. I’m looking for Tyson. Nothing to be worried about. I just have questions.”

  “Yea, you all have questions, then when you get the answers you don’t like, your questions become charges, or worse. I can vouch for Ty. He’s legit.”

  The bouncer didn’t want any part in this. “Will you take the detective to the back, please, before management sees?”

  Maya looked the detective up and down. More up because even in her heels he towered over her. He seemed okay.

  “Come on. Let me go in first to let the ladies know you are here. It’s a regular sorority house back there.”

  He looked at her face and nowhere else. She could tell it wasn’t an easy task, but she appreciated the sentiment. Not a single man that walked through that door had excited her until now. Maybe it was because she knew he wasn’t here for leisure. She could swear the Jaguar inside purred when she looked into his pale blue eyes. He was like prey stopping for water while she readied to pounce from behind thick ferns and vines.

  “Thank you. I appreciate the introduction. I’m Jackson. You are?”

  “My real name is Maya. When I’m working, it’s Layla. You know, like the Eric Clapton song?”

  She led him through the near empty club in silence until they stopped before entering the dressing room. “Wait here.”

  Maya told everyone the police was there, so be nice and cover your pussies and tits. Hide all the drugs, too. She’d said this loud enough for the cop to hear and came back waving an arm. “Come on.”

  He walked in and immediately dropped his eyes to his shoes. The dancers continued with their preparations or sat around chatting while they took a break, not paying him any attention. What was another set of eyes?

  Jackson winced at the smell of hairspray and clashing perfumes. There were hairdryers going, music from the club piped through a speaker, laughter.

  “Hey, boy scout. Over here.” Maya stood next to Tyson: fishnet tank top, twice Jackson’s size, and fine as a model. Tyson’s manicured nails were quickly weaving a woman’s dark brown hair with electric blue extensions.

  “How can I help you?” Tyson didn’t release his gaze from the hair.

  Jackson extended a hand that went ignored. “Hello, I’m Detective Jackson Barnes.” When he saw his hand not welcomed, he opened a soft, black leather folder protector with his initials embossed near the handle. He pulled out a copy of a driver’s license. “Do you know this woman?”

  Tyson glanced at the photo, paused, then looked a little longer. “Yea, but through my neighbor. I’ve done her hair before. Why?”

  Maya didn’t need to wait for an answer by the look on the detective’s face. He was trying to find a way to give them as little information while hoping to retrieve as much as he could from Tyson. There was also sorrow.

  “She was the victim of a crime. We are just trying to…”

  Tyson put the hair down and two fingers on the bridge of his nose. Tyson was usually one stoic dude with not much bothering him. This cut him deep. Maya put her arm around him. The entire dressing room went silent with all heads turned in their direction.

  “This has to stop. Was it a boyfriend or just an intolerant asshole? Because that shit is rampant. Being trans isn’t a fucking a crime.”

  The crimson returned to Jackson’s face with his eyes darting back and forth. He opened the folder, flipping though loose papers. “I didn’t… That wasn’t in the report. The autopsy hasn’t gotten back to me yet. This is part of a bigger investigation.”

  Both Tyson and Maya looked at each other, whispering the name, “The Ripper.”

  Maya shivered thinking of the woman’s face from the previous night.

  Jackson looked up from paperwork and nodded. “I came here because I found a card from this club in her bag with your name. Nothing more. Sounds like you’ve been following the story, so you might know we got very little to go on. Have to follow every bit of information we get.”

  Tyson straightened his back and was composed again. He wasn’t having any of it. “Well, I was here. There are surveillance cameras and all these beautiful, naked women to tell you so.”

  “I’m sorry if I bothered you. I’d like to give you my card, if you think of anything.”

  Tyson retuned to the hair, visibly fighting back tears beneath lashes he’d designed himself. The detective needed to leave. Maya gently put her hand on Jackson’s arm to signal it was time to go.

  “I’ll show you out, detective.”

  Jackson gave a final, lingering look at Tyson before turning to leave.

  “Your card, detective?”

  There was a glimmer in the detective’s eye when he heard Tyson’s voice. He flipped back to the leather case, taking out a card.

  “Thank you.” He placed the card on Tyson’s workstation then turned to leave with Maya again. When they were out of earshot of the dressing room, she felt comfortable enough to press for more information. “So, what do you know so far?”

  “I can’t talk about it. Why? Something you know?”

  Maya needed a second opinion. She had done everything on her own for so long, but this was dangerous, scary. “It’s time for my break. You want coffee? I’ll meet you outside in fifteen.”

  Maya pulled gray sweats over her bikini and slipped Adidas sliders over socks before meeting Jackson in the parking lot. He stood next to a black jeep. Maya looked through the window, noticing it was spotless, save for a scattering of cracked books that looked like crime and horror novels. She wondered what he looked like naked reading in bed beneath fresh sheets.

  Those thoughts vanished when he spoke. “Do you have a preference of where we go? Anything you want, just lead the way.”

  They walked to Jim’s Diner on the opposite side of the club parking lot. He either didn’t notice or pretended not to notice the stares when they entered. Her hair was a stiff, teased mane and her face was heavy with make-up. It was no secret where she was coming from. The waitresses were always cool because the dancers never forgot to tip an appropriate amount.

  She chose a private table in the back. “Look, it could be nothing, but last night someone I had never seen before was in the club. In fact, I could hardly see their face. Before I could get close, they were gone. After my shift when I walked to my car, a woman approached me. I think I’m being watched, or whoever is out there is looking for another victim. She had a needle in her hand.”

 

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