“Too soon, Ryan,” I said, narrowing my eyes threateningly because this was clearly a dig at how I’d taken down a murder suspect in my last “investigation.”
Grinning, he wrote our names on the scoreboard. “We both start at five-hundred and one, and what we score each round gets deducted from that. First person to zero wins.”
“Five-hundred-and-one? We’ll be here all night!” I complained. “Scratch that, all week.”
“Fun fact: it can be done in just nine throws.”
“Not by me,” I muttered. “Can I have a practice round?”
“Of course.”
With my toes nudging the line, I held a dart in my right hand, gripping it like a pencil. I made to throw it at the board, then dropped my arm and turned to where Ryan leaned against the wall. “How am I supposed to hold this thing?” I asked.
“In any way that feels comfortable or natural.”
None of it felt comfortable or natural. I rearranged my fingers and held the dart up, sticking my tongue out of the corner of my mouth for improved concentration. I mimed a few test throws, then turned to face him, trying to mold my features into an appealing pout, though I wasn’t convinced I’d nailed it. Scowls, I was good at. Cute pouts? Not so much.
“Ryan, I’m no good at sports. I don’t sports well.”
“Good thing this is a game and not a sport, then.”
“But—” I began.
“Quit whining and throw a dart already.”
“Fine.”
Spinning around, I fired the dart at the board and burst out laughing at the sight of it quivering in the red circle in the dead center.
“Bullseye!” Ryan shook his head in disbelief. “Were you hustling me earlier?”
“No! I’ve never played before, I promise.”
“Hmm.”
I threw my remaining two darts. One hit the no-score zone outside the colored rings; the other bounced off the wall below the board. I retrieved the darts. “See? It was just beginner’s luck.”
“Want some more practice shots to get your eye in?” Ryan offered.
“Honestly, I don’t think it’ll help. We may as well get on with it.”
“Ladies and bullseyes first.” He came to stand beside me and lifted my hand in his own, which was warm and steady. “Here, hold it up to your right eye, like so. That’s right. Now, you’re supposed to get a double to start your game.” My body sagged in defeat, and he added, “But rules were made to be broken, so we’ll keep it simple. Just try to hit the board, okay?”
“Okay.”
I waited for him to go back to his spot against the wall, but instead, he stayed close to me. Too close.
I waved him back. “Your presence is distracting me.”
“It is?” He gave me a sexy grin, which distracted me even more.
“Move. I don’t want to hit you by mistake.”
“I reckon I’m safe here.”
“You’re very trusting.”
“Maybe it’s you who’s not trusting enough?”
“I know enough not to trust my skill at darts.”
He didn’t budge other than to move his hand in an impatient get-on-with-it gesture.
I threw my three darts quickly, one after the other, and then danced a little jig. They’d all missed the wall, and one had landed solidly in a white wedge-shaped section of the board.
“Well done!” Ryan chalked my score of one on the board. “Only five-hundred to go.”
I groaned and stepped aside for him to take his turn, glancing up at the TV news. Death and mayhem were everywhere — deadly protests in the Gaza Strip, prison riots in Venezuela, and a school shooting in Maryland. What a time to be alive.
“So, the FBI thinks this body is a murder victim?” Ryan asked. “And that it was one of his, the serial killer’s?”
“The Button Man? Yup.”
“Is that what they’re calling him?”
“That’s what I’m calling him.”
While most serial killers tended to take small items from their victims as trophies to remember the kills by, this killer had left something — a button — with each of his victims. And at least once, according to a vision I’d had, he’d left a button on one of his victims — stitched onto the poor man’s lips with black twine.
Ryan threw his darts expertly and deducted his score of thirty-five from the opening total.
“Told you the red ones would be lucky,” I grumbled.
“Yeah, I’m sure it has nothing to do with skill.”
“There’s probably a darter’s ditty about it, like the old shepherd’s caution. Red flights at night, player’s delight. Black flights at morning, player’s warning.”
Ryan snorted and tugged his darts out of the board. “Did you know that ‘Button Man’ is slang for a hired killer, a mafia hitman? Or for a low-ranking member of the familia?”
“I learned that when I was today years old,” I said. “Do you think these murders might have been mob hits?”
Ryan considered for a moment, then said, “Nope.”
“Me either.”
“Based on?”
“Based, as always with me, on impeccable logic and unassailable rationality.”
“Just a feeling, then?” he asked.
“Just a feeling.”
– 2 –
Ryan indicated that it was my turn. “What did Singh want from you?”
I flung my darts at the board. The first was a no-score, and the second hit a narrow strip of wire — which would’ve been pretty darn impressive if I’d been aiming at it — and fell to the floor. But with my third throw, I actually scored a double seven. I deducted twenty-five points from my score on the board.
“I think he wants me to touch an item from the body,” I said. “He wouldn’t give me details — tighter-lipped than a razor clam at low tide, that man — but I gather that they’re not sure whether the kill is one of the serial killer’s.”
Ryan threw his darts, wrote down his actual score of forty-two, and stepped back for me to take my turn. I stood behind the line, but when he turned to greet a friend, I stepped over it, hurried right up the board, and thrust one of my darts into one of the small red sections that he’d explained tripled the score. I scampered back to my starting position and let out a triumphant, “Woohoo!”
Turning back, Ryan saw the source of my jubilation. “Well done! You’re improving.”
“Amazing, right? I put that dart exactly where I wanted it. So, what’s my score?”
“Six.”
“Six? But you said that the inner circle was triple-score!”
“It is. He tapped the wire number on the outer rim of the board. Two multiplied by three is …”
This game sucked. I couldn’t even cheat successfully. I marched over to the chalkboard and gave myself a score of sixty-six.
Ryan laughed. “You’re either awful at math or a serious cheat.”
“I just want this humiliation to end sooner rather than later, okay?”
On the TV, the news was running an “On This Day” piece, showing footage of John Hinckley’s assassination attempt on Ronald Reagan in 1981 and displaying one of the former president’s better quotes: “There are no easy answers, but there are simple answers. We must have the courage to do what we know is morally right.”