Sex on Tuesdays Read Online Free PDF Page B

suggest shoving anything red hot down this woman’s throat?” The bigger detective, the one with his gut hanging over his belt, caught me in his beady headlights.
    â€œI’m a sex therapist—not a…” I frowned at him. Why was I explaining myself to this guy? I snapped another look at my brother-in-law, but he was too busy attempting to shred the end of his tie with his bare hands to notice. “Joe, what has this to do with the police?”
    As though I hadn’t spoken, the smaller cop unfolded himself from the wall and took a step towards me, his cougar-eyes never leaving mine. “If you didn’t write the answer to DF’ s letter, Ms. Summers, who did?”
    â€œBeats me,” I said, refusing to drop eye contact. “But I repeat, why are you here? Surely my column is of no interest to the police. Slow day down at the station, is it?”
    His eyes, chillier than a graveyard at midnight, sliced through me. “At 2:30 this morning, someone stripped DF’ s wife naked, tied her to her bed, and then proceeded to shove something hot down her throat. Exactly as you suggested in your column.”
    â€œBut I didn’t—”
    â€œAnd the ‘something hot’ you so tastelessly recommended, Ms. Summers, turned out to be a red-hot poker.” He paused to watch my jaw plunge to the floor as I grabbed at the desk for support. “The Medical Examiner said DF ’s wife probably died when the poker burnt all the tissues in her throat, causing rapid swelling, obstruction of the airway, and finally asphyxiation. That is if the poor woman didn’t die from cardiac arrest brought on by extreme pain and shock beforehand. The final report hasn’t come through yet.”
    I gripped Joe’s desk like it was the only life raft in a swirling sea. Surely this was a nightmare brought on by too much alcohol, and any minute now I’d wake up tangled in my sweaty sheets. “Are you saying DF’ s wife was…murdered?”
    The detective nodded, his sneer matching his cold eyes. “Yes, and the something hot you suggested, Ms. Summers, was definitely not a pleasant experience for the victim.”
    When I closed my eyes to block out his words, all I could see was that poor woman’s face as the killer hovered over her, taunting her, explaining exactly what he was going to do to her. I could imagine the burning poker coming closer. The stark fear turning to wild panic in her eyes. I could hear her strangled screams as the poker gouged and sizzled a path down her throat. Smell the sickly odor of burning flesh. See her violent spasms, her back arched in pain, the cords of her neck bulging like steel bands.
    My voice, hesitating as it climbed up through my dry throat, came out as a croak. “But…like I told you before…that wasn’t my suggestion. I didn’t write those words.”
    Now it was the bigger detective’s turn to interrogate me. “Is this yours, Ms. Summers?” he asked, producing a crumpled sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his suit coat.
    Confusion had my heart hammering against the walls of my chest. And I didn’t blame it. I wanted out too. As though he’d handed me a blood-splattered knife, I carefully lay the sheet of paper on Joe’s desk, and after smoothing out the creases, discovered my longhand copy of yesterday’s column.
    What was that doing here? “Yes, it’s mine,” I admitted warily. “I always write and edit my column in longhand before typing it up on my computer.” I ran a hand through my already tousled hair. “But how did you get hold of it and why?”
    â€œRead it, Ms. Summers. And take your time.”
    Everything appeared normal until I came to the last entry of the day. My answer to DF’ s letter: ‘ Why don’t you shove something hot down the bitch’s throat? ’
    Unable to speak, I shook my head. Was I going