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how still the riddle lies

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Dr. Keating’s house isn’t so much an office as an ink-and-sweat-scented lair, a place where dark things happen and are covered up spotlessly.

She hopes Bonnie feels the same way—that the things that happen in that odd house are meant to stay in that odd house.

“I like you more and more every day,” Bonnie says, a sardonic lilt to her voice.  She slides her hands over the span on Laurel’s collarbone, letting the straps of her bra fall off her shoulders.

The comment still stings Laurel; she doesn’t want to be liked, she wants to be good, she wants to stun.  They mistake her big eyes and curtain of hair for insecurity but its camouflage; they’ll see her only when they want to see her.  “Franks says the same thing,” she breathes. 

Bonnie’s touch grows firmer, her hands hard on Laurel’s hips.  She gives Laurel a smirk, all crimson lipstick, and sits back on her desk chair, leaving Laurel stripped to the waist against the wall.  “Come here,” she says firmly, her eyes darting to the entrance of her office for a split-second.

Laurel suddenly realizes—the door is open wide, the front of the house visible from Bonnie’s office.  A sheen of sweat shines on Bonnie’s forehead; she wants it as much as Laurel.  They want to see how much this odd house pays attention.

Laurel slides out of her denim skirt, leaving it in a puddle on the floor, and steps across the carpet to Bonnie.