by Dan Padavona
Raven fell back in her seat and crossed her arms.
“Fine. But don’t blame me if Rosemary gets angry.”
“I said I’ll consider the proposal.”
Raven snatched another carrot stick from the plastic container.
“I’m starving. Wherever Bourn is heading to next, there’d better be a pizza involved.”
7
“Say it, bitch. Say, ‘I’m a big, fat, ugly hippo and everyone hates me.’”
A shiver rippled through Kaylee as she recalled one of Tina Garraway’s many beatings. The snobby girl terrorized Kaylee during school. She pictured herself flat on her back, her nose dripping blood, Tina sitting on her chest and ripping Kaylee’s hair out of her scalp as a crowd gathered to gawk and laugh. Harding Little had been there. Now Harding was dead and broken, with his head screwed on backward.
Tina had attacked Kaylee on the soccer field during lunch hour. Teachers patrolled the school grounds to ensure the teens behaved. There was no teacher to be found when Kaylee needed one.
But Tina Garraway had bullied Kendra, not Kaylee. She wouldn’t dare cross Kaylee.
Shadows deepened as the sun dropped behind the hills outside Barton Falls. The shiny red Alpha Romeo hid behind a stand of trees. Kaylee had traded in the failing Kia and purchased the Alpha Romeo with cash, no loan required. The car purred whenever she pressed the accelerator. She’d died and gone to heaven. Everyone looked her way when she was behind the wheel. Power coursed through her body whenever she motored down the highway.
Now she stared through the trees toward a backyard surrounded by a white picket fence. The lights were off inside Tina Garraway’s house. Kaylee’s bully hadn’t returned from work.
Kaylee knew all about Tina Garraway. Tina had always gotten by on her looks. These days, she worked as a bimbo reporter for channel seven in Syracuse. Every night, Kaylee watched Tina on the television and fantasized over her revenge.
She slipped out of the car, popped the trunk, and removed a golf club. The club felt right in her hand—the perfect weight.
A yappy dog barked, and someone told Mocha to shut the hell up. On the road fronting Tina Garraway’s house, three teenagers pedaled by on bicycles.
Dressed from head-to-toe in black, Kaylee slipped a sheer stocking over her head, just like killers and bank robbers did in the movies. She closed the trunk, checked for witnesses, then climbed over the picket fence, with the golf club dangling from one hand. Dew had already formed on the lawn. It wet the cuffs of her sweatpants as she crossed the yard.
Kaylee slipped the lock pick into the back door and jiggled the mechanism. Nothing. Funny that picking a lock seemed so much easier when she practiced at her house. As she battled with the doorknob, the dog barked with increased fervor. A door opened next door. Kaylee slipped around the house and stood with her back against the wall. Her heart raced. Cigarette smoke trailed through the darkening yard as a woman chastised the dog. Kaylee covered her nose so she wouldn’t cough. Smoking was such a disgusting habit.
The owner warned the dog to stay quiet and went inside. Kaylee released a breath and returned to Tina Garraway’s back door. Apparently, the news station paid little since Tina lived in a hellhole like Barton Falls. That was fortunate. Low-income houses rarely had security systems.
Kaylee’s tongue slipped between her lips as she worked the lock pick into the knob. With a satisfying click, the mechanism popped open.
Kaylee grinned.
“Can’t wait to see you again, old friend.”
Tina Garraway checked her hair in the mirror and moaned. It had been a long, torturous day. This afternoon, the television station had called her to the scene of a house fire on the west side of Syracuse. Everyone inside the house died, including a six-year-old girl. Her clothes reeked of smoke and soot, and her eyes burned. The tragedy overwhelmed Tina. While nobody was watching, she’d sneaked off to her car and cried for fifteen minutes. To her coworkers, Tina was the ice queen, the bubbly reporter who never faltered, even when facing a fatal house fire. They didn’t see her when she broke down.
She wasn’t a good person.
Were she the type to make excuses, Tina might have blamed the way she treated people when she was young on her upbringing. Tina’s father died from Lou Gehrig’s disease when she was four. Memories of her father wasting away haunted Tina. The suffering and death turned Tina’s mother angry and mean. She screamed at Tina through her childhood and teenage years, yelled if Tina got anything less than an A on her report card, tossed Tina out of the house for perceived slights. Once, her mother thought Tina muttered something derisive. She hadn’t. It didn’t matter. Out of the house and into the night. Were it not for her old friend, Georgia Sims, taking her in, Tina would have slept on the street.
Yet Tina couldn’t blame her mother for the way she’d acted. She’d been a stuck-up bitch in high school. No two ways around it. She judged her peers by the clothes they wore, the friends they kept, even the money they came from.
At times like these, when tragedy lay fresh on Tina’s mind, the guilt cascaded down on her. She craved a hot shower to wash away the soot and relax her nerves. Then she’d crawl into bed and put the day behind her. God willing, she wouldn’t report on another dead child tomorrow.
As she poured water into a glass, the poodle next door started barking. She’d heard the dog when she drove in. The poodle had the bark of a dog three times its size. If Mocha didn’t shut up, Tina would never sleep tonight. She fished inside the cupboard for a snack and settled on a granola bar. As she swallowed the snack, the dog barked louder, the chain rattling as Mocha struggled to twist out of her collar. What had gotten into the dog?
Last Halloween, a murderer stabbed a teenager beside the railroad tracks. The same psycho killed another boy inside his house.
Stricken with worry, Tina opened the back door. Something clicked inside the knob, as though brittle bones lay inside. Great. The lock was busted, and she’d need to stop at the hardware store tomorrow. She called across the yard.
“Please tell Mocha to stop. Some of us need to sleep tonight.”
She shut the door and threw the deadbolt, as if engaging the bolt would help with the noise. The neighbor’s door creaked open, and Mocha scampered inside.
Finally.
Tina released the hair from her bun and slipped out of her jacket. Stepping out of her shoes, she staggered through the living room and wandered toward the hallway. The curtains fluttered over the dining-room window. Strange. She swore she’d closed the window before she left this morning.
In the bathroom, she leaned over the sink and scrubbed the makeup off her face. A flowery scent tickled her nose, making her wonder if the soap was leaking from the bottle into the bathtub. The skirt fell off her hips and curled around her ankles as she turned on the shower. She rubbed her eyes and stepped into the tub.
The second her feet touched the porcelain, her legs flew out from under her. The tub was greasy-slick with soap. Her body turned weightless for a split-second before she crashed down. Tina’s scalp struck the faucet. The room spun as steaming water poured over her face.
In her mind, she struggled to pull herself out of the tub. She never budged. Tina lay stunned and bleeding, her legs refusing to respond. The water in the tub tinged pink with blood as the cloying soap filled the room. Overhead, the fan buzzed. She was vaguely aware of Mocha barking again.
The bathroom door drifted open. A shadow fell across the shower.
She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. As she struggled to her elbows, her scalp throbbing and gushing blood, a hand reached inside the shower and slid the door open.
Towering above her, a woman leered down at Tina. She wore pantyhose over her face to conceal her identity. Yet there was something familiar about the crazed eyes glaring through the sheer hosiery, something that rekindled this evening’s guilt.
“I know you,” Tina whispered.
Blood and bathwater clogged her nostrils
and choked her mouth. Tina coughed and reached out. In her delirium, she almost believed the intruder would help her out of the shower.
The deranged woman raised a golf club over her shoulder and swung. The toe of the club smashed against her wounded scalp. Blood spurt from her forehead.
With a screech, the woman slammed the club against Tina’s forehead again. Tina’s eyelids fluttered shut.
The room darkened as her lifeblood spun into a whirlpool and plunged down the drain.
8
Raven worked the stiffness out of her neck and sipped her coffee. The sun had risen an hour ago, and nobody had moved inside the Bourn residence. The six-bedroom, sand-colored French Tudor caught the early morning light and glimmered like a chest of gold. Inside her black Nissan Rogue, Raven tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. How could Osmond Bourn afford a house on Riverwalk Drive on a private contractor’s salary?
The hallway light flicked on upstairs. Raven sat up and ensured the Canon camera was ready. A silhouette passed by the window as Raven checked the time. It was too early to spy on cheating spouses.
Over the next thirty minutes, she studied Osmond Bourn through the zoom lens as he moved around the downstairs. His wife, Rosemary, handed him a small cooler on his way out the door. Then Bourn climbed inside his SUV and cranked the engine.
Raven waited until Bourn turned the corner before she pulled off the curb. She gave the man distance, remaining a full block behind the contractor until he turned onto the highway. Besides a woman driving a tractor trailer, they were the only two people on the road at this hour. Raven fell back until the SUV was a black pinprick in her windshield. Forty minutes later, Bourn took the exit for Coral Lake.
Raven hadn’t visited Coral Lake in two years. The tiny resort community overflowed with money, with the median home price along the water seven figures. Bourn stopped outside a brick mansion on the lake’s east side and pressed a call button beside an iron gate. As Raven waited in her Rogue beneath an elm tree, the gate swung open, and Bourn backed his SUV down a concrete driveway.
She waited for the contractor to remove the toolboxes from the trunk and begin his work. He didn’t.
Bourn stepped down from the cab and checked his hair in the side mirror. After glancing around, he strode to the door and rang the bell. Was he meeting with his mistress?
Raven zoomed in, hoping to capture the woman on camera. Instead, a man in black slacks and a white dress shirt, with the top button unfastened, opened the door and invited Bourn inside. The man looked around before he shut the door.
A thought popped into Raven’s head. Bourn was cheating on Rosemary with a man.
Raven scrolled through the images and sighed. She hadn’t captured the man’s face on camera. Bourn had blocked the doorway while Raven clicked the shutter.
Drumming her legs beneath the steering wheel, Raven considered her next move. No chance she could circumvent the gate without drawing attention. Whatever Bourn and his friend were up to, she couldn’t monitor their activities from outside the house. She dialed LeVar. Her brother answered with a tired groan.
“A little early to call, isn’t it, Sis?”
“Do me a favor. Look up the homeowner at sixteen East Lake Road in Coral Lake.”
“Sixteen East Lake Road,” he repeated between a drawn-out yawn. The bedsprings squeaked, then LeVar fell into the chair in front of his computer. Raven pictured Wolf Lake outside his window and wished she were relaxing beside the water instead of chasing cheaters. “What are you doing in Coral Lake?”
“Following Osmond Bourn.”
“Ah, Chelsey’s latest infidelity case.” LeVar snickered.
“Don’t laugh. You’re next in line to follow him to remodeling jobs.”
“Hunter Dalbec.”
“What?”
“The guy at sixteen East Lake Road. His name is Hunter Dalbec.”
Raven scribbled the name on a notepad as LeVar spelled it for her. “Type his name into Google. What does Dalbec do for a living?”
“Can I eat breakfast first?”
“Come on, LeVar. Do me a solid.”
He grunted. “Whatever.”
Raven stared at the mansion’s windows. Sunlight washed over the glass, concealing the occupants.
“Says here he ran a company in Albany called Sim-Tech Systems. Sold the business before the financial bubble burst and cashed out.”
“So he’s independently wealthy.”
“Why are you so interested in Dalbec?”
“Because I’m desperate.”
“Darren not doing it for you anymore?”
“Shut it, LeVar. I’m talking about Osmond Bourn. He’s not working at Dalbec’s house. How does Bourn know Dalbec?”
“Did you ever consider the possibility that they’re discussing a remodeling project?”
Raven wiped a hand across her mouth. “I suppose that might be the case. That would explain why he didn’t bring his tools inside.”
“Now you have something to mull over. I didn’t get my beauty sleep this morning, so I’m turning in.”
“But I need your help. I came up with a plan to catch Bourn.”
“Tell me later.” LeVar yawned for dramatic effect. “I’m not due at the office until noon, and I intend to sleep another three hours.”
“At least listen to my idea.”
“Later, Sis.”
LeVar hung up.
9
Kaylee Holmes observed her oafish neighbor through the window as he repaired a weed whacker on his backyard patio. She dunked a slice of wheat toast into her eggs and chewed, happy the idiot wasn’t gunning his riding mower again. She swore the jerk rode the mower for fun. Nobody needed to cut the grass that often.
Earlier this morning, before the sun crept out of the earth, she’d run the garden hose over the bloody golf club and cleaned the toe with an antiseptic wipe. Then she drove a half-hour to a driving range outside of Dewitt, a Syracuse suburb, and dropped the club beside the equipment cage. Some ignorant employee would spot the club, believe someone left it out by mistake, and place it with the others. By the end of the day, countless people would use the club and leave their prints on the handle. She was certain she’d scrubbed away the blood. But if any evidence still existed, it would disappear once the club slammed a few dozen golf balls this afternoon.
She was a genius. Two tormentors from her life were dead, and the police hadn’t knocked on her door.
At least, not yet.
Maybe they knew about Kaylee and were busy building a case.
Kaylee bit her nails, her appetite suddenly gone. She rinsed breakfast down the garbage disposal, cleaned her plate, and wandered to the sunroom. If she evened the score with more bullies, she’d need to operate beneath the police department’s radar. She grabbed her laptop and typed how to poison someone into the search box. She scribbled the poisons onto a receipt from the bakery, then searched hardest poisons to detect. The wheels spun in her head.
From the bookcase, she removed the blue and gray Treman Mills High School yearbook. As she flipped through the pages, conscious of where Kendra appeared—she avoided those pictures, as if viewing her previous identity would make her ugly and meek again—Kaylee scanned the names she’d labeled asshole, prick, bitch, and whore. Two people had red X marks across their faces. Harding Little and Tina Garraway.
Recalling Tina’s attacks brought back memories of Grandpa. He’d been the only one Kaylee trusted back then, and she’d run to his house after the beatings. Grandpa consoled her, cleaned her face, even washed her shirt and pants, so she didn’t return home with grass-stained clothes. Oh, how her mother would have screamed if she ruined her clothes. She wouldn’t care that her daughter lost a fight. Heck, Mother would blame Kaylee and claim she got what she deserved.
Her throat constricted. It suddenly struck her that Grandpa was gone, and she’d never see him again. Why hadn’t Grandpa fought for custody? He made a fortune in real estate ventures and could have g
iven Kaylee everything she needed. A safe home, a private school, even a bodyguard. The last time Kaylee spoke to Grandpa was a month ago. Grandpa’s vision had been failing, and it was hard for him to get around the estate. Kaylee promised she’d stop by for dinner that week. But something came up at work, another overtime shift that tied her to the office until late. God, she missed Grandpa. If she had one wish, it would be to hear his voice again.
Swiping away a tear, Kaylee turned the page and focused on Georgia Sims, Tina’s snotty friend. This improved her mood. For the last three nights, she’d sneaked inside Georgia’s house through a loose window pane in the basement. Kaylee left a few surprises for Georgia. She wondered if the bitch had discovered them yet.
Another idea popped into her head. Her Treman Mills classmates gathered every summer at a club on the city’s north side for a night of drinks and reminiscing. Last year, Kaylee showed up, though she didn’t join the others. She sat off to the side, unrecognizable in her new body. To her old classmates, she was just a local woman enjoying an evening at the club, sipping a martini while she waited for her friends to arrive. Her classmates would gather again next month. Kaylee knew little about explosives, but she figured the internet would provide the instructions she required. One bomb set to go off at seven o’clock would rid the world of all of them. Good riddance.
But that was the future, and she still had work to do today. Kaylee smiled.
Above Georgia’s name, she scribbled NEXT.
10
“You’d think a television reporter could afford a better place than this.”
Thomas agreed with Aguilar’s assertion as they pulled in front of Tina Garraway’s house. Barton Falls was a dangerous town, and Tina Garraway’s neighborhood appeared a few notches above ramshackle. Behind them, Deputy Tristan Lambert stepped out of his cruiser and joined them on the sidewalk. Lambert stood a few inches over six feet. The ex-army soldier had grown up in Minnesota before relocating to Wolf Lake. He still wore his hair in a buzz cut.
