by L E Fraser
A horn blared at the intersection and the warbling screech of sirens was deafening. Quentin grabbed Nina, dragging her off Colin’s back. She was like a wild animal, bucking against his efforts to hold her.
Paramedics rushed into the backyard. From the corner of his eye, Quentin watched an EMT tear the paper from a syringe. He jammed the needle into the rubber stopper of a small vial and stuck the syringe into Nina’s upper arm.
He let go and crawled toward his daughter. More paramedics were attending her. Colin took his arm, trying to help him to his feet.
“Come on,” Colin said, “let them do their job.”
Fire trucks and police cruisers were on the scene. People crowded around his daughter and his wife. He couldn’t see Isabella. He couldn’t reach Nina.
Kneeling helpless and paralyzed in the snow, he watched Colin shove Gana away from the ladder and climb up to the tree house. Quentin raised his eyes. Gabriella was still standing at the railing, staring at the pandemonium on the ground.
Gabriella…
The world started to blur. Quentin swayed and pitched forward, falling face first into the snow. Voices faded and black dots waltzed in front of his eyes. They merged until nothing remained but the cold, wet snow against his feverish face and then darkness.
PART 2: Till Death Do Us Part
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
June 2015: Toronto, Ontario
Sam
CARRYING GROCERY BAGS, Sam McNamara opened the door to her loft and turned off the alarm with a sigh of pleasure. She’d been home in Toronto for over a month, but every time she walked through the door, she still felt a little thrill of happiness.
Her last case had led her to a southern Ontario town where she’d exposed a commune as a cult and had met — then Ontario Provincial Police inspector, now boyfriend and business partner — Reece Hash. She and Reece had spent the past two months in Australia hunting for the escaped cult leader. Their prey had turned to predator, but authorities now presumed the psychopath was dead. No one in Canada or Australia — probably the world — grieved Mussani’s death. Without a body, some people still speculated. Sam and Reece didn’t. They’d witnessed the monster fall from the Bunda Cliffs during their final showdown.
Although Reece had made the decision to leave the OPP and temporarily turn to vigilante justice, he was now struggling to reconcile the cloudy ethics. Sam didn’t get it. It wasn’t as if you could change the past. The less you talked about nasty stuff, the easier it was to forget about it. Her miserable mother was a stellar example of what not to do if you didn’t want to stay trapped in the past.
Beside her, Brandy whined and Sam reached into her pocket for a treat. Her dog gobbled it down with a tail wag of thanks and a big doggy grin, which made Sam smile.
“You’re spoiled,” she said. “This is what happens whenever you stay with Roger.”
She set her groceries on the pristine countertop in her gourmet kitchen and unclipped Brandy’s leash. The Golden Retriever went straight to her water dish. That sounded like a good idea. Well, not water. Being careful not to smudge the stainless steel, she opened the fridge and poured a glass of wine.
“What do you think, Brandy? Now he’s joined our PI firm, Reece just needs to sink his teeth into a new case and he’ll be fine.”
Brandy wagged her tail in agreement.
Sam kicked off her canvas sneakers, took off her Blue Jays baseball cap, and ran her fingers through her short, strawberry blond hair. She winced. She’d spent the morning at the gym on the weights and her arms were burning, but she was proud of herself. She’d broken her weight limit, benching one hundred and twenty pounds, which was fifteen pounds over her body weight. At this rate, she was going to win the bet she and Reece had. It was all in fun, but competitive to the bone, Sam planned to exceed her lift goals, her running speed and her endurance level. She was going to whip Reece’s ass.
Her thousand-square-foot loft was cool and quiet. The hemlock hardwood gleamed in the afternoon sun streaming from the floor-to-ceiling windows on the south wall. Frosted glass walls, framed with stainless steel, divided the bathroom that shared the north wall with the kitchen. Across the top of the kitchen and bath was the loft, which contained a master suite. A six-foot partial wall, constructed from the same glass and steel design, surrounded the upper loft. The rest of the open-concept main floor had an eighteen-foot ceiling and was wide open, with strategically placed modern furniture.
Revelling in her sleek, minimalistic oasis, Sam climbed the ladder staircase to her bedroom loft, stepped into the room and stared in horror.
“Oh boy, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
Everywhere she looked, there were boxes with crap spilling out of them. Frowning, she dashed into the ensuite bathroom and shouted every profanity she knew. Plastic bags filled with junk littered the vanity’s marble top, obscuring the double-trough sink. The glass-enclosed rain shower was the only clear floor space.
She collapsed onto the king-sized bed and groaned. This morning, Reece had told her he was picking up a few things from the storage locker he’d rented after selling his Uthisca house. This was not a few things. She was afraid to open the barn doors to the walk-in closet and laundry room. That nicely organized area would provide Reece with loads of space to squirrel away his treasures.
The front door opened. The hoarder was back. Sam marched down the stairs, ready to confront him.
Reece was shoving boxes and large plastic containers through the doorway. It was like a clown car. They just kept coming.
“What the fuck?”
He looked up. “What’s wrong?”
She waved her hands around the room. “Reece, what is this?”
“I told you I was bringing over some of the important stuff.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” She’d hate to see what he considered unimportant.
He scooped her up in a bear hug, and her feet dangled off the floor. “Geez, relax. I’ll put it away.”
She slapped at him until he dropped her. “Where are we going to put it all?” She eyed a large, ugly wooden thing he was shoving into a nook beside the door. “What the hell is that?”
“Cool, eh? It’s perfect there. I rescued it from a demolition site in Uthisca last year. It’s an antique church altar.”
“And the Gods haven’t accepted you as a sacrifice yet?”
He laughed. “It’ll be great for keys and knick-knacks.”
Sam loathed knick-knacks. “It doesn’t match anything.”
“Sure it does.” He looked around. “The Aztec carpet.”
“The living room carpet does not resemble something you’d wrap a virgin sacrifice in.”
“Don’t worry about it. Everything will work together, promise.” He carried a gigantic box into the kitchen. “I meant to tell you this morning that a guy I went to university with back in the day invited us for dinner on Tuesday. I couldn’t come up with an excuse.”
She shrugged. “Sounds good, free food. Who is it?”
“A lawyer, Derek Martina.”
Sam poured a second glass of wine and offered Reece a beer, which he accepted with a smile. “Married?” she asked.
“Yeah, her name is Gabriella. She attended Western University with us.” He began to unpack the box, pulling out a horrifying number of gadgets.
“You’ve met her?” Sam frowned when weird kitchen stuff littered her gorgeous Carrara marble countertops. They were a decoration. She didn’t use them.
In answer to her question about knowing the wife, Reece shook his head. “Not really. After he made junior partner in a law firm, Derek took a leave of absence to do an MBA. He’d be in his early fifties now, about fifteen years older than I am. Seems to me his wife is younger than I am.”
“My age?” she asked.
He shook his head with a smile. “They have a son around nineteen, but she was pregnant when they married. I believe she was eighteen. I remember she dropped out of school.” He went to the front door and
lugged in another big box.
Enough. “There isn’t space for any of that stuff.” Sam put her hands on her hips.
“Lots of room, since you don’t cook and never bought anything. Most of the appliances need to be on the prep counters.”
“I didn’t buy the stuff because I hate clutter,” she argued.
Reece hoisted an enormous Kitchenaid mixer from a box. “It matches the stainless steel backsplash. Blends right in.”
“But…”
Reece tucked a revolting bright orange Dutch oven onto the back burner of her precious Viking, six-burner gas stove. It was a piece of art to admire, not to touch.
When he unpacked a large, stainless steel contraption to hang pots, she felt like tackling him to the ground.
“Oh boy, I can’t watch this.” She needed to get out before she lost her shit. “I’m going to the office.”
“Now my stuff is here, I’ll make a fantastic dinner.” The man was beaming.
“Everything will be put away, right?”
“You bet.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t worry.”
Oh, she worried. She looked around her once uncluttered, minimalistic home and sighed. Why didn’t anyone tell her when a woman invited a man to live with her, he brought crap?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Gabriella
GABRIELLA DIDN’T WANT to have lunch with her boss. Jack Belinski was in the hallway guffawing over some joke, probably his own, while the head of HR fluttered around him like an egret devouring insects off a hippo’s hide.
Arranging her face into proper expressions and acting engaged over lunch would be exhausting. Get through the day, she told herself. With a sigh, she rose from her seat and trudged to Jack’s side.
“I was waiting,” he said.
She resisted the urge to smack the sneer off his face. Instead, she forced her mouth into a submissive smile. She’d understood early on, if she wanted to keep her demeaning job, kowtowing to her idiotic boss was vital. Everyone acted like simpering peons around him. It took all her talent at subterfuge to hide the intensity of her dislike for this man.
“I’m assuming you’ve managed to sort out my dance card for this afternoon,” he said.
A surge of annoyance engulfed her and it scared her. As far back as she could remember, she’d black out and lose portions of time when enraged. After the high school had expelled her, her father had insisted she return to therapy. In the doctor’s opinion, the memory lapses weren’t serious. He’d called them a ‘unique defence mechanism’, a psychological strategy created by her unconscious mind to protect her from unacceptable impulses and negative social sanctions. Gabriella would grow out of it, he’d said.
It troubled her that the blackouts still happened, but she was proficient at hiding the episodes. The therapist had taught her to say a phrase to help defuse her anger. She’d chosen, breathe, it’s just your life. The problem was she often remembered saying it, but couldn’t recall subsequent events. Still, the habit helped to centre her, which was better than attacking whomever or whatever had triggered her fury.
On their way to the building exit, they passed their twenty-five-year-old receptionist’s desk. Jack cast an admiring glance and flashed a smile he probably considered sexy. Gabriella’s stomach rolled.
Katrina looked up from her work and returned the smile in an awkward way. “Off to lunch, Mr. Belinski? Hi, Gabriella.”
Jack leaned against the edge of her desk. “Yup, my executive assistant here has been with us for three months.”
Actually, he’d hired her six months ago. It was a record for her. Her employment usually ended within a couple of months of hire. The complaint was always the same — she didn’t fit in, and people didn’t like her.
Jack asked Katrina, “How long have you been here?”
“Five months, sir.”
“Ah, excellent. We’ll celebrate with drinks.” He winked at Katrina and spoke to Gabriella over his shoulder. “Set up drinks for next week.”
Katrina didn’t look pleased by his invitation. Since the receptionist was the only person in the office who was nice to her, Gabriella decided to return the favour by forgetting to book those drinks.
Her boss strutted to the elevator, and Gabriella trailed along behind, glaring daggers at the back of his balding head. When they reached the top floor, where he parked his Porsche Carrera GT, she suppressed the urge to shove him over the railing to the street below.
Getting into his car was a chore requiring gymnastic skills. Worse, she had to flick a grungy wad of tissue off the seat. Used paper cups, napkins, and gaudy brochures for ostentatious houses littered every available surface inside the car. Men were animals.
“After lunch, grab a garbage bag and clean out the car.” Jack instructed, racing out of the garage and taking the tight corners at wheel-screeching speed.
Gabriella stared out the window, telling herself she could survive lunch. It was one hour. When you couldn’t see the end of the day, you had to get through an hour at a time.
She relaxed when they pulled into the restaurant parking lot. It was a small Japanese restaurant with a reputation for cheap prices and quick service. Thank God, it may not even be a full hour of torture.
Inside, garish photos of sushi decorated the laminated placemats, and the table settings included paper napkins and disposable chopsticks. Dark drapes hid the windows and ugly track lighting hung precariously from the grimy acoustic tile ceiling, bathing the tables in dim light. How typical of Jack to treat her to lunch at the cheapest place he could find.
After the geisha-costumed server took their order, Jack leaned back and stared at her. “You’ve been with us for three months. What do you think?”
She wanted to reply that the women were toxic gossips, the men were pompous chauvinists, and it was sickening that every employee treated Jack as if he’d descended from heaven on an angel’s back. It was a revolting feudal hierarchy, and she hated every second of the working day.
But she couldn’t say any of that. “Your company is leading-edge.” She smiled and took a dainty sip from her cup of green tea.
“Your role is to make my life easier,” he said, “and we have problems.”
Gabriella placed her teacup on the table. “Really? What kind of problems, sir?”
“Lack of stability.” Jack frowned at her hands. “You’re distracted.”
She was arranging her chopsticks and placemat just so, a habit she’d adopted years ago. She folded her hands and did her best to look engaged.
Jack nodded. “Take my expense reports. Half are perfect, including the foreign currency. Our accountant couldn’t do a better job. The other half are full of stupid mistakes. I also want to talk about document preparation. When you joined the firm, you edited a Request for Proposal and exhibited impressive writing skills. Last week, you proofed a RFP as if you suffered from dyslexia.”
She did have dyslexia, which was why she hadn’t wanted to proofread the proposal. He was lying. Last week was the first time he’d asked her to edit anything. Considering what a nightmare it was to struggle through the hideous task, she’d have remembered. Math was her strong suit, and his accusation about the expense reports wasn’t true. “No one in Finance has brought any errors to my attention.”
He snorted. “Let’s face it, you don’t accept criticism. That’s another issue, Gabriella. You were refined and professional in your interview but your personality has changed, I suppose because you’ve grown comfortable. At times, you’re immature and opinionated.”
The arrival of their food saved her from having to respond. Wondering how well they’d washed the lettuce, she picked at the salad with her chopsticks.
Jack didn’t touch his food. “People have told me you spend a lot of time with Mark.”
“You’ve experienced computer problems.” She placed a piece of cucumber into her mouth and chewed, trying to remain calm. Outside of computer-related questions, she never spoke with the IT manager.
>
Jack rolled his eyes and started eating his meal. “Look, you’re married, right?”
“That’s correct.” Silently, she counted to ten.
“Your husband is a lawyer and has some lofty political aspirations. He’s running for office, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you have children?”
“Yes.”
He looked up from gobbling his teriyaki salmon and waved a chopstick at her. “Your husband would be humiliated over his wife flirting in the workplace.”
She wanted to shove one of her chopsticks into his eye. She put them down and straightened them so they lined up with the edge of her placemat. She never flirted. She disliked men, and even tolerating her husband was a chore.
Jack studied her over the rim of his teacup. “If things are going to work out, you need to get a grip.” He finished his salmon and put his elbows on the table. “You ever watch Mad Men?”
The sudden change of subject confused her. “You mean the TV show about advertising on Madison Avenue?”
He nodded. “That’s the one. The secretaries were on the ball back then. They had it together.” He raised his hand, as if expecting her to protest. “I don’t mean the way women were objectified,” he clarified. “All I’m saying is the CEO’s secretary wouldn’t embarrass her boss by flirting with male colleagues.”
Black rage swirled around her, distorting her vision while a familiar feeling of detachment engulfed her.
Jack was still talking. “As my secretary, you’re a reflection on me. Conduct yourself professionally.” He keyed in the PIN for his credit card, handed the machine to the geisha, and passed Gabriella the receipt.
She stood and followed him to the door. Jack glared out the restaurant door. It was pouring rain. “Damn, my jacket is suede. The rain’s going to ruin it.”
Still struggling for control and desperate to ditch Jack for at least a minute, she held out her hand. “I’ll get the car.”
