by Holly Hart
“Don’t suppose that took much persuasion.” A breeze picks up off the lake, rustling the curtains. I wrap Lily in my arms. “Kind of a stroke of genius, though. On Neil’s part. Keeps his hands clean; turns the whole world against me. Creepy stalker corrupts—what was it? Squeaky-clean siren?”
“Ugh. That stupid photo must’ve given him the idea.”
“Doesn’t matter now.” I press a kiss to her temple. “You were right. You’ve bought me some time. We’ll figure this out.”
She shifts against me. “We should shower. Get ourselves warm.”
“Probably wash these sheets, too.”
“In five minutes. Once I’ve caught my breath.” She’s breathing just fine, but I pull her head to my chest, anyway. She curls in tight, with a happy sigh. If we’re running out of moments like these, I’m glad I got this one.
Chapter Forty-One
Lily
I roll down the window, pulling onto the main drag. Fresh air fills my lungs. The morning mist’s still burning off the lake, and it’s already shaping up to be a perfect Texas day. It’d be easy to keep playing pretend—pick up a case of Coronas and spend the day on the pier. Easy to turn it into a routine: fishing in the lake and cooking our catch over an open fire; raiding Mark’s coffee stash; spooning in the dark as the moon rides across the sky. Pretending the clock’s not running out.
But we’re no closer to the truth than we were when we started. We’ve got scraps of the picture, nothing concrete: a phantom hacker; a would-be assassin; a hostile takeover. And Neil, playing with a stacked deck. Hiding behind Wayne, of all the low tricks.
I pass a cop car, parked outside Cup O’ Joe. Its owner’s tucked into a booth, reading the paper. He glances up as I slow for the light. I picture him spotting me, recognizing me. Talking urgently into his radio, the second I’m out of sight. He’d let me pass on my way back. Let me go until—
The light changes. I nose into the intersection, imagining police sirens cutting through birdsong, tires tearing up Mark’s crushed-shell drive; Brandon hustled into one car, while I’m escorted to another. We’d see each other again—through glass, maybe, or in some psych ward visitors’ room. Or at his funeral.
I push the thought aside. Surely we’ve at least got today. Probably tomorrow, as well. Or we could get in the truck and keep driving. All the way to Mexico. Guatemala. Panama. Till we run out of road.
I tip my hat over my eyes, heading into the market. It’s a risk, coming here, but we need something to eat besides fish and Saltines. A newspaper, if they’ve got any. Mark never hooked up his TV.
The kid behind the counter barely looks up at the sound of the chimes. I grab a basket and head down the produce aisle. Cheering drifts from the TV—some kind of ball game. I pile tomatoes and avocados in my basket, with a vague thought of making guacamole. An onion, too, and some strawberries. I remember Brandon liking those.
Behind me, the ball game gives way to commercials. The kid changes channels: cartoons; some daytime soap. A talk show. The news. I drift back up the aisle, pretending to inspect the apples. A segment on the local election ends, followed by an earnest update on a missing teen. And then—
“—and in a story that keeps getting stranger, Brandon Shaw and Lily Walker, initially thought to be a kidnapper and his victim, are both now listed as missing persons. Following confirmation of a dramatic attempt on Mr. Shaw’s life—”
I creep a little closer, straining my ears. Missing persons? Not suspects? The anchor’s droning on about Brandon’s capture and escape—nothing new, there. “Come on...come on!”
“Police believe the couple may still be at risk, with the party or parties behind the attack as yet unidentified. Anyone who’s been in contact with—”
The kid flips back to his ball game. I drop my basket and break for the door: it’s not the cops we have to worry about. It’s Neil. He’s got to be at the end of his rope, with the cracks starting to spread. Itching to tie up loose ends. All he has to do is pull his worried best friend routine on Mark, and we’re sunk.
I need to get back to the lake house. Now.
Chapter Forty-Two
Brandon
A bird explodes from the bushes and flaps, squawking, across the yard. I watch it go. Been a while since I’ve been this close to nature, eating fresh-caught fish, swimming in open water. I’d forgotten what it was like to look out the window and see something other than bland city streets, featureless walls, towering skyscrapers.
Lily’s coming up the drive—too soon, and too fast. She blows past the mailbox, jumps out with the truck still idling, and races up the path, eyes wide. She’s shouting my name, but it’s not me she’s looking at. I follow her gaze, but the sun’s in my eyes, glancing off the windchimes.
“Brandon!”
I turn back from the window, just in time to see Lily throw herself to the ground. Instinctively, I follow suit, hitting the floor as the glass shatters behind me.
What the fuck?
Something whizzes over my head. I want to tell myself it’s a horsefly. Maybe a June bug. But there’s a hole in Mark’s perfect white curtains—a round, blackened O, floating at chest height. My paralysis breaks, and I dive behind the counter. The next bullet lodges in the freezer door. “Lily? Lily, run!”
This is what I was afraid of. Dragging her down with me. Should’ve left her sleeping, that first night. Taken the truck and gone. She’d have forgiven me, or at least understood. I root around in search of a weapon—a frying pan, a meat skewer, anything at all—but there’s nothing under the counter but cobwebs and a dead bluebottle. This kitchen’s never been used.
Light footsteps pelt down the hall and Lily drops to her knees beside me. “This is all I could find.” She pushes a gardening trowel into my hand.
“You shouldn’t be here.” I pull her deeper into the shadows, easing my body between her and the open. “I’ll run across. Distract him. You go out the side door—get to the truck.”
“Can’t. There’s another one out front. Came tearing around the house when I called your name.”
So we’re trapped. I grip my trowel, unsure what use it’ll be. It’s old and rusty, caked with dirt. Handle’s likely deadlier than the blade. And Lily—do I tell her to stay close? Or to get away, far away, fast as she can? She can’t be a target...can she? She’s too high-profile, too beloved. Neil wouldn’t be that stupid.
Unless...unless she’s to die, and I’m to vanish. Mark’s truck’ll show up in a week or so, torched, just south of the border. I’ll be rotting in a shallow grave, forever remembered as the man who shot the Queen of Hell.
I pull Lily in tight, sheltering her with my back. This isn’t the time for indecision.
“What now?” I can feel her trembling. Hear it in her voice. I need to do better than I don’t know.
“Stay still. I’ve got this.”
I force myself to relax. All I can hear is birds. Bugs. The lake kissing the pier. A motorcycle revving somewhere in the distance. When’d it get so loud out here? Even the leaves are rustling. And the windchimes—fucking windchimes—
Glass crunches.
This is it.
Lily shifts nervously at my back. I reach back to reassure her, one hand on her arm. Don’t think she’s breathing at all.
Another tinkle of glass, closer this time. I flatten myself to the cabinets, focusing on the sound. He’s picking his way across the kitchen, trying to be stealthy. A boot squeaks. Jeans rub together at the thighs. I swallow panic—I have no idea where he is. Could be three feet out, or six, or right on top of me.
When I hear him breathe. That’s when I’ll make my move.
My own breath stills in my throat. My palm’s slick on the trowel. A pinched nerve twinges in my right knee.
I tune it all out and listen.
Nothing...nothing. More nothing. And...the undignified burble of a rumbling belly. Close—too close. I spin around the counter, lashing out with the trowel. It catches on fabric. The gunma
n grunts in surprise. He kicks out at me. I grab the barrel of his rifle, still warm from firing. He jerks it up; I force it down, and a round ricochets off the tile. Sharp pain needles my ankle, as a ceramic shard tears through my sock.
“Get—get off me!”
I growl, pressing my advantage. He’s smaller than me. Softer, especially around the middle. I shoulder him across the dining room. His boots grind on glass. I grit my teeth, ignoring the sharp bite to the ball of my foot, another to my heel. His grip’s loosening on his weapon. I twist and yank. We both stagger, crashing into the table.
“Let...go!”
I take half a step back and snap my head forward, scalp colliding with his nose. He shrieks, a gurgling, bloody sound, and—
“Behind you!” Lily’s warning rings out sharp and clear.
Fuck!
I seize him by both arms and spin him around. The barrel of his rifle digs into my thigh. I jerk my leg out of the way, but the shot that rings out isn’t from his gun. He slumps in my arms. Something hot rushes down my leg—blood; not mine.
“Brandon!”
My head snaps up. The second shooter—he’s taking aim, nice and slow, shouldering his rifle on the inhale. When he lets out that breath....
I throw myself behind the counter, dragging the dead man with me. His weapon clatters to the floor, and I snatch it up. Not that I’ve ever fired one, but this guy doesn’t have to know that.
“Lily—get around this side!”
Lily gasps. Her shoe skids on the tile, just once.
“Don’t move. Don’t even blink.”
“Brandon!” Her voice is small, terrified. I don’t have to stick my head out to know he’s got his sights on her.
“It doesn’t have to go this way.” I raise the stock to my shoulder, testing its heft. Wondering what the recoil might feel like. “Your friend: he’s still alive back here. You haven’t killed anyone yet.”
“That true?” He’s scared—I can hear it in his voice. “Frank? You with me?”
“He’s out cold. But I’ve got a heartbeat.”
“Bullshit.”
“Come see for yourself.”
Silence. I can hear Lily again, whispering something that sounds a lot like please, please, please.
“Look, you got someone special at home? Wife? Kids?”
More silence. Lily’s sniffling.
“You could see ‘em again. Your family. If you quit now.” I slide forward on bloody feet. I can see his reflection in the glass. He’s shaking so hard he’s liable to fire by accident. Shifting from foot to foot. “Attempted murder, that’s only, what—ten years? Twenty? And a good lawyer’d deal you down to aggravated assault. Give up Neil, and you’ll be out in five. Five years—that’s how long Breaking Bad was on TV. Remember how fast that went by?”
It’s not Lily sniffling—it’s him. The shooter. Sniffling and fingering the trigger.
“I can tell you don’t want to do this.” My knee pops, and he jumps. Everything stops—my heart, Lily’s panicked breathing—but no shot rends the silence.
“Don’t—don’t tell me what I want.” His voice cracks. This isn’t working. Not fast enough.
“Lily?”
“Yeah?”
“Back away slow. Come to my side.” I grit my teeth. This is the right decision—it has to be.
“Don’t—I’ll shoot!”
She’s moving anyway, soles scuffing on tile. Her nails click on the counter as she grabs on for support. I edge forward again. One good lunge, one good whack to the backs of his legs—
“What are you doing over there?”
I pull my head back. “Waiting for you to drop that boomstick.”
There’s a hollow clunk from the other end of the island. Lily yelps, scuffles, and then she’s on my side, crowding up against my back. Her hand’s chilly on my arm, her breathing quick and shallow.
“You’re safe.”
I feel her nod, quick and jerky.
The gunman clears his throat. “So you’ll—”
I don’t wait to hear what he has to say. I launch myself at him, wielding my rifle like a hammer. The stock makes a satisfying crack as I bring it down on his knee. He fires one more time, into the ceiling. Plaster rains down, and he comes down with it, tripping over my leg and sprawling out flat. Lily scoops up his rifle and releases the magazine, cartridges clacking at her feet.
“Don’t think Mark’ll be inviting us back here any time soon.”
I manage an unsteady chuckle. “Get—I don’t suppose he has a rope? Or a pair of handcuffs?”
“I’ll check.”
The asshole’s struggling again, squirming in my grip. I cuff him hard, fattening his lip on the tile. “What’s your name?”
“Ed—Edwin.”
I hear Lily snort, all the way from the bedroom.
“How much did he pay you?”
Edwin thrashes and says nothing.
“Found these.” Lily trots up behind me, a pair of fuzzy red handcuffs dangling from her finger. I snap them into place behind Edwin’s back, and all the fight goes out of him. He lies flat, refusing to be lifted to his knees.
“This was never meant to happen.” His voice comes out petulant. Teary. “No one was s’posed to die.”
Lily laughs, incredulous. “What’d you think would happen when you shot us in our backs?”
Edwin rolls away from her, turning beseeching eyes on me. “It was never meant to come to this. I never shot anyone in my life.”
“Then why...?”
“He said we’d go down for everything! All those people....” He tries to curl in on himself. “You were just s’posed to be late. Same as those other times. And then I saw the news, and he said it was an accident, nothing to do with us, but then you were alive, and I—”
“What was an accident?”
“The plane!”
My stomach does a slow roll. I dip my head between my knees, certain I’m going to pass out. The plane—my plane—this guy....
Cool hands bracket my face, stroking my cheeks. Lily. I reach for her, wanting to bury my face in her skirts, pretend I didn’t hear what I just heard. Pretend this whole morning never happened. Instead, I draw myself up. Blink hard to clear my vision.
Edwin’s still rabbiting on, excuses tumbling from his lips. “—only meant to fry the electrics. Make it so you couldn’t take off.” He’s wailing, voice thick with snot. “Frank’s the one that did it! I was only—”
“Stop.”
“—along for the ride, and Frank said for that kind of money—”
“Stop!” I lurch to my feet, stumbling blind. Can’t listen to any more of this shit. Lily steadies me with a hand at my back.
“You don’t get it.” Edwin’s whining carries, following me down the hall. “Guy like you—what would you know? I got three kids, two on the short bus. There’s schools, specialists, my wife flushing away money on every whackadoo treatment under the sun—what would you know? Spoiled fuck; Daddy’s boy—don’t you have enough?”
I stop in my tracks. My vision’s gone from gray to red. I do an about-face, stalking back to the kitchen. “I don’t get it? I don’t know what that’s like? What do you think my father left me when he died?”
“A billion—”
“A mountain of debt! That’s what I got! An empty house. Hundreds of thousands owing. A company with twenty employees. That’s what he left, after four years of round-the-clock nursing, special diets—and, yeah, we tried everything, too. Clinical trials—those six months in Berlin were fun. Guess how much German I know? Drecksau; Hosenscheißer; Pissflitsche—that’s it!”
“I didn’t—”
“And you know where else I didn’t get my money?”
“I—”
“From murdering four people!”
“You survived!—only three.”
Only three. Like that makes it better. “No. Your friend, through there—” I jerk my head toward the kitchen. “—I lied. He didn’t make
it either.”
Edwin makes a sick little sound. I turn my back on him, breathing hard. Money. It’s always money—Neil; this pathetic sack; fucking Wayne—all chasing the almighty dollar. Running roughshod over everyone in their path.
Lily edges up behind me, arms comforting around my waist. “What now?”
I let out a long sigh. “Call the cops. I don’t care. This....” I shudder, half-gagging. “It’s over. Whatever happens now, I’m done.”
She rests her head on my shoulder, whispering low so Edwin can’t hear. “Sorry about your dad. I didn’t know.”
I swallow hard and shut my eyes. Lily holds me for what seems like a long, long time. In the end, the cops find us.
Chapter Forty-Three
Lily
They’ve all been sneaking up to the door for a look at me: officers, detectives, some kid I’m pretty sure was the janitor. One of them even snuck a selfie with me in the background. Don’t think I reacted quick enough for my finger to appear in the shot.
No one’ll tell me anything. It’s been hours, and I’ve glimpsed Brandon once, being escorted down the hall by a tired-looking detective. An hour after that, the detective came back alone. He made a phone call, brewed some coffee, and retreated to his office, ignoring my attempts to flag him down.
If we were in the clear, they’d have let us go by now. Told us something, at least. I fidget with my sleeve, picking at a loose thread. They could at least have put me in a room with a window to the outside. Let me—
The door finally opens. A smiling middle-aged woman bustles in, twirling a pen between her fingers. “Lily Walker! You look so different, without all the....” She gestures at her face. “Wouldn’t have looked twice at you, walking down the street.”
I raise a brow, refusing to be rattled.
“Oh—can I get you anything else? Coffee? Soda?” She smirks. “That’s pretty much all we have, so....”
I wave her off. “Brandon. Is he okay? In trouble?”
