I kissed Maria one more time, hopped into the SUV, and headed back toward town.
When the blare of sirens vibrated through my closed windows and flashing lights came in to view, my heart dropped to my gut. Black and whites surrounded the building that housed Kaylee’s new studio—the building Dad had purchased to silence her. The street was blocked, but from my viewpoint, I watched paramedics wheel a body into an ambulance. Blonde hair hung over the side of the gurney. Blonde, matted with blood.
The front window of Kaylee’s studio was shattered, a billion dazzling pieces on the sidewalk, sparkling like the lake at midday. Dad’s Mercedes sat untouched by the devastation like a fuck you to the hardworking blue-collar workers who fueled that area of town.
Shit, Dad. Not you. I can’t lose you, too.
Before I realized what I was doing, I had breached the police tape and an officer half my size barreled toward me with his hand up, yelling words I couldn’t register.
“Tango. Step back. You can’t be here.”
I reined in my panic and focused on the man standing in front of me. Roger Caldwell. We’d played football together. Decent halfback. Good guy.
“Rog, what happened here?” I tried to step around him.
Roger hooked his thumbs in his belt and stood his ground. He’d put on a good twenty pounds since I’d seen him last. “Break-in. Someone hurt her bad. Carved her face up.”
“Kaylee?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Anyone else in there?”
“No, T. It was just Kaylee.”
“No one else inside? You sure?”
“No one.” He shook his head and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Rossi, I need you to step behind the tape.”
“Anyone see what happened?”
His dark eyes assessed me for a moment. He looked over his shoulder, sighed, and pointed behind me to the building across the street. The Rooster Crow Bakery was as old as Whisper Springs. Family owned and operated for damn near one hundred years.
“Lily Crow says a man driving a Harley sat inside the bakery one morning, about two weeks ago, ordered coffee and a pastry, stared out the window toward the dance studio. Lily thought he looked familiar. One side of his face was grotesquely scarred. She’d tried to strike up a conversation, but he blew her off. After that, he would drive by several times a day. Sometimes park across the street, have a smoke, then leave. She’d called us twice because the guy gave her a bad vibe.”
“And?”
“And nothing. He didn’t break any laws. Lily didn’t like his tattoos. You can’t arrest a guy for wearing ink.”
“Tats on his arms?”
Roger nodded.
“Wearing a cut?”
He pulled off his glasses. Rubbed his eye with the back of his hand. “No. She didn’t mention a vest.”
“Fuck.” Fear-fueled rage sunk its nasty claws into my flesh. I paced, seeking something to punch. The streets, the buildings, the people blurred around me.
Hold your shit together.
My unease rubbed off on Roger. He shifted from foot to foot. “Something you need to tell me, Rossi?”
“No. No.” I clapped a hand on Roger’s shoulder. “Thanks, buddy.”
“Thanks, Maurice.” I pressed a kiss to his cheek and hopped down the porch steps. When I hit the bottom tread, I turned to face him again. “Your coffee is a million times better than mine. Can we do this again, soon?”
He chuckled. “It’s a date. Bring that boy of yours, too. I haven’t seen the little guy in ages.”
“Absolutely. He’d love it here.” Maurice’s front yard, as enormous as it was immaculate, boasted a swimming pool with a slide, a tire swing, and a well-manicured lawn that overlooked the bay. The Rossi mansion, visible from the back deck, sat across the water, a castle dwarfing the surrounding homes.
I heard construction noise coming from the property at the bottom of the hill. The real estate that was no longer mine. I refused to look that direction.
“Tomorrow?” I asked, hoping he’d say yes.
He gripped the railing for support. “I’m looking forward to it. And Slade?”
“Yeah?” I asked, gripping the handlebars and bumping the kickstand with my heel.
“I have something important I’d like to talk to you about. Perhaps you could bring Tango, too.”
I’d never seen Maurice smile so wide. Sometimes, when his eyes lit up with joy, like they had just then, he reminded me of my mother. She had the same blue-gray eyes as Maurice. Same dimple on the left side of her face, too.
“Stay cool.” I waved goodbye and threw my leg over the bike seat.
“Watch for potholes,” he warned.
I looked over my shoulder one more time before rounding the corner and heading down the winding dirt road. Maurice stood on his porch and watched me leave. I waved. He waved. My heart swelled. I needed our daily visits as much as I suspected he did. He’d been a staple in my life, like Charlie, always watching over me.
There would be scant amounts of shade on my journey home, and the temperature had hit the unbearable mark about an hour ago. My legs still screamed at me from the earlier exertion of pushing my bike up his hill. At least getting home was a downhill trip.
I maneuvered, quite impressively, around the potholes and stones of Maurice’s long driveway. I concentrated so hard on not crashing, I hadn’t noticed the man waiting for me at the bottom until I was too close to dodge him.
My limbs numbed. My foot slipped off the pedal. I hit a rock, and the handle bars jerked out of my grip. I didn’t remember the fall so much as the embarrassment of wrecking in front of an audience. Pain tore through my right thigh and up the side of my body. When I felt the warm tickle of blood dripping down the side of my face, I knew I was in trouble.
When the man standing over me chuckled, squatted to my level, and removed his glasses, I panicked.
That face.
“Blondie,” he said with a wheezy rasp. “You made this too easy.”
I tried scrambling away, across the dirt and stones and through the fear paralyzing my muscles. I tried.
Walter Reynolds raised his fist and struck once. It jarred my brain, my neck, my spine. He struck again, and the world went black.
Slade, you fucking bitch. They’ll kill you.
Metal. I tasted metal. Razor-spiked tongues licked my body, head to toe. Pressure squeezed my head like a vise, tightening, releasing, and tightening again.
They’ll kill you.
One eye opened, allowing a painful intrusion of light into my optical nerves. The other throbbed, swollen shut, no doubt because of the beating it’d taken. My bright yellow banister came into focus. A sigh escaped my lips when I recognized my surroundings.
Rocky. Oh my God. Rocky.
I lay on my floor, afraid to move. I heard the shuffle of feet somewhere to my left. The floor bounced beneath me as the footsteps drew closer.
My whole body vibrated in fear. Addison’s mangled face, her ugly words, her dead eyes, snapped through my memory like a wonky slide show.
“Happy to see me?” Walter, Addy’s uncle, the man I’d beaten unconscious the night I’d tried to save my best friend and her unborn child, straddled my waist and squatted. He squeezed my chin and pulled, forcing me to look at him.
The right side of his face looked like the Walter I used know. Weathered and worn, but still the same—emaciated, beady-eyed, high, pointy cheekbones. The left side, however, brought bile to my throat, choking me. I rolled to my side, coughing and fighting to gain my bearings.
“What’s the matter?” he asked with a sneer. “Do I scare you?” He pressed his nose to mine. “It’s a work of art, don’t you think?”
From the top of his bald scalp to above his ear, his head was concave. The skin stretching through the depression was puckered and discolored. His left eye was a milky gray. The corner of his lip pulled sideways, stretching into a wide scar that almost reached his cheekbone. Dear God, what had happened
to him?
Weaving his fingers through my hair, he laughed, then squeezed tight. “I have you to thank for the dent.” He tapped his index finger to his head. “You’ve got a great swing, sweetheart.”
They’re going to kill you. Kill you. Kill you.
Addison’s voice played on repeat in my head.
“P-p-prison,” I muttered. “You were in prison.”
Walter leaned closer, crushing my chest. “I got out.” He pressed a wet, threatening kiss to my mouth. “Now I’m home, and I’ve come to collect what’s mine.”
His breath reeked of tobacco, flooding me with memories of wasted days with Addy.
“Put those back,” I warned. “Walt will kill you.”
Addy plopped her butt next to mine on the creaky wood steps leading up to her uncle’s trailer. “Walter is too fucked in the head to know he’s missing a couple of smokes,” she replied, rolling her eyes and lighting up.
She offered one to me, and I shook my head no.
“He’s completely off his rocker now. I think he’s sampled too much of his own product.” Her leg bounced incessantly. “Think I can stay with you tonight?”
My heart dropped to my toes. “Those guys still hanging around?”
Eyes filling with liquid, she nodded yes. I ached for her. Addy no longer tried to hide the bruises.
“You can stay as long as you need to.” I stood and brushed the dust and chipped paint off my bottom. “Let’s get your things before they get back.”
Walter’s palm met my cheek with a crack.
“No dozing off, sweetheart. I need you awake.” The right side of his mouth lifted in a perverted grin. He reached behind his waist and slowly brought his hand back into view.
When he flashed the knife in my face, blood beat a death march in my ears, a deafening countdown to Walter’s inevitable retribution. I didn’t feel the drag of the blade as he trailed it down my throat and circled my left nipple over my bra. I didn’t hear a word he spoke as he cut the straps on my tank. I heard nothing, until he spoke Kim’s name.
“Kim?” I mumbled, choking on the tang of blood. “It was you?”
“Oh. Your little waitress. She was a firecracker. Did you like my artwork?”
“What do you want?” I mumbled, hoping to buy some time.
“An eye for an eye.” He cocked his head to the side, his gaze dropping to my chest. “I’m going to have fun with you first, while you’re still pretty.”
I heard Tango’s rich voice.
I was a coward. You were my warrior. You don’t have to be strong anymore. I’ll be your rock.
Ha! I was my own goddamned rock.
Fuck life and its ugly teases. Fuck fate and her twisted sense of humor, dangling a beautiful future in front of my nose, only to lead me, once again, toward a dark pit.
Vile, repulsive rage welled in me, pushing the paralyzing fear away, numbing the crushing pain. I would not meet the same fate as Addy. I would not be roadkill. I would not leave my boys without a fight.
You were my warrior.
I thrashed like a woman possessed between Walter’s skinny legs. Ignoring the slice of the blade as it sunk into the skin above my breast, I bucked and kicked, punched and screamed. Somehow, I knocked the knife away.
His fist met my face, slamming my head against the floor. The room around me darkened. I pushed through the fog, grunting, screaming, crying.
Walter rolled off me, then tangled his hands in my hair. With a hard yank, he dragged me across the rough wood.
“Stupid, fucking cunt.”
I managed to flip to my stomach and push up on my hands. He pulled, I crawled, desperately scrambling to get to my feet. When I did, I was halfway through the kitchen door. Walter released my hair. When I found my footing and lifted my head, I screamed at the scene before me.
Dane. A larger, darker version of Dane, sat at my kitchen table. Face bloody. Arms pulled behind his back. Head drooping forward. He was fighting to stay conscious. Walter stood next to him, rummaging through a black bag. His eyes darted to mine before he removed a syringe and laid the needle down next to the satchel.
I swayed and took a step back. My right leg wouldn’t cooperate, and I fell against the doorjamb.
“You can run. You won’t get far. My brothers are waiting in the van outside.” He turned the burner knob on my gas stove to high, picked a cigarette out of his breast pocket, and lit it on the blue flame.
They’re going to kill you.
My warrior. You are a fucking warrior.
The scream that tore from my throat startled even me. I charged, not sure of my intentions, and threw my body against his, throwing him off balance.
His flailing arm tangled in my gingham curtain, tearing it, along with the rod, off the wall. When he straightened, and swung to strike me, the curtain fell across the stovetop. His fist made contact yet again with my face, and I hit the floor. I blinked up, before giving in to the black void, to see orange flames eat the red and white fabric and spread up the wall, devouring the ancient wallpaper.
Walter’s boot raised above my face, as if to stomp. A loud bang shook the floor. Walter fell backward toward the flames, and the darkness swallowed me whole.
Darkness surrounded me, suffocated me. I fought against the arms pinning me to the ground. Watched in horror as Slade’s house disappeared, crumbled, disintegrated under command of the black smoke and horrid flames.
“They’re in there,” I cried. “Let me go. Let me fucking go. I have to get them.”
Someone lifted me by the shoulders and dragged me backward, across the street, and through someone’s lawn, before setting me on the ground behind an ambulance. Forcing an oxygen mask over my face, a man ordered me to stay.
I heard a woman yell, “Behind the house. Hurry.”
Life pumped back into my veins. I watched the scramble of bodies disappear behind the smoke. Searched wildly for her face. Time stood still. The voices faded to muted noise. The scene played in agonizing slow motion.
I ripped the mask off my face and rose to my feet, desperate for a better view.
“Tango! Tango!” Rocky’s voice was a faint sound winding through the commotion.
Was I hearing things?
“Tango.”
Someone squeezed my shoulder, and I jumped.
“Where’s Slade?” Tucker asked, fear strangling his voice.
I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t say the words out loud. I wouldn’t say them because speaking them would make the nightmare real.
“Tango!” I heard Rocky yell again. Was I hallucinating?
My knees gave out, and I screamed into my hands. Tucker came down with me, offering a supportive arm. “They’re in there,” I cried. “They’re in the house.” I raised my eyes to Tucker’s.
“Tango. Rocky is with me.” He turned and pointed down the street.
Rocky sat in the backseat of Tucker’s Jeep, waving, smiling, pointing at the fire trucks. Marion stood next to his door, one hand covering her mouth, her head shaking back and forth as if refusing to accept the scene playing before her.
I folded into myself and cried into my palms. My son. Thank God. My son was alive. I gave in to the emotion, briefly, before wiping my face and pushing to my feet.
“Get him out of here.” I forced the words through clenched teeth.
Tucker stepped back. “Tango.”
“Get him away from here!” I yelled. “He can’t see this. He can’t see her…” Another sob escaped. I forced my lungs to draw in oxygen. “Get him the hell away from here.”
Tucker pulled me close, a quick embrace, before jogging back to my son.
Commotion near the burning house drew my attention away from Rocky. Two gurneys were coming my way. Paramedics shouted commands and someone pushed me to the side.
“Is it her?” I asked, rushing forward. “Is it Slade?”
“No pulse,” someone said.
My heart stopped beating. I watched as they scrambled past me, my gu
ts twisted in knots, my vision blurring in and out of focus.
It wasn’t Slade. Maurice McReary lay lifeless on the stretcher, skin ashen, face hollow. They lifted the bed into the back of the ambulance.
I sprinted to the other vehicle as they lifted another victim inside. “Wait. Jesus Christ, wait!”
As I stepped closer, as Slade’s bloodied hair and mangled face came into view, a fissure tore wide open, somewhere deep, flooding my psyche with blood rage.
“Is she alive?” I whispered, curling my fingers into the hair at my scalp. Nobody heard me.
I grabbed the closest man in uniform, lifting him by the collar, bringing him nose to nose. “Is she alive?” My arms trembled. Control slipped further from my grasp.
The man shrugged free. “Yes. She’s alive, but we need to get her to WSMC. She’s lost a lot of blood. Stab wound.”
Stab wound? What the fuck had happened?
The man shrugged free of my grip. I stood amidst the chaos, the smoke, the wail of sirens. I stood, trembling, shaking with vile, vile rage, the red seeping in around me, through me, penetrating deep, to my marrow.
I stepped closer to the heat, shedding the layers of hope, vulnerability, pride. The man, the boy I used to be, had hoped to be again, burned away layer by layer, charring to ashes along with the house, the home I loved. I willed my old self to burn with it.
I couldn’t make allowances for the old Tango, not when I had murder on my mind.
I only hoped she could love the new me. The real me.
Slipping the phone from my back pocket, I headed toward the blue sedan parked behind my Rover.
I dialed the number I’d hoped I’d never have to use. Luciano Voltolini answered on the second ring.
“Tango, my boy. Good to hear from you. How is your father?”
“He’s gone. I can’t find him.”
“What do you mean?”
I stepped up to the car with the dark windows.
The man I had hired to watch my family, to keep them safe while I was away, unfolded from his seat, met me nose to nose. “I stayed with the boy, as you’d instructed. I saw nothing to cause alarm, or I would’ve called you immediately.”
Truck Stop Tango Page 23
