Vengeance

by Shana Figueroa

  “That’s the man Barrister killed,” Val said, “probably to cover his tracks, and blame it on me after he killed me. Or maybe Barrister planned to kill me and blame it on Dinapoli, then claim he killed Dinapoli in self-defense.” The Italian must have been the one giving Barrister information about the future, the one like Max and Val. He had to be. No one else made sense.

  Joshua looked away. “Huh.”

  Val narrowed her eyes at him. “What do you mean, ‘huh’?”

  “Well…the initial forensics report from the scene contradicts your version of events.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Like how?”

  “You say you shot Mr. Barrister, but ballistics reports it was Mr. Dinapoli’s gun that killed him, and also shot Mr. Carressa. And it was your gun that killed Mr. Dinapoli.”

  “What? How is that—that’s not even possible. Max had my gun.”

  He shrugged. “I’m telling you what they told me. They also say the car that exploded outside the Center was registered to Mr. Dinapoli.”

  Val shook her head, speechless. Either the forensics reports were falsified or the scene was altered to match a narrative she didn’t understand yet. Why would the cops spend weeks trying to capture or kill her, just to let her off the hook now?

  “I also talked to the Barristers’ lawyers,” he said. “I can’t tell you exactly what they said, but I can tell you that they have information that’s consistent with the police report.” Joshua leaned toward her and talked softly. “What I’m saying is—your version of events is significantly different than everyone else’s. So, as your lawyer, I’m suggesting that it’s in your best interests to stay quiet about your accusations against Norman Barrister.”

  She scoffed. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

  “Nobody will believe you, Ms. Shepherd. I’m being totally honest here. Maybe when Mr. Carressa gives his statement if—when he recovers, but right now it’s your word against everybody else’s. People will think you’re nuts. You won’t come out of this on top.”

  “But Delilah Barrister asked me to help her. She said she had evidence of Norman’s dirty dealings. He was abusive and cheating on her, and she wanted out. What did she say?”

  Joshua pressed his lips together and frowned like it pained him to speak. “She wouldn’t corroborate your story.”

  Val grit her teeth. So now that Val had solved Delilah’s problem with a bullet to her husband’s head, she’d re-erected the perfect housewife façade. Which meant Val could kiss whatever evidence Norman’s wife might’ve had to incriminate Norman goodbye.

  “Goddammit.” Val slammed her fist on the table, and Joshua jumped. “What about Robby, huh? Barrister killed Robby, or this Dinapoli guy did it for him. How are we going to prove that without connecting Chet to Barrister?”

  Joshua shook his head. “I guess you can’t.”

  She stared into the dark depths of her coffee as tears filled her eyes. “Then this was all for nothing,” she muttered.

  He put a hand on her forearm. “I’m sorry, Ms. Shepherd. I do have more good news, though.”

  “Yeah, right,” she said, wiping her eyes.

  “The coroner ruled Dean Price’s death a suicide, so neither you nor Mr. Carressa will face charges concerning that.”

  She shrugged. “At least one piece of evidence wasn’t tampered with.”

  “Also, given the fact that Mr. Price conspired to steal money from his client’s company, the case against Mr. Carressa is now impossibly tainted. Once he’s healthy enough to retain another lawyer, it’ll be a slam-dunk to get the charges against him dropped. And the DA knows it. So”—he slapped his palms on the tabletop—“he’s not going to press charges against you, either. There’s no point if they’re almost certain to be dropped. That means you’re free to go.”

  Her mouth fell open. “I can walk out of here right now?”

  “Yep.” He gave her a triumphant smile. “The Pacific Science Center might bring charges for trespassing, and maybe criminal mischief and evading police, but given the extraordinary circumstances and media attention, I doubt it’ll go anywhere. In any case, they’re all misdemeanors.”

  She looked at her lawyer, waiting for him to break into a “Just kidding!” sadistic laugh like Sten would have done. It made no sense. After everything that happened, and everything she knew, they were just going to let her go? Why? Why—God, she was so sick of that question. At this rate she’d never know.

  Val stood up, limping a little on her injured leg, walked to the interrogation room door, and opened it. Some cops strode by and glanced at her like she was a celebrity in an airport, but no one stopped her. She looked at her lawyer.

  “Do I owe you anything?” she asked him.

  “A ‘thank you’ would be nice, but I’m used to being unappreciated,” he said with a wink. “Mind the reporters. They’re swarming outside.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I could use a ride to the hospital, if you want some free advertising.”

  * * *

  Val hustled past the flock of reporters camped out in front of the Harborview Medical Center, who swooped in with microphones as soon as they recognized her. Tempting as it was to scream the truth about Norman Barrister while she had everyone’s full attention, her lawyer was right—no one would believe her without Max or Delilah to back her up. She needed to touch base with him before she went on the record about anything. If he was all right. If he was awake. Her stomach lurched at the possibility that he wouldn’t wake up, that maybe the vision she’d seen of him dying in a hospital bed wasn’t due to Sten’s beating, but the gunshot wound. She buried the thought as she hurried through the hospital’s sliding doors, the clicking of cameras receding behind her.

  She tracked Max to the intensive care unit on the second floor. Tired people filled half the waiting room, slouched in stiff-looking chairs. The few that looked up did a double take when they saw her, their eyes cutting back and forth between her and the television that droned in the corner showing news footage of her running into the hospital. She tried to ignore them as she walked to the check-in window.

  “I’m looking for Maxwell Carressa,” she said to the receptionist on the other side of the thick window. The hint of fear that permeated her voice surprised her. She sounded desperate, and she couldn’t filter it out. “I heard he was here.”

  Recognition flashed across the receptionist’s face when she looked up at Val. “That’s correct,” she said.

  “Can I see him?”

  The receptionist hesitated, knowing full well who Val was and her connection to Max. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” she said softly. “Only primary support caregivers and family members are allowed inside.”

  “But…he has no family.” In truth, Robby’s sister, Josephine, was Max’s next of kin, though nobody but Max and Val knew that yet.

  “I’m his family,” a man said behind her.

  She turned to face an older gentleman, his craggy face warm and genial despite the expensive business suit he wore.

  “I’m the closest thing he’s got anyway, as his emergency contact.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Valentine Shepherd?”

  She nodded.

  “Michael Beauford, CFO of Carressa Industries.” He held out his hand.

  She hesitated a moment before shaking it. It was hard to trust anyone anymore.

  “I’ve worked closely with Max for almost a decade. He’s a good kid, most of the time.”

  “Isn’t he technically your boss?”

  Michael laughed. “Not anymore. He was voted off the board after he became Seattle’s Most Wanted. Now he’s just a regular millionaire schmuck. So, you’re his…what? Girlfriend?”

  Val opened her mouth, then closed it when she realized she didn’t know how to answer. She wasn’t really his girlfriend. They hadn’t known each other long at all—a blink in time compared to her relationship with Robby. She barely knew Max…That wasn’t true. She knew practically everything about him, and
he about her. They’d certainly seen, felt, and tasted every part of each other. But what did any of that mean? She cared about Max, maybe more than cared—fleeting feelings that might fade now that the pressure that forced them together had lifted. And what did he feel for her? They’d had sex—great sex, many times—only because they had to, because that’s the way their power worked. By itself, it meant nothing.

  “I’m not his girlfriend,” she finally said. “He hired me to look into his father’s death, to prove his innocence. In the process, I stumbled across a plot to steal his money. They tried to kill us, so we ran. I guess…we’re friends now.”

  Michael lifted his eyebrows like he could smell her bullshit. “Okay…”

  “How is he?” Desperation tingeing her voice again despite her attempt to keep it out.

  “He had a piece of his large intestine removed,” Michael said.

  Oh God. A lump grew in her throat.

  “He’s recovering from the surgery now. Saw him about an hour ago. He’s still real groggy, kept falling asleep while I was talking to him, but the doctors say he’ll make a full recovery.”

  Val realized she’d been holding her breath. She exhaled as a smile grew on her lips.

  “The cops have been waiting around for a chance to question him.” He cocked his head toward a couple of plainclothes men Val hadn’t pegged as police when she’d entered. Now she noticed their intense glances in her direction as dead giveaways. “Until Max can talk for more than two minutes without passing out, I told them to go to hell.”

  Val grinned at that. “He needs another lawyer. Can you get that for him?”

  “Already done. The cavalry is on its way.”

  She bit her lip. “Can I see him?”

  Michael nodded. “I’ll take you inside. He might still be out of it, I’ll warn you now.”

  At the receptionist’s desk, he got her a wristband that allowed her entry into the ICU area. Val followed him through sterile white corridors until he reached a nondescript room. He rapped on the door, waited a beat, then opened it.

  “Max?” Michael poked his head in. “You’re not getting your colostomy bag cleaned right now, are you?”

  When there was no answer, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. Val followed close behind. They walked into a room with yellow walls, the morning sun bathing everything in a warm glow through white window curtains. In an adjustable bed flanked by beeping equipment, Max lay in a blue hospital gown with his head turned toward the window. An IV snaked out of his arm and into a drip bag at his side.

  “Max?” Michael said.

  Slowly Max turned his head to look at them. Seeing him move sent an irrational thrill through her—proof that the entire hospital hadn’t conspired to lie to her, like that was possible now.

  “Your friend is here,” Michael said, stepping aside to reveal Val.

  Max looked at her blankly, then smiled when his brain caught up with his eyes. “Hi,” he said to her in a weak voice.

  She smiled back. “Hi.”

  After a few seconds of silence where Max and Val stared at each other, Michael cleared his throat. “Okay, well, I’m going to wait outside while you two talk ‘business,’ as ‘friends.’” He waved once and left, shutting the door behind him.

  Val pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed. Her gaze traced his cracked lips, sallow skin, black and blue cheeks, and heavy eyes. Despite it all, as when they’d been in bed together, he looked content. Happy, even.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “I didn’t die,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “You didn’t die, either. That’s a lot better than I thought we’d do.”

  “That is amazing.” And suspicious. “I sort of told Michael that you hired me to look into your father’s death and exonerate you, so you might want to stick to that story.”

  “Sure. It’s not so far from the truth. You did find out who killed my father.”

  “Yeah, about that—my lawyer was pretty confident the DA’s office will drop the murder charges against you. Dean blew up their case.” Val grinned. “So when you get released from the hospital, you’ll probably be able to go home.”

  “Oh.” He frowned and looked away.

  Damn him, he still wanted to confess. “I’ll help you get settled while you recuperate.” She touched his hand, and he looked at her again. “I think you’ve suffered enough, Max.”

  He searched her eyes with his, then lifted his arm and brushed his fingertips against her bruised cheek. “Where’s Norman?”

  “Dead.”

  “Good.”

  Val cupped Max’s hand in hers, turned her head, and kissed his palm. The smile returned to his face. She laid her head on his chest, closed her eyes, and listened to his heart, loving every beat. Loving him.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  The savory smells of eggs and bacon permeated the diner as the late breakfast crowd began to filter out. Val sat in a booth tucked away in the corner, out of sight of any news reporters that might be lurking nearby, and sifted through a stack of folders. Her cell phone beeped.

  Tell me what the pancakes taste like, Max texted her.

  She patted the half-eaten buttermilk slab with her fork and licked the syrup off the prongs. Sweet maple on top of blueberry goo, melted butter seeped into the bread. YUMMMM, she texted back.

  A minute later, her phone beeped again: Damn you.

  She responded: Don’t ask if u don’t want 2 know.

  I thought I could handle it. I was wrong.

  She chuckled, then forced herself to push the phone away. If she didn’t stop texting with him, she’d never get any work done. Val picked through the folders, each one a new case for Valentine Investigations. Since word had gotten out that she’d “cracked the Carressa case,” all the clients that had jumped ship during her time on the lam came running back, plus a flood of new ones. Business had never been so busy, though she spent most of her days at the hospital with Max, keeping him company while he healed. If he got the all-clear from his doctors, he could finally check out that afternoon and go home. Maybe eat some solid foods.

  The familiar beep sounded from her phone again, enticing her like the rattle of a box of Meow Mix to a hungry cat. Val tapped a folder she’d laid open and tried to read Stacey’s hand-written notes above an e-mail chain, but she couldn’t stop eyeing her phone. She bit her lip, then snatched up the cell and read the text: I hate green jello. I will never eat it again. NEVER.

  Val wrote back: And chocolate pudding.

  No, I could never hate chocolate pudding. A moment later, he texted: Get me out of here.

  A warm smile spread across her lips. She would read through a couple more cases, finish her coffee, then head back to the hospital.

  Eh, what the hell—she’d already looked through five of them; she could look at the rest later. And the coffee wasn’t great anyway. Val closed the folder, put it back on top of the stack, and fished money out of her pocket to pay the bill and go.

  As she waited for the server to bring her change, Val’s gaze fell on the television suspended above the take-out counter, its volume muted. Delilah Barrister stood in front of a podium before a slew of reporters, her face a mask of anguish despite perfectly coifed hair and makeup. Norman Junior stood close behind her—Derek, the text at the bottom of the screen read. He scrunched his face in an unconvincing version of “concerned” while he held his mother’s shoulders and stared blankly off-camera. “Live—Delilah and Derek Barrister Speak Publicly for the First Time Since Norman Barrister’s Death,” the headline read.

  “Giovanni Dinapoli had been terrorizing us for months,” the closed captioning on the TV spelled out as Delilah talked. His mug shot floated into the corner of the screen. Strange, Delilah had never mentioned Dinapoli to Val. “He threatened my life and my son’s life if Norman didn’t pay him. Norman wanted to go to the police, but I convinced him not to, for the sake of our family.” She wept as Derek patted her shoulder.


  Val narrowed her eyes at the television. Was that true? Why hadn’t she told Val about the extortion? Sure, Delilah obsessed over appearances and was willing to lie through her teeth and leave Val dangling in the wind to maintain her perfect housewife image, but it still seemed like a fairly major detail to leave out if she truly feared for her life. Without taking her eyes off the TV, Val slurped down coffee. Her mouth had gone dry. Something didn’t add up here.

  Delilah composed herself and went on. “In the end, my husband did the right thing and confronted Mr. Dinapoli. He stood up for our family and it cost him his life. My husband is a hero.”

  The camera panned out to show members of the Seattle Police Department nodding behind her. And holy shit, there was Sten. Val choked and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. He stood behind Delilah and to her right, his hand wrapped in a bandage, faded bruises still coloring his face around the giant mustache. He nodded enthusiastically along with everyone else. What the hell was he doing there? If Barrister had owned the police, and Sten worked for Barrister, did Sten now work for Barrister’s widow? Val didn’t totally understand how the transfer of illegal power worked, but she doubted allegiances would shift that easily.

  Unless they hadn’t actually shifted.

  No. No. It wasn’t possible. She wouldn’t even entertain the idea she’d been played that badly. There was absolutely no way Sten had been working for Delilah all along, that she was the one who could see the future, that she’d told Barrister about Lester Carressa’s impending death and maneuvered Sten against Val and Max.

  No way Delilah had tricked Val into coming to the Pacific Science Center, knowing she’d run into Barrister, knowing she’d kill him.

  A wave of nausea hit her. Ridiculous. Paranoia clouded her thoughts again. She needed to get a grip on reality, and get the hell out of there before she puked all over the table. Hands shaking, Val began throwing the folders back in her tote. She stopped when she noticed a stack of mail wedged in the middle, a manila envelope with no return address among the bills. These must be the e-mails Delilah had promised, the ones that incriminated her husband. Breathing a sigh of relief, Val pulled out the large piece of mail and ripped it open. Barrister’s wife had come through after all.