“That sewer?” he said. “It only drops a few feet to the catch basin. It was a little disgusting, but with some help from a friend at the water department…”
Buzzing filled my head, and my knees nearly buckled. Trapped.
The walls of my apartment closed around me and everything—the couch, the television—had a weird looking-glass sheen to it. There, but…yesterday. One thought kept me from blacking out, and I took a deep breath first before sharing it. “Off the record?"
“Of course.” But Ian’s posture had stiffened. His smile was cold and shark-like.
I squared my shoulders, then said, “I killed him.”
Chapter 35
They say confession is good for the soul, so I told Ian everything. About my suspicions around Kirk and then hiring a private investigator. About watching Kirk and Sophia argue in the driveway Sunday night.
After Sophia had raced down the block, after Kirk had stumbled back into the house, I’d climbed out of the Escalade. Birkin bag slung over my wrist, I marched to the front door and used my key to enter.
Maxwell was playing on the living room stereo. Kirk was singing off-key.
I dipped my hand into the bag.
Cold. Hard. Deadly. The .22 had been Dominic’s idea. “Just in case,” he’d told me. I’d resisted asking, “In case of what?” because the reasons for anyone carrying guns tended to be the same.
I stepped into the living room breezeway.
Wineglasses sat on the coffee table. Kirk was sprawled out on the couch, attention on his phone, fingers tapping at the screen.
“Congratulations,” I said. “You are now the alpha and the omega of abusive assholes.”
“Thafuck?” He fumbled his phone, then sat up to face me. “Who do you think you are, coming in my house?”
I strolled into the living room. “I was sitting in my car, watching you and your girlfriend fighting. A different episode this time—usually, you’re making out. I know this because I’ve seen it happen all around Los Angeles County, Palm Springs, Las Vegas….” I let that sink in. “And then, I’ve watched her make out with some dude named Frankie Herrera in many of those same places. I have pictures and recordings of everything. And records. And statements. Some of it is prosecutable. You’re going to jail.”
“Says who?” Kirk was sweating. His eyes were glassy, and his pupils were the size of quarters. High as hell.
“Says the private investigator I hired back in January as one of my New Year’s resolutions.” I shrugged, smiled. “So. Guess what? You and Melissa are done.”
He clasped his hands behind his head, then sat back on the couch. “Or what?”
I glared at him but didn’t speak.
“Thought so. How about this? I tell Mel everything.”
Cold sweat prickled beneath my arms. “And then what? Nothing changes. You’re still trying to take away her house and her money, and Sophia’s still planning to pull a switcheroo on you with her real boyfriend.”
Kirk blinked at me, then whooped. “You think Mel would appreciate knowing that her little sister—”
“That was four years ago—”
“But who’s counting?” He grabbed the wine bottle from the coffee table.
“You and Melissa weren’t married,” I said.
He chugged from the bottle, then wiped his lips on his wrist. “Think she’d believe that?” He clenched his teeth, then rubbed his face again. “Especially since I got proof confirming that I tapped. That. Ass.” His smile didn’t last long before his teeth started grinding again.
“I’m not bullshitting, Kirk.” I reached into my purse, then brought out the gun and pointed it at him. “See? This is me, not bullshitting.”
He froze and put his hands in the air. Sweat rings had darkened the underarms of his polo shirt. But then, he laughed and his hands dropped. “You hard now, girlie? Where you buy that gun? Nordstrom? Saks?” He winked at me. “You sexy as hell when you mad.”
“Leave this house,” I said, my voice as cold and hard as the pistol in my hand. “Leave my sister. Never come back. If you do, I swear I’ll kill your sorry ass.”
“C’mon, Dani.” He was still smiling as he stepped around the coffee table. “You ain’t shootin’ nobody. Gimme a hug, girl. C’mon.”
My finger sat on the trigger. “Leave this house, leave my sister and—”
He growled, then lunged for me.
I flinched.
A pop.
Kirk grimaced, gripped his belly, then sank to his knees. His left arm shot out as he tried to slow his descent, knocking over one of the wineglasses and sending precious Burgundy to the carpet.
I'd frozen with my hand outstretched.
Kirk muttered, “You…bitch.”
His words forced me to move, and I stepped back…back…back…until my butt banged against something solid—the front door. That’s when I realized I was shaking.
I gaped at the gun in my hand—I had shot him, I’d actually shot him. Wow. Shit. I shoved the weapon back into the handbag. My mind cleared enough to decide not to leave through the front door. Instead, I rushed to the kitchen, glancing one last time into the living room.
Kirk was still on his knees with his forehead on the carpet. “Shot…me…Shot…”
I slipped out the kitchen door.
Don Lorenzo Drive was empty, and you could almost hear Maxwell’s singing from the stereo. Cold drizzle drifted from slow-moving clouds and kissed my face. Heart racing, I hustled to my truck, then dipped behind the steering wheel. My eyes fixed on Melissa’s red door until the drizzle broke my view into millions of beads of water.
Would that red door open? Would Kirk come stumbling out?
No lights blinked on at a neighbor’s house. No one opened their doors, looked out to the street with cocked heads and squinty expressions.
No one had heard me shoot Kirk.
Chapter 36
Ian’s blue eyes focused on something beyond me—he flushed pink, then darkened to fire-engine red.
I took a shaky breath, then released it. “You gonna say something?”
He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a pair of handcuffs. He dangled them before me and smiled. “This is the easiest case I’ve ever solved. Thank you, Miss Lawrence.”
“Just like that I’m Miss Lawrence again?” My voice broke asking that question. “I thought we had something.”
“C’mon, Miss Lawrence.” He smirked. “You were really falling for me?”
“You weren’t falling for me?”
He paused, and his smile died some. “I do what I have to for justice.”
“So you faked it,” I said bitterly.
His smile transformed into a smirk. “Well, not all of it. Some things you can’t fake, know what I mean?”
“I do know what you mean.” I grabbed my cell phone from the breakfast bar. “For instance…” I swiped through the photo album until I found it. I pressed Play and immediately, banter between Ian and me from Monday morning filled the room.
“Relaxed yet?”
“Almost. A little harder, please.”
I held up my hand. “Wait. It’s about to get really good.”
In the recording, Ian’s breathing had quickened as I whispered his name. He had chuckled, then gasped, then moaned “Dani,” over and over again, louder and louder each time.
That Ian was then. The Ian standing here now hated me—his glare was made of arsenic-tinged razor blades and hydrogen bombs.
I held out the phone so that he could see us going at it.
He didn’t want to but he looked down.
There he was, naked, my leg around his neck, moving against me on the couch in his living room, his parents and young academy cadet Anthony looking on from the mantel.
“So good, baby. So good.”
I fanned my face. “Don’t know, Ian, but that sounds genuine to me. Certainly felt genuine.”
“Dani—”
“Oh, I’m ‘Dani’ again?
”
His nostrils flared. “You did this…with me…on purpose?”
I shrugged. “I do what I must.”
He ran his fingers through his hair and tried to smile. “C’mon, babe. You can’t—”
“I can, especially since you’ve broken my heart. So, you’re caught. If I go public with this”—I waggled my phone—“you’ll have zero credibility. And your career?” I watched his mind race. “Oh, and yes, I thought to send a copy to Dominic. Just in case anything should happen. Scorned women are bitches—thought you knew.”
His eyes were bright. “So, what’s next?”
I glanced at my watch, then out the window—the sun now sat low over the Pacific Ocean. “Well, I have a party to throw. Before I go, how about one for the road?”
I pulled a bottle of Burgundy from the wine rack near the breakfast bar, then grabbed two glasses from the cubby. “Don’t worry, Ian,” I said as I poured. “I’m not leaving for good, and I’m not leaving you alone to figure things out. Here you go.”
He took the glass I offered, and stared into its darkness.
“After the party,” I said. “I’m gonna take a quick trip. To Narnia, Wonderland, Oz…You know, somewhere safe.”
“To do what?”
I pointed at the plastic bag filled with the dress, the gun, and the designer bag. “To drop that off.”
Ian finally looked at me. Beads of sweat had popped above his top lip. “And then?”
“And then, you’re gonna take all that Dom and I found on Sophia Acevedo, and you’ll arrest her for the murder of Kirk Oakley. Then, we win. Sound good?"
He didn't speak.
I poked him. “Cheer up, dude. You’ll do great. You’re a natural liar. Hey—do you like shave ice?”
He paused, then nodded. “Why?”
“Cuz I’m opening a stand soon in Saint Thomas. I’ll need someone to chip ice.”
His hands were shaking—the wine sloshed against the glass.
I smiled and held up my glass. “To new beginnings.”
About the Authors
James Patterson has written more bestsellers and created more enduring fictional characters than any other novelist writing today. He lives in Florida with his family.
Robert Rotstein is an attorney with over thirty-five years’ experience in the entertainment industry and is the author of three legal thrillers, featuring lawyer Parker Stern. He lives in Los Angeles.
Christopher Charles is author of the crime novel The Exiled. He has lived in Normandy, Paris, and Brooklyn, and currently resides in Denver with his wife, the author Nina Shope.
Rachel Howzell Hall is the author of six novels, including A Quiet Storm and Trail of Echoes. She serves on the Board of Directors for the Mystery Writers of America and currently lives in Los Angeles with her husband and daughter.
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James Patterson, The Family Lawyer
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