"He would have been better to just talk Albert Kim out of it," I said. "Convince him he was mistaken."
"Which would have worked, I bet. I'm sorry Albert died, but he was a corrupt bastard. I wouldn't be surprised if Albert did suspect Howard and was just hoping for a cash payment to make it all go away. Instead, Howard shoots him. And then Victor, who has accidentally killed Cherise, sees an opportunity to frame Sheila for the deaths and ends up killing poor Sara Atom."
"In the lamest frame-up job ever. Which wouldn't have gone anywhere, except, by that point, Howard was on the case, working hard to solidify the link between all the murders, because that was in his best interests. Prove Sheila killed Sara Atom and Cherise Hale, and pin the others on her, too."
"Men," she said. "They can be such bastards."
I laughed. "Which is not really the moral of this story, but in this case, yes, the boys were to blame."
"Speaking of men . . ." She twirled her umbrella. "He's not going to come, is he? My anonymous benefactor."
"I . . . I've passed on the message."
Angela sighed. "Okay, well, can you pass along another?" She looked me in the eye. "Tell my father I would really like to see him."
"Father?" Jack said as we walked along the beach, one last time before our red-eye flight home.
"That makes more sense than former lover if you think about it."
"Guess so. Just . . . father." He shook his head. "Think he'll go see her?"
"I hope so. But, like he said, it's complicated."
"Yeah." Jack watched kids run across the sand. "When you take this job, you can't get out of it. Not really. Ty quit the life years ago. Doesn't matter. You can't go back. Can't erase the jobs. Or pretend they never happened. Not if it affects someone you care about. It's fucking complicated." He lifted our hands and touched my fake wedding band. "Can't do this."
"I know."
"Part of me says screw it. Chances anyone will find me? Near zero. But not zero. Never zero."
I squeezed his hand. "I know that. Marriage means using your real name. You burned that long ago, and you can't risk claiming it again."
"Wouldn't put you through that."
"The issue for me isn't what you'd 'put me through.' It's that I'd lose you, and there is no way in hell marriage is worth that. We're a committed couple. That's enough."
He glanced at the matching band on his finger. "Yeah, I know. I just . . ."
"You like that."
"Yeah, I really do." He took a deep breath. "Which is why I'm going to ask. Not for a wedding. Not for a legal marriage. Just . . ." He took a box from his pocket.
I stopped walking.
"Yeah," he said. "Even that'd be complicated. I shouldn't ask."
He started shoving the box back into his pocket. I caught his wrist and pulled it out.
"That wasn't a no, Jack."
I took the box and opened it. Inside were three rings. Two gold bands and a diamond solitaire.
I looked up at him. "Are you asking me to fake-marry you?"
He sputtered a laugh. Then he went serious and took the diamond ring. "No, I'm asking you to be my wife, Nadia. In every way that counts."
I held out my hand.
He tilted his head, blue eyes meeting mine uncertainly.
"That's a yes, Jack," I said. "God, you can be--"
He cut me off with a kiss. A long, sweet kiss, and when I finished, I had a diamond ring on my finger. I took the larger band from the box and picked up his hand.
"Will you marry--" I began.
"Fuck, yeah."
I laughed and threw my arms around his neck and kissed him. Then I pulled back, took out my phone and placed a call.
"Hey, Emma?" I said when she answered. "It's Nadia. We'll be home tomorrow, but something happened, and I wanted to tell you in advance."
I winked at Jack as Emma's voice rose with concern.
"No, no, it's fine. We're fine. It's just . . . Well, it turns out John had an ulterior motive for this trip. He asked me to marry him."
I held out the phone so he could hear her screech.
"I said yes, obviously, and then we were walking past this adorable chapel, right on the beach, and I know, we should have waited, but we couldn't. So we're married."
I held out the phone again for her response, and Jack shook his head, chuckling.
"No, we don't want a party," I said. "Fine, okay, a small party. Very, very small."
I resumed walking along the beach, my hand in Jack's, as Emma chattered her plans, and I smiled. I just smiled.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kelley Armstrong is the author of the Cainsville modern gothic series and the Rockton crime thrillers. Past works include Otherworld urban fantasy series, the Darkest Powers & Darkness Rising teen paranormal trilogies, the Age of Legends fantasy YA series and the Nadia Stafford crime trilogy. Armstrong lives in Ontario, Canada with her family.
Visit her website at www.KelleyArmstrong.com
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To read the first three chapters of
City of the Lost,
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CITY OF THE LOST
CHAPTER ONE
"I killed a man," I say to my new therapist.
I've barely settled onto the couch . . . which isn't a couch at all, but a chaise lounge that looked inviting and proved horribly uncomfortable. Like therapy itself.
I've caught her off guard with that opening line, but I've been through this before with other therapists. Five, to be exact. Each time, the gap between "hello" and "I'm a murderer" decreases. By this point, she should be glad I'm still bothering with a greeting. Therapists do charge by the hour.
"You . . . ," she says, "killed a man?"
The apprehensive look. I know it well--that moment when they're certain they've misheard. Or that I mean it in a metaphorical way. I broke a man's heart. Which is technically true. A bullet does break a heart. Irrevocably, it seems.
When I only nod, she asks, "When did this happen?"
"Twelve years ago."
Expression number two. Relief. At least I haven't just killed a man. That would be so much more troublesome.
Then comes the third look, as she searches my face with dawning realization.
"You must have been young," she says. "A teenager?"
"Eighteen."
"Ah." She settles back in her chair, the relief stronger now, mingling with satisfaction that she's solved the puzzle. "An accident of some kind?"
She's blunt. Others have led me in circles around the conclusion they've drawn. You didn't really murder a man. It was a car accident or other youthful mishap, and now you torture yourself with guilt.
"No, I did it on purpose. That is, pulling the trigger was intentional. I didn't go there planning to kill him. Manslaughter, not homicide. A good lawyer could argue for imperfect self-defense and get the sentence down to about twelve years."
She pulls back. "You've researched this. The crime. The sentence."
"It's my job."
"Because you feel guilty."
"No, it's my job. I'm a cop."
Her mouth forms an O of surprise, and her fingernails tap my file folder as she makes mental excuses for not reading it more thoroughly. Then her mouth opens again. The barest flicker of a smile follows.
"You're a police officer," she says. "You shot someone in the line-- No, you were too young. A cadet?"
"Yes, but it wasn't a training accident." I settle on the chaise. "How about I just tell you the story?"
An obvious solution, but therapists never suggest it. Some, like this one, actually hesitate when I offer. She fears I'm guilty and doesn't want me to be. Give her a few more clues, and she'll find a way to absolve me.
Except I don't want absolution. I just want to tell my story. Because this is what I do. I play Russian roulette with Fate, knowing someday a therapist will break confidentiality and turn
me in. It's like when I was a child, weighed down by guilt over some wrongdoing but fearing the punishment too much to confess outright. I'd drop clues, reasoning that if I was meant to be caught, those hints would chamber the round. Magical, childish thinking, but it's what I do.
"Can I begin?" I ask.
She nods with some reluctance and settles in.
"I'd gone to a bar that night with my boyfriend," I say. "It was supposed to be a date, but he spent the evening doing business in the back corner. That's what he called it. Doing business. Which sounds like he was dealing coke in some dive bar. We were actually in the university pub, him selling vitamin R and bennies to kids who wanted to make it through exam week. . . ."
CHAPTER TWO
Blaine and I sat at a back table, side by side, waiting for customers. His fingers stroked the inside of my thigh. "Almost done. And then . . ." He grinned over at me. "Pizza? Your place?"
"Only if we get enough for Diana."
He made a face. "It's Friday night, Casey. Shouldn't your roommate have a date or something?"
"Mmm, no. Sorry."
Actually, she was out with college friends. I just wasn't telling Blaine that. We hadn't had sex yet. I'd held him off by saying I was a virgin. That was a lie. I was just picky.
Blaine was my walk on the wild side. I was a police recruit playing bad girl. Which was as lame as his attempt to play drug lord. On a scale of bad boys, Blaine ranked about a two. Oh, sure, he claimed he was connected--his grandfather being some Montreal mobster whose name I couldn't even find with an Internet search. More likely the old guy played bookie at his seniors' home. Blaine's father certainly wasn't mobbed up--he was a pharmacist, which was how Blaine stole his stuff. Blaine himself was pre-med. He didn't even sample his merchandise. That night, he nursed one beer for two hours. Me? I drank Coke. Diet Coke. Yep, we were hard-core.
A last customer sidled over, a kid barely old enough to be in university. Blaine sold him the last of his stash. Then he gulped his beer, put his arm around my shoulders, and led me from the pub. I could roll my eyes at his swagger, but I found it oddly charming. While I might not have been ready to jump into bed with Blaine, I did like him. He was a messed-up rich kid; I could relate to that.
"Any chance of getting Diana out of your apartment?" he asked.
"Even if there is, the answer is no."
He only shrugged, with a smile that was half "I'll change your mind soon" and half genuine acceptance. Another reason why I wasn't ready to write him off as a failed dating experiment--he never pushed too hard, accepted my refusals with good-natured equanimity.
We started walking. I wasn't familiar with the campus area. I was attending the provincial police college outside the city and spending weekends with Diana, a high school friend who went to the local community college. Neither of us was from here. So when Blaine insisted that a dark alley was a shortcut to the pizza place, I didn't question it . . . mostly because I was fine with what he had planned--a make-out pit stop designed to change my mind about getting Diana out of our apartment.
We were going at it hard and heavy when I heard the click of a gun. I gasped and pushed Blaine back. He looked up and jumped away, leaving me with a 9 mm pointed at my cheek.
"I only have fifty bucks," Blaine lied--the rest was stuffed in his sock. "She has some jewelry. Take that and the fifty--"
"Do we look like muggers, Saratori?"
As the gun lowered, I saw the guy holding it. Early twenties. Dark blond hair. Leather jacket. No obvious gang markings, but that's what this looked like: four young guys, one with a gun, three with knives.
I couldn't fight them--I didn't have a weapon, and martial arts doesn't work well against four armed attackers. Instead, I committed their faces to memory and noted distinguishing features for the police report.
"Does the old man know you're dealing?" the lead guy asked.
"I don't know what--" Blaine began.
"What I'm talking about? That you're Leo Saratori's grandkid? Or that you were dealing on our turf?"
Blaine bleated denials. One of the guys pinned him against the wall, while another patted him down. They took a small plastic bag with a few leftover pills from one sock and a wad of cash from the other.
"Okay," Blaine said. "So we're done now?"
"You think we want your money?" The leader bore down on him. "You're dealing on our turf, college boy. Considering who you are, I'm going to take this as a declaration of war."
"N-No. My grandfather doesn't--"
A clatter from the far end of the alley. Just a cat, leaping from a garbage bin, but it was enough to startle the guy with the gun. I lunged, caught him by the wrist and twisted, hearing the gun thump to the ground as I said, "Grab it!" and--
Blaine wasn't there to grab it. He was tearing down the alley. One of the other thugs was already scooping up the gun, and I was wrenching their leader's arm into a hold, but I knew it wouldn't do any good. The guy with the gun jabbed the barrel against my forehead and roared, "Stop!"
I didn't even have time to do that before the other two slammed me into the wall. The leader took back his gun and advanced on me.
"Seems we know who's got the balls in your relationship," he said. "The pretty little China doll. Your boyfriend's gone, sweetie. Left you to take his punishment." He looked me up and down. "A little too college-girl for my tastes, but I'm flexible."
I thought he was joking. Or bluffing. I knew my statistics. I faced more danger of sexual assault from an acquaintance or a boyfriend.
"Look," I said. "Whatever beef you have with Blaine, it has nothing to do with me. I've got twenty dollars in my wallet, and my necklace is gold. You can take--"
"We'll take whatever we want, sweetie."
I tugged my bag off my shoulder. "Okay, here's my purse. There's a cell phone--"
He stepped closer. "We'll take whatever we want."
His voice had hardened, but I still didn't think, I'm in danger. I knew how muggings worked. Just stay calm and hand over my belongings.
I held out my purse. He grabbed it by the strap and tossed it aside. Then he grabbed me, one hand going to my throat, the other to my breast, shoving me against the wall. There was a split second of shock as I hit the bricks hard. Then . . .
I don't know what happened then. To this day, I cannot remember the thoughts that went through my brain. I don't think there were any. I felt his hands on my throat and on my breast, and I reacted.
My knee connected with his groin. I twisted toward the guy standing beside us. My fingers wrapped around his wrist. I grabbed his switchblade as it fell. I twisted again, my arm swinging down, and I stabbed the leader in the upper thigh as he was still falling back, moaning from the knee to his groin.
Afterward, I would piece it together and understand how it happened. How a response that seemed almost surreal was, in fact, very predictable. When the leader grabbed me with both hands, I knew he was no longer armed. So I reacted, if not with forethought, at least with foreknowledge.
Yet it was the lack of forethought that was my undoing. I had stabbed the leader . . . and there were three other guys right there. One hit me in the gut. Another plowed his fist into my jaw. A third wrenched my arm so hard I screamed as my shoulder dislocated. He got the knife away from me easily after that. Someone kicked me in the back of the knees, and I went down. As soon as I did, boots slammed me from all sides, punctuated by grunts and curses of rage. I heard the leader say, "You think you're a tough little bitch? I'll show you tough." And then the beating began in earnest.
*
I awoke in a hospital four days later as my mother and the doctor discussed the possibility of pulling the plug. I'd like to believe that somewhere in that dark world of my battered brain, I heard them and came back, like a prizefighter rising as the ref counts down. But it was probably just coincidence.
I'd been found in that alley, left for dead, and rushed to the hospital, where I underwent emergency surgery to stop the internal bleeding
. I had a dislocated shoulder. Five fractured ribs. Over a hundred stitches for various lacerations. A severe concussion and an intracranial hematoma. Compound fracture of the left radius. Severe fracture of the right tibia and fibula with permanent nerve damage. Also, possible rape.
I have recited that list to enough therapists that it has lost all emotional impact. Even the last part.
Possible rape. It sounds ludicrous. Either I was or I wasn't, right? Yet if it happened, I was unconscious. When I was found, my jeans were still on--or had been put back on. They did a rape kit, but it vanished before it could be processed.
Today, having spent two years as a detective in a big-city Special Victims Unit, I know you can make an educated guess without the kit. But I think when it disappeared, someone decided an answer wasn't necessary. If my attackers were found, they'd be charged with aggravated assault and attempted murder. Good enough. For them, at least.
As for my injuries, physically, I made a full recovery. It took eighteen months. I had to drop out of police college and give up the job waiting for me. As the victim of a serious crime, I was deemed no longer fit to serve and protect. I didn't accept that. I got a bachelor's degree in criminology, a black belt in aikido, and a flyweight championship in boxing. I aced the psych tests and, five years after the attack, I was hired and on the fast track to detective.
My parents had not been pleased. That was nothing new. When I'd first declared I wanted to be a police detective, their reaction had been pure horror. "You're better than that," they said. Smarter, they meant. Not geniuses, like them. While they considered my IQ of 135 perfectly adequate, it might require extra effort to become a cardiologist like my dad or chief of pediatric surgery like my mom or a neuroscientist like my sister. Still, they expected that I'd try. I wanted none of it. Never had.
After I had to leave police college, they'd been certain I'd give up this nonsense and devote myself to a meaningful career, preferably with a string of letters after my name. We argued. A lot. They died in a small plane crash four years ago, and we'd never truly mended that fence.