Текст книги "Hemlock Veils"
Автор книги: Jennie Davenport
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
Chapter 12
The downpour began before Elizabeth could reach Center Street—harsh and cold and without the slightest warning. An April morning in Oregon should have been warning enough, but she would scold herself later. Instead, she ran the rest of the way to Jean’s Bakery, her three-inch heels clopping on the wet cement and her ribs sore. When she reached the bakery, with windows still dark, she stood beneath the black awning. It protected her only halfway, and she rubbed at her arms, getting as close to the glass door as possible. Her reflection disappointed her. All the time she’d put into looking crisp and professional had been a waste; now soaked hair and black smudges under her eyes dominated her look.
She shook excess water from her hair, then dried her face with the ends of her scarf. One of the things she’d learned from Mr. Vanderzee was how to look and act professional for any kind of business meeting, and so far, she’d failed. The night before, she’d rescued her black, high-waist trousers from the bottom of her suitcase, as well as her violet, silk blouse with a pleated front. She doubted she needed to go through all the trouble of making a good impression, since Mr. Clayton already had his mind made up about her, but it couldn’t hurt. She’d even tried straightening out the wrinkled, water-damaged money and putting it in a less-conspicuous envelope.
Now it burned a hole in the purse tucked under her arm. She hadn’t allowed herself to second-guess her decision thus far, but five minutes before leaving the motel, while putting the finishing touches on her hair, she’d almost called it off. Anxiety had risen in her chest, taking her breath, and she had to sit on the bed to calm her heart. In that moment, all she’d wanted to do was curl up in bed and skip the meeting, leaving Mr. Clayton thinking he’d been right about her the whole time.
It was the recollection of Mr. Vanderzee’s words that had motivated her to get up. His threats. Then it had been the image of the little house, and of the way it would feel to be behind the counter of her very own coffeehouse.
Waiting by the darkened bakery door, she touched the locket around her neck, attempting to draw courage from it. Instead it reminded her of all she’d done to get here. Of why even though she had to do this, she deserved none of it.
In the door’s reflection, the Maybach rolled to the curb with a grace unfitting for the storm. Its wipers glided frantically over the windshield but made no sound, and Arne stepped out, instantly opening a black umbrella over his head. His suit was also black today, unlike the gray ones he usually wore. While he walked to the other side of the car, she turned, and they smiled at each other simultaneously. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it, Elizabeth?”
She wanted to throw up. Instead, she nodded.
He opened the back door, holding the umbrella over the opening, and Mr. Clayton stepped out beneath it, buttoning his suit jacket. She felt insignificant, showing up with no umbrella and completely soaked through, while he walked with a suave stride to meet her, never a single drop of rain staining his expensive, midnight-blue, silk suit. Every time she saw him, he walked with a hurried purpose, as though not even the sidewalk deserved his time. He hardly looked at her, keeping his eyes on the ground and nodded. “Ms. Ashton,” he said.
“Hello, Mr. Clayton.” She used her professional voice, but kept warmth in her tone. He deserved a hint of warmth, since he was giving her this chance.
He removed a set of silver keys from his pocket and unlocked the door and ushered her inside, meeting her eyes for the first time. She tried not to shrink at the way they started at her head and moved to her feet, judging her, no doubt.
“No umbrella?” he asked, closing the door behind him and returning the keys to his pocket. Arne closed the umbrella, sending water droplets to the tiled floor.
She tried to smile. “I guess I’m still getting used to the Oregon lifestyle.”
Arne un-stacked four chairs and started scooting a table toward them. She rushed over to help. Mr. Clayton only stood with apathy, glancing at his watch. He walked to them just in time for Arne to take a rag to the chair closest to him, wiping it free of dust, but Mr. Clayton didn’t sit. Instead, he held the back of the chair with one brow raised, and it wasn’t until he motioned to it with impatience that she realized he was offering her the chair.
“Thank you,” she said, sitting slowly since the movement hurt.
His eyes seemed wary as he sat across from her, especially when she removed her jacket and scarf, attempting it with as little stiffness as possible. Somehow, regardless of her emotionless face, he recognized her internal cringes. Either he was the most intuitive man alive, or a mind-reader. The latter seemed more probable. “Are you…all right, Ms. Ashton?” It seemed as though he cared more than he was willing to show, but she was sure she was wrong about that, too.
“Of course.” She met his eyes only briefly. Briefly because there was something new in them she didn’t have the heart to analyze. They’d been vulnerable before, when she’d called him out, but this time was different. It wasn’t a wounded vulnerability but a soft exposure, perhaps of a man he used to be, or one he usually tried to hide.
Mr. Clayton still scrutinized her, while Arne took her jacket. She nodded in gratitude to Arne before looking back to Mr. Clayton. “I’m fine, Mr. Clayton. Really.”
“All right then.” He sat back, straightening. His eyes found the table. “Let’s get down to it then, shall we?” Arne handed him a briefcase; Mr. Clayton opened it and retrieved a stack of papers. He took a pair of reading glasses from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and put them on, keeping his eyes on the paper. The black, thick frames were handsome, unsurprisingly. “I took the liberty of having these contracts made up. If there’s something you don’t agree with, we’ll make other arrangements, and I’ll have new ones made by tomorrow. But may I remind you, this isn’t the time to be picky, Ms. Ashton.” He still wouldn’t meet her eyes, keeping his own on the stack of contracts that looked too lengthy. Her head spun and she took a deep breath, as subtly as she could.
Mr. Clayton looked at his watch impatiently. As though he and Arne shared a brain, Arne said, “He was on his way an hour ago. He should be here any minute.”
Mr. Clayton nodded, not bothering to hide his irritation, and before she could wonder, he said, “My attorney, Tony Collins, will be here shortly to mediate on both our behalves—to answer any legal questions you may have and act as a notary should we sign the agreements this morning.” He sighed, looking back at Arne. “For Hell’s sake, Arne, sit. You know how anxious I get when you stand behind me.”
Arne sat, leaving one empty chair for Tony Collins. She didn’t have time to wonder if he was as callous as Mr. Clayton because just then a short, round, bald man ran to the door, umbrella over his head. He shook it beneath the awning, closed it, and then opened the door, shivering inside his expensive-looking trench coat. He eyed Mr. Clayton, then Elizabeth as he closed the door. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. Though he spoke to Mr. Clayton, his eyes remained on Elizabeth. “This is quite a town you have here, Henry.”
Mr. Clayton appeared annoyed as he interlaced his hands on the table. “I’m not paying you to sightsee, Tony.” The subtle exchange between the two men’s eyes hinted at his double meaning.
Tony took the seat next to him, half-smiling. “You can’t expect me not to look. It’s taken me fifteen years to convince you I was worthy to see this town.”
“There was no convincing on your part. I needed you here.”
Tony waved it off, as though he was used to Mr. Clayton’s arrogance. He met Elizabeth’s eyes again, offering his hand. “You must be Elizabeth Ashton.”
She gave it a solid shake. “How do you do?”
“Been better, honestly. You’ve met my client.” He threw a sidelong glance at Mr. Clayton and Elizabeth smiled, even though she tried not to.
Mr. Clayton ignored them both, passing the first few pieces of paper to her. They were thick and heavy, the same expensive kind of paper Mr. Vanderzee used to use. At the top of the first paper were the words “Oregon Seller’s Property Disclosure Statement” and below it, heaps of small, black print. That print continued on the next five pages, where Mr. Clayton had checked some boxes in a checklist.
“This is the real estate disclosure statement, where I’m required by law to tell you everything I know about the condition of the house, as honestly as I know. And honestly, Ms. Ashton, there’s not much I know about it anymore.” He was right. In most sections, about the plumbing, the roof, etc., he’d marked the “unknown” box. “In most cases—and I’d support your decision to, since it’s your right as the buyer—you would hire someone to do a professional home inspection, to resolve any underlying issues that may change your mind—”
“I won’t change my mind.”
His mouth was still open, since she’d foolishly interrupted him. “I didn’t think you would.” He threw her a warning look beneath his severe brow, the condescending stare she hated. “Anyway, the home inspection, and/or appraisal, would make a difference on the asking price. However, if you agree to take it as is, sign this disclosure that verifies you are aware of the unknown condition of the home, and decide to forgo the inspection, my asking price will stay low and reasonable. You are free to make counter offers, Ms. Ashton, but the longer—”
“How much?” She’d done it again, interrupted, and she wanted to shrink.
“Twenty thousand.” Her brow lifted. She had expected he would mark it up at least twice what it was worth, and a daunting battle would ensue. But apparently Mr. Clayton was full of surprises. “Let me assure you, even for a measly five-hundred-square-foot home, that price is a steal.”
“I don’t doubt it, Mr. Clayton. For the sake of saving time, though, do you mind explaining briefly what’s in the disclosure statement—why you’re asking such a low price?”
“The last time I set foot in that house was ten years ago. Back then the pipes were fully functional and the wiring top-notch. I’m asking a low price because I simply don’t know its condition anymore, Ms. Ashton, and honestly, I don’t care enough to find out. I’m asking a low price because the shorter we can make this meeting the better. The lower the price, the more likely you are to accept, and the more—”
“That’s fine, Mr. Clayton. I accept.”
He, Arne, and Tony—who’d been quiet thus far—watched her. “Just like that?” Tony said.
“Yes.”
He looked back and forth between her and Mr. Clayton. “You…don’t want to read through it, talk more details on the agreement?”
“That would be fine, but my answer won’t change. It could need all new pipes and I’d still take it. Especially at that price.”
“And you…trust Mr. Clayton is being honest with you?”
She looked the man in the eyes, the man with a slight comb-over and pock-marked cheeks. “Do I have a reason not to?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then yes.” She found Mr. Clayton’s eyes, which appeared more attentive than they’d been in the past five minutes. “I trust you, Mr. Clayton.”
He barely nodded. “Very well. As far as earnest money—”
“There’s no need for that.” She swallowed hard at the way he narrowed his eyes. “I’m sorry to interrupt again. You said you wanted this to be quick, and I don’t want to waste your time. I have the money. I’ll be paying upfront, right now.”
Tony and Mr. Clayton exchanged a look. “That’s fine,” he said. “Once the check clears—”
“That won’t be necessary either.” She opened the flap of her purse, pulling out the new envelope with the pressed money. “I will be paying in cash. And if it’s all right by you, Mr. Clayton, I’d rather not wait the five to seven days to close. If we can strike this deal, and you have the money in your hand today, I’d like to sign the Sales Agreement so I can get the title as soon as possible.”
He and Tony exchanged another look, and Mr. Clayton nodded. With a sigh of hesitation, Tony reached into his own briefcase, and Mr. Clayton looked back to Elizabeth. “I had Tony ready the Sales Agreement as well, for a case such as this. I also have the title and keys in hand.”
Elizabeth tried not to show the excitement that made her sit taller.
“Can I just…throw something out there?” Tony said, sliding the Sales Agreement—another four-page contract—to Elizabeth. “Ms. Ashton, Henry might be the one I look out for, but I’m here to answer any of your questions as well. I’ve seen situations like this end messily. To avoid the mess, I say wait it out and be patient. Have the home inspection, get an appraiser, make a proper written deal, and wait the seven days to close. That way, both your asses are covered.”
“You’re worried about the validity of the money, aren’t you, Mr. Collins?”
He sighed, his shoulders slumping. With a shifting jaw, he said quietly to Mr. Clayton, as though she wouldn’t be able to hear, “Henry, it’s illegal to discriminate based on a person’s gender. Now, I know you’ve always been more than logical when making business decisions, but this is just rash.”
“You think I’m making this deal because she’s a woman?” His voice wasn’t hushed like Tony’s.
“I think you’re making the deal because she’s an attractive woman.” He looked at Elizabeth, whose eyes narrowed. “No disrespect, Ms. Ashton.”
Mr. Clayton seemed unaffected. “I’m making this deal because Ms. Ashton and I don’t see eye-to-eye, and dealing with her gives me a headache, quite frankly. I’d like to make this as short as possible. For her sake and mine. That way we can move on with our lives.”
At least they saw eye-to-eye on that.
“The money, Henry…” His voice turned hushed and secretive again, his lips tight.
Mr. Clayton looked at Elizabeth, his eyes penetrating. “Ms. Ashton?”
She had already paper-clipped her money into ten $10,000 sections, and she pulled out two of those now, placing them before Mr. Clayton.
Tony shook his head. “I don’t feel good about this, Henry. What woman carries that kind of cash?”
“It’s no one’s business but my own how I handle my money, Mr. Collins.” Mr. Clayton and Elizabeth studied each other, a strange sort of trust passing between them. It was new, and though she still didn’t respect the man much, it felt nice. In that brief moment, she felt like his equal, rather than a peasant beneath his shoe. And though her next words brought the return of her shame, at least she could speak them with honesty. “The money is legal, Mr. Clayton.”
He nodded, looking down to the contracts. First, he signed the Disclosure Statement.
“Henry,” Tony said, flabbergasted. He looked as though he was refraining from snatching the pen out of Mr. Clayton’s hand. “I’ve never known you to be so reckless. Why?”
“Because, Tony,” Mr. Clayton said in a bored sigh, now signing the Sales Agreement. “Ms. Ashton is one of the most honest people I know, and if she says she’s good for it, I believe her. And because I trust her more than I trust you.”
Wait. He trusted her? What about her troublesome past, how he worried it might follow her here, and how suspicious his eyes had been? He slid the papers to her, and as she reached for them, her hands trembled. She would have bet her blood pressure was through the roof. She took a deep, inconspicuous breath. He passed her his gold pen; it was warm from his hand.
Touching the fine point to the paper, on the line for the buyer to sign, she eased another exhalation from her chest. The pen shook. Mr. Vanderzee, Willem, his blood, the locket, Juan, the hospital: it all ran through her mind. This wasn’t her money, no matter how much Mr. Vanderzee told her so.
“Is everything all right, Ms. Ashton?” Mr. Clayton asked, bringing her out of the spiral in her mind. She met his eyes. “I’m not wrong about trusting you, am I?”
“No, Mr. Clayton.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Thoughts of the house settled upon her. Then the forest around it, calling to her. “There’s no problem.” With that, she signed both contracts, too quickly for her to object yet carefully enough that the signatures looked like her own.
Tony threw up his hands. “Don’t say I didn’t advise you.”
Though Mr. Clayton’s eyes locked with Elizabeth’s, he clenched his teeth at Tony’s words. Perhaps he hated him in the way he hated her. In the corner of her eye, she saw Tony pull something else from his briefcase. “The title,” he said with a sigh. “Please sign it, Ms. Ashton, and we’ll get it changed to your name within a couple of days.”
She did, and then Mr. Clayton took a key ring with a single brass-colored key on it from the inside chest pocket of his jacket. The key appeared as old as the cottage. He handed it to her and it came alive in her hand. “As far as the bakery,” he said. “You can pay for the lease a year at a time for thirty-six hundred, or on a month-by-month basis at three-hundred per month. That’s nine dollars per square foot.”
Sensing Mr. Clayton’s impatience, she quickly counted $3,600 and handed it to him. They signed another form. He gave her the same silver keys he’d unlocked the door with. Tony signed the forms as well.
Again Mr. Clayton’s eyes locked with hers. Later, when she was alone, she would attempt to decipher what she saw in them. “I need a moment alone with Ms. Ashton,” he said, never looking at Arne or Tony. They both stood, and when Arne did, he took Elizabeth’s hand and kissed it. He smiled the smile she loved, his eyes twinkling. “Our new neighbor,” he said in his passionate voice. She smiled in return.
“Ms. Ashton,” Tony said. “It was a pleasure, I hope.” He eyed Mr. Clayton from the side. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to the city, where I have real issues waiting.” He shook his head and was gone without a goodbye to his faithful client, Henry Clayton.
When he and Arne left, Mr. Clayton leaned forward on his elbows, removed his reading glasses, and stared into her eyes. Her chest fluttered, making her swallow hard. A strand of his hair fell over his forehead, and she tucked her own behind her ear. It was still wet. “I know you were out alone last night.”
She blinked. “How—?”
“I heard from someone.”
She barely nodded. Eustace, of course.
“Why? Why go out alone?” She didn’t know if she was wrong for sensing desperation in his voice rather than anger.
“I like to walk alone.”
“At night? Here, in the ominous forest?”
“I don’t…view it as ominous, Mr. Clayton.”
With a shifting jaw, he sighed through his nose.
“I didn’t walk into the forest.”
“It doesn’t matter. You were at the edge.”
“Is that a problem?” She became defensive, against her every will not to.
“Yes,” he answered curtly.
“Why?”
“You have a car. Use it. You will not go out alone at night, and especially not in the forest. That’s the other part of our deal, the part I couldn’t put in writing. If you want the house, that’s the condition. If you can’t agree to it, I’ll call Tony and have him shred the contracts now.”
“There’s no need for that, Mr. Clayton.”
“Then do we have a deal?”
She eyed him warily, studied the way his eyes smoldered. They held a depth, one that was ever so familiar. “Yes,” she hardly managed, dying a little inside. She pulled her brow together in response to the way such a restriction shackled her. “I won’t go out at night by myself.”
He reached his large hand toward her, and hesitantly, she took it. His shake was firm and his palm warm. Her hand appeared lost within his. “If there’s one thing I know about you,” he said, “it’s that you’ll stay true to your word, Ms. Ashton. I trust you’ll take this handshake as a binding contract.”
She nodded, and still he held her hand. For the briefest instant, her chest heated in the exhilarating way she’d rarely felt, but he pulled his hand away quickly and stood, making her forget about it. She stood, too, again with difficulty. “Mr. Clayton, may I ask how you know that about me?”
“Aside from the comments from Frank Vanderzee?”
Her eyes widened. “You called Mr. Vanderzee?”
“I had to get a reference.”
“And,” she started, swallowing. She folded her arms, attempting casualness. “What did he say?”
“You’re getting the house and bakery, Ms. Ashton. What do you think?”
Flabbergasted, she looked to the side.
“Does that surprise you?”
Her eyes shot to his. “No, I just…Well, yes. I didn’t think he was very fond of me.”
“On the contrary. He had nothing but good words. More of his direct ones were that I would be a fool not to allow this. That you were the most trustworthy person he’s ever had the privilege to know—his…Everything Girl, I believe he put it.”
Her eyes warmed and she looked away, attempting to keep it inside like she always did. In that instant, she felt even more undeserving of this fresh start than she had before.
“But,” he said, bringing her attention back to him. “It wasn’t Frank who convinced me. He only confirmed what I already knew. I may not like you, and vice versa, but you’re not the only one who’s a good judge of character. So don’t make me regret my decision.”
She didn’t understand, not about his sudden trust in her or about Mr. Vanderzee. And she couldn’t help her mind from slipping back to the dark night of her brother’s death.
Mr. Clayton began to leave, interrupting her memory just briefly. He paused halfway out the door, the rain raging. “And Ms. Ashton? Welcome to Hemlock Veils.”
***
Elizabeth rode the escalator from the underground garage at Mariachi Plaza in Los Angeles. She’d been here once before with Willem—three years ago, on one of his sober days. She had wanted to take him somewhere upbeat for dinner, somewhere with a cheerful atmosphere. She knew it would be, too, just from seeing the vibrant blue-and-silver lights from the underground. They had admired the artwork while on that very escalator, and when they reached the top, the warm nighttime air had been buzzing with life. A stone gazebo stood at the top and, true to its name, a mariachi band played a festive tune. A few people even danced around it and Willem had laughed. As far as Elizabeth could recall, it was the last time she’d heard that throaty laugh.
Now, when reaching the warmer-than-usual midnight air atop the underground and seeing that once beautiful stone gazebo, she loathed this place, and would from here on out. This place that was usually crawling with people was dead in the early, dark hours of the morning. This place with artwork-patterned concrete and happy memories would change Elizabeth forever, would label her a dishonest, disloyal, pathetic human being.
Two dark figures stood in the gazebo, huddled and backlit by a single street lamp. She approached with heavy feet. Her stomach began to rise again, but she swallowed and forced bravery. For Willem. For the men who wanted him dead.
Withdrawing the money had been easier than she’d expected. At her meeting that afternoon with Mr. Fluckiger, he hadn’t even batted an eye when she requested the withdrawal. Inside she panicked, but on the outside she acted as the cool, stiff businesswoman Mr. Vanderzee always requested she be. She had it all planned out. Over the coming months, she would slowly refill Mr. Vanderzee’s third account with her own income and Mr. Vanderzee would be none the wiser. It had stupid written all over it, and she deserved to be put away. In fact, she expected it, mentally prepared herself for it. In some ways, going to prison would be best. That way, her internal commitment to remove herself from Willem’s life after tonight would be easier to keep.
She recognized Willem as the hunched figure in the gazebo. They turned to her and he released a nervous breath, running a hand over his head that still managed to glisten. “Beth, I knew you’d come.” He turned to the Hispanic man who looked more like a boy than a man, head shaved and mustache thin. “I told you she’d come.”
Elizabeth took the steps that put her under the gazebo’s roof. Her hands were in her sweater pockets and her hood over her head. She sweltered inside it, yet felt too exposed. “Why this place?” she asked, directing her question at the man she assumed was Juan. “Why here?”
Juan shrugged, lifting his chin. He wore a white t-shirt and black baggy pants, and above his ear a tattoo she couldn’t decipher. “It’s beautiful,” he said. “I know my man, Will, loves it here.” He wrapped his arm around Willem, making him cower. “Ain’t that right, Will? Good memories with your sis?”
“Let’s get this over with,” she said. It wouldn’t be long before a cop or security guard would be patrolling the area.
“Your bro told me all about you,” Juan continued, stepping closer. “That you’re a do-gooder. So I don’t think you have it in you.”
She briefly glanced at Willem before meeting Juan’s black eyes. The streetlamp gave his face a putrid orange tint. “I have what you want.”
“Let’s see it.”
“I don’t have it here,” she lied, the envelope burning a hole in her back. “I want your word he’ll be safe.” She looked at Willem, who appeared to be panicking at the direction this was headed. “And I want your word this is it. No more empty promises, Will. We’re leaving, far from here.”
“Beth—”
“See, Beth,” Juan cut in, now putting his arm around her own shoulders. Surprisingly, all she smelled on him was cologne. The expensive-smelling kind. “I don’t think I can let you take my boy Will here. He may be used up, but he’s my best boy. He’s got hookups—”
“That’s the deal,” she insisted, keeping her steely eyes on his. “I get my brother, you get your money.”
Juan laughed. “Beth, Beth, Beth. I need Will. You know why I need Will? I need him because he needs you. And for all this unnecessary grief you’re giving me, I’m upping the price.”
Will shook his head as though he’d expected it, and Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “Like hell you are. I have what you asked for, far more than he owes you. That’s all you’re getting.” She grabbed Will’s hand, which resisted. “Will, let’s get out of here.”
In a quick movement, Juan pulled a hefty-looking gun from behind his back, at least a .40 caliber. He pointed it at her and she let go of Will’s hand. “Will, tell her what you told me,” he said, locking eyes with her.
“I—I…”
“Fine, I’ll tell her for you. Your brother sold you out, sis. See, just minutes before you got here, we were discussing our deal. He said you’re sitting fat with the rich man. I don’t think you have the stones to steal from him, but he says you’d do anything for him. Isn’t that right, Will?”
Elizabeth only swallowed. She wasn’t sure what he was getting at.
Juan chuckled. “He promised me you’d have the money here. But you don’t. And I hate”—he blinked heavily for emphasis—“being lied to, sis.”
“Juan,” Will jumped in, lifting his hands. “Just put the gun down, man. I told you she’s good for it.”
“You also told me she could get more.”
Elizabeth’s eyes shot to her brother. “What?”
Juan’s brow lifted in amusement. “He said we could make some kind of business deal. It’s simple. You pay me the hundred, plus a decent monthly fee, and I let Will here off his debts.”
Elizabeth ground her teeth. When she took another step, Juan shoved the barrel into her chest. In that moment, the gun meant nothing. “Who the hell do you think you are? God? He will be cleared of his debts with the money I have.”
“Oh, now you have it?” His eyes scanned her deliberately. “Where, sis?” He reached a greedy hand to her hip and felt up her ribs. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Here?”
She hit his hand away.
“Beth, just agree to the deal,” Will said. “I promise I’ll—”
“No more promises, Will!” In the distance, behind Juan, headlights appeared. She looked back to Juan. “You’ll get the money you wanted, but nothing more. It’s all I can get. But I won’t get it for you until you agree to leave it at that”
Juan stepped back and lowered the gun. He studied her, shifting his jaw, and for a hopeful moment, she actually thought he would accept her offer. But then, in an unfitting calmness, he said, “You didn’t come with the money, like you agreed. And now you think you can call the shots?” And before she even heard the last word, he lifted the gun and shot Willem in the chest. She jumped, feeling the vibration of the blast for what felt like hours.
She didn’t think it was real until Willem gasped and fell against the gazebo’s pillars. “Will!” she cried, catching him in her arms. The warp-warp of a police siren sounded somewhere in the distance, but she didn’t realize until later that it had come from the approaching vehicle she’d seen only seconds before, behind Juan. And if it wasn’t for that cop, she was sure Juan would have shot her next.
Instead he ran. Vaguely, she was aware of him cussing while leaping over the railing, just as the car flashing blue and red pulled sharply to the curb and two officers jumped out.
What happened in the background faded as Elizabeth fell to her knees and cradled Willem in her arms. He couldn’t inhale without choking and she laid his head in her lap. “Shh,” she hushed, holding one hand firmly on the hole in his chest and running her other over his moist, velvet-feeling head. “It’s all right. I’m here.” Her heart hammered at a rate she didn’t think was possible, making everything spin. Her stomach rose again, but she held it back. She had to be strong. Always strong.
“Beth,” he barely managed, that same panic in his eyes. Blood began pooling in the corners of his mouth and he coughed. The swelling in her chest began, telling her she was going to lose it—that she was going to explode from years of built-up tears. But a strange and almost maddening peace came over her instead, calming her. Calming her for Will. “Beth, I’m—”
“Shh.” Her voice cracked and she put more pressure on his chest, where blood appeared to drown them both. “I’m sorry, Will. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”
“No one cou—” He choked on blood, coughing more into the air. “No one could save me.”
“Ma’am.” She twisted to find an officer.
“Get help!” she shouted at him.
“An RA unit’s already on its way.”
