heart attack.
“What’s her color? Can she speak?”
“She’s pale, and, yes, she can talk. Please get someone here fast,” he said.
“Are you applying pressure to the wound?”
“Yes, I think so. I’m doing my best.”
“They’re on the way. Stay with me,” the dispatcher said.
“Stay with me,” Tori echoed. “Please stay with me.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Darius said, gently touching her shoulder. “Hang on. You’ll be fine.”
He wasn’t sure if he was unintentionally lying or hoping for the best. With the spatter of blood drenching her nightgown, it was hard to say just what her chances were.
CHAPTER TWO
Seattle, Washington
Lainie O’Neal awoke as the clock app on her iPhone rolled like an old-school digital alarm clock to 3:00 A.M. She drew in a breath and held it a moment before exhaling. It was an exercise that was supposed to return her to slumber. Once more. Please. Her eyes were wide open and the pinprick of light coming from the slit in the window shade found her like a searchlight’s beam. Spring rain pelted the window.
Why now? Why can’t I sleep? She took another breath. Something felt wrong. Lainie just couldn’t get comfortable. She flipped the pillow over and over, on the hunt for the cool side. As if that would matter. Lainie shut her eyes with a decided force, almost a wincing action, which she knew was more than needed. Although the bedroom was chilly, she kicked her covers to the floor.
Whenever the first indication of insomnia hit her, as it had the night before, a twinge of panic came with it. She was never sure if the dreaded sleeplessness would last a night or a week. Maybe longer? She’d been through counseling. She’d seen a doctor. In fact, she’d seen two. Nothing worked. She sat up and threw her legs over the edge of the bed. She cradled her face in her hands.
Lainie knew the reason for her insomnia, and no counselor or doctor could quite grasp what was so obvious to her.
For the past several days, she’d been thinking about Tori. More than usual. It was as if her twin sister wouldn’t let her sleep. It was as if the twin she hadn’t seen for years had her hand on her shoulders, shaking Lainie as she tried to fall toward that desperate and dark space.
I’m not going to let you. You better listen to me.
She went to the medicine cabinet, took an Ambien, and looked inside the pill bottle.
Only one more.
She checked the date. She had a week more on the prescription. She’d have to resort to an over-the-counter sleep aid to get her through refill time.
She drank some water and set down the paper cup.
The mirror swung shut, and the haggard face that met her gaze belonged to another.
Tori.
She shook her head, turned away, and looked back at the mirror.
She blinked. It was her own face.
Lainie steadied herself a moment.
Me.
She padded back to her tousled bed, hoping that the pill would work its magic and send her to the restful place she needed.
And not, she prayed, to the nightmares that visited her all too often.
Ten minutes later, the lid of darkness shut over her supine body.
Setting the stage was as crucial as it was easy. All one had to do was think like a crime scene investigator or a cop. Maybe a little like a nosy mother-in-law. The woman pondering that scenario had had a few of those to contend with, too. Ultimately, she knew that no detail was too frivolous. Even the mundane had to be considered, very carefully. The point of setting the stage was to ensure that she was in the final act.
The act that had her getting everything she ever wanted.
The plasma screen over the fireplace was playing The O’Reilly Factor. The man glued to the TV loved the political commentator’s take on politics, business, and culture. He even drank from a “Culture Warrior” ceramic mug.
The woman considered the TV analyst an insufferable blowhard.
A chime from a grandfather clock sounded.
The woman felt the chill of the air from an open window as she stood nude behind the sofa.
“Babe, how about a piece of that pie?” he said, his eyes fixed on the screen.
“Right here,” she said.
Yet there was no pie.
She put the barrel of the pistol to the back of his head and fired. Blood spurted like from a stomped-on ketchup packet. Specks of red dotted her glove-covered arm. There was likely more blood than she could see with the naked eye, but that was fine. She knew how to handle it. She’d planned for it. He gurgled a little, but it wasn’t the sound of a man fighting for his life. That was over. It was the sound of air oozing from his trachea. He slumped over.
She made her way to the shower, which was already running. She pulled off the glove and set it inside a trash can lined with plastic. The water was ice cold by then. Even for her, it had taken considerable effort to summon the nerves to do what she had wanted to do.
Gunfire was messy.
Blowback is hell.
Spatter matters.
And only time will tell.
It was a kind of verse that she’d conjured that moment, and she allowed a smile to cross her lips as the icy water poured over her. She looked down at her legs, long, lovely. Flawless.
But not for long.
The water had gone from crimson to pink to clear, swirling down the drain between her painted toes. She turned off the shower and reached for a towel. As she patted her face dry she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
Still lovely. Still rich. Even more so at that very moment than she’d ever been in her life.
She poked her arms through the sleeves of a sheer white nightgown and let the filmy fabric tumble down her body. This was part of setting the stage. Her augmented breasts—not freakishly so, just enough to arouse a man when she needed to—would protrude only slightly. She’d act modest and embarrassed, but if the cops on the scene were under fifty, they’d be looking where they shouldn’t.
A distraction. One of many.
She poured a plastic cup of bleach down the shower drain and ran the water while she counted to ten.
Taking
