THE KILLER
Claudia had a cramp in her upper back. Lifting her arms slightly, she shifted, rolling her shoulders and rounding her spine, then arched it, trying to work the muscles. Fuck. With her luck, Bell would walk in the suite, and Claudia would be in the middle of a spasm.
It was the small space of this closet. She should have gone under the bed instead. Laid down on that plush rug and waited there. She tried twisting in place, and one elbow bumped painfully against the wall of the coat closet. She debated about moving, but this was, after touring the entire apartment, the best bet. With the door opened just a small crack, she would be able to see Bell’s movements. Not in the kitchen, but as soon as she walked into the living room or headed to the bedroom, she’d have a clear view. She could lift the gun and finish this all.
And, if Bell Hartley wasn’t alone … if Dario Capece was with her? Claudia could just stay in place. She’d spent ten months in Robert Hawk’s cell. That had taught her how to sit tight and wait. Eventually, the man would go to the bathroom, or take a shower, or fall asleep. Eventually, there would be an opening.
Besides, that second scenario wasn’t likely. Dario had taken Gwen to dinner. They’d be back in their suite. He’d be telling her lies and pretending to love her.
Claudia heard something and stopped, mid-stretch of her neck. She cocked her ear toward the door, listening.
There was the soft swoosh of a door against the tile. Shoes slapped quietly across the floor. The front door closed. It was the quiet movements of a single individual. She smiled and carefully leaned forward, looking through the crack, unable to see her.
A drawer slammed. Silverware rattled, and she raised her gun, a bullet already in the chamber. Footsteps moved, and then Bell was passing by the closet, coming into view. The girl stopped, facing away from Claudia, and pulled a phone from her back pocket. Easing the door open, she tightened her grip on the pistol, lifting the gun and lining up the glossy brunette head in its sights.
An obsession with her cell phone would be her demise. A fitting end to a girl determined to ruin the Hawk dynasty. Claudia exhaled, paused, and tightened her trigger finger, following the training of Robert Hawk.
She had a moment of guilt, a moment of gratitude that the woman was facing away from her, the damage unseen, and then the gun snapped back in a clean, perfect shot. The back of Bell’s head exploded, and it was all over for her.
Thirty-Two
THE WINNER
Bell Hartley slumped, the majority of her head destroyed by the bullet, and fell forward, her body sprawling.
Claudia had done it. She had killed. Saved Gwen’s marriage. Pleased Robert Hawk. Secured her spot in their family. She turned her head toward the front of the suite, listening to see if there was any aftermath, any rush of feet, or shouts. Silence. Dead silence. She stepped from the closet and carefully closed it with one gloved hand.
Reaching into her back pocket, she pulled out the thin paper bag and dropped the gun inside, her mind working through all of the instructions from Robert Hawk.
Leave the gun. She placed the bag in the middle of the foyer, in a place it wouldn’t be missed. Done. Steps quick, she pulled the front door open, her exit from the suite completed in less than a minute. Claudia used the code for the exterior stairwell and jogged down six flights of stairs, exiting onto the main parking garage and unlocking her car.
Less than a minute later, she was on the Strip and gunning the engine, heading toward Robert.
She smiled at the thought of his reaction and how happy and proud he would be.
“Pass this test, and I’ll set up a dinner, just the two of my girls. How would you like that?”
Just the two of my girls. Just the way it always should have been.
* * *
BELL
My phone dinged as I pulled into the garage. Putting the car into park, I let it idle, digging through my purse and pulling out my cell. Dario’s name was on the display, and I opened his text.
—Go in, get undressed and wait on the bed.
I smirked. Bossy man. I read the instructions a second time, my body already tightening in anticipation. I shot back a response.
walking in now
I turned off the car and opened the door, grabbing my bag and stepping out, the garage eerily cool and quiet. Locking the doors, I glanced around for a moment, feeling the same crawl of unease that had hit me in the Taco Bell. There, it was ridiculous, the restaurant crowded, no danger in sight. But here …. I listened for the echo of shoes against the floor, but only heard a squeak of tires, a few floors down. Taking a last look around, I entered my code and unlocked the door, moving through the hall and into the suite.
The lights were on, and I almost tripped over the bag, one left in the middle of the floor, just inside the front door. Picking it up, I reached inside, surprised to feel something hard. I stepped into the kitchen, where the light was better and looked inside. It was a gun, my gun. I reached inside and pulled it out, confused. In the light, I saw the differences. It was an S&W, not a Glock, this one a bit beefier than mine. I lifted my purse and placed it on the counter, my curiosity causing me to open the neck of it and verify that my own gun was inside. Yep. I looked back at the new weapon and grabbed my phone to text Dario. Maybe it was his. Though… why had he left it in the middle of the foyer?
I turned, stepping on the back of one shoe and lifting my heel, working off the tennis shoe. I flipped my foot forward and the Nike flew through the air and toward—
I stopped. The sole of a tennis shoe was exposed, a bit of an ankle showing before dark jeans began. It was all I could see, the wall hiding the rest of the scene. Someone was in the living room. Lying facedown. Unmoving. My tossed Nike hit the edge of the couch and the person didn’t flinch or react in any way.
I choked back a scream as my brain warred between stepping backward or forward. In three steps, I could be at the door, twisting the handle and escaping. Three steps in the opposite direction and I would know what, or who, was attached to the rest of that shoe.
I glanced between the gun, the paper bag, and the shoe. My breaths shortened and panic flared.
The door clicked and I spun to face it.
* * *
DARIO
I pushed the door open, and she was in the foyer, her phone in hand, her face pale. I smiled, ready to chastise her for not being naked and waiting. But the look on her face, the panic that only intensified when she saw me … I stepped forward and shut the door. “What’s wrong?”
She didn’t respond, didn’t do anything but turn toward the kitchen, her hands gripping the edge of the counter, her weight heavy on it, her breathing hard. “The living room. I can’t—”
She can’t. She can’t … what? He turned and saw the bottom of an Adidas cross-trainer. A shoe he knew. A shoe he jogged behind in Colorado, her legs pumping up a mountainside, her breath easy as he wheezed, her laugh floating down at him. A shoe he had kicked out of the way too many times, her messy habits the sort that leave clothes in the middle of hallways, and don’t expect anyone to trip over them. A shoe that had been pulled on in stiff silence, laced up with short angry jerks, and all but stomped out of their home less than an hour ago.
Gwen.
He fell to his knees and crawled forward, calling her name, knowing, even as he rounded the corner, what he would find. Blood.
Blood, a coiled mess of it, drenching her dark brown hair. Specks of it on the grey sweater, the wood floor. He scrambled toward her, praying aloud, his hands clawing at her body, pulling her into his arms. She rolled toward him, her limbs limp, her features slack.
“Oh God. Gwen…”
He sobbed in a way he hadn’t done since he was a child. He hurt in a way he never had in his life. He clung to her, hugged her to his chest, his hand cupping at the wet, damaged back of her head, and pressed a kiss, then a dozen kisses to her face.
She didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t react. Her mouth didn’t curve int
o the smile that he loved, her eyes didn’t lift, and her chest stayed still.
* * *
BELL
I couldn’t see what was happening in the living room, I couldn’t will myself to move, to step forward, to know. But I didn’t have to see. I could hear everything. I could hear the rustle, the scrape, the cry of his voice, the gasps, the shudder of syllables.
It was Gwen. He called her name over and over. Begged her to wake up. Told her he loved her. Told her he was sorry.
It was Gwen. Dead.
I lowered myself to the floor, my legs trembling, my knees pulling to my chest, my arms wrapping around them. I closed my eyes, blocking out the view of her foot, which now lay sideways, and moved a little in response to something that Dario was doing. I blocked out sight and thought, and only heard sounds.
The sounds of Dario breaking. The sounds of everything between us shattering.
It was ridiculous to think of myself right then. Crazy for me to have any thought in my head other than his grief and the realization that a woman was dead. A woman I didn’t know, but one that Vegas had loved and respected. I shouldn’t have been thinking of anything except her, and how I could help him.
I shouldn’t have thought of us, but I did. I held my knees tightly, listened to him whisper her name, and felt tears leak down my cheeks.
I cried out of guilt.
I cried out of fear.
I cried because, with all of this, I didn’t see a future for us.
* * *
He finally stopped. No more soft cries of Gwen’s name. No more whispers of apologies. He stopped, and there was the creak of floorboards, and he came around the corner and stood there, looking at me. I lifted my head and wiped my fingers underneath my eyes.
“How long have you been here? Since you texted me?”
I nodded, mute. His voice was cold, a complete change from the man who had just broken into pieces at the sight of her body.
His eyes moved over the room, taking in details and zeroing in on the kitchen counter. The gun. I pushed off the floor and to my feet.
“Is that yours?”
He was terrifying in this moment. Not in his emotion, but in his calm fury, the controlled cadence of his speech, the emotionlessness of his words.
I shook my head. Wet my tongue. Found my speech. “No. It was in that bag…” I gestured to the paper bag, still sitting on the counter. “The bag was right inside the front door. I almost tripped over it. I picked it up.”
“And you touched the gun.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t touch anything else.”
He walked over and looked at the gun. Looked back at the living room. “Fucking hell.” He stared down at the gun, and I tried to figure out what he was thinking. I stepped closer and he held up his hand.
“Don’t come near me.”
I swallowed, panic welling at the curt tone and the way he moved, just a fraction of a step, away from me.
“This looks bad. This looks fucking bad.”
I couldn’t stop my head from turning, from looking at her shoe. Only now, in my new position, I saw more—her body, half-curled on its side. I closed my eyes and wondered if I would ever forget that image.
Is love worth a death? Is our love… this affair? I forced myself to look back at her, to understand the loss of life that I—we—caused.
Then, a second thought occurred to me. One I should have figured out the minute I saw her shoe. In ‘my’ suite. Her dark mess of bloody brunette hair.
“Did she… was I…” I couldn’t find the words, form the thought, complete the question. Was that supposed to be me, slumped on the floor, one leg awkwardly bent?
Am I supposed to be dead right now instead of her?
Dario ignored me. He pulled out his cell phone, dialed a number and lifted the phone to his ear.
“This is Dario Capece.” He spoke firmly, a man in control, a voice that gave me hope.
“I need an officer to Suite 908 of The Majestic. I’ll have security meet you at the front desk and escort you up. There’s been a murder.”
His eyes met mine.
“The victim was Bell Hartley.”
* * *
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Acknowledgments
With my first novel, I was alone on an island. Now, I have a tribe of many. While I don’t use the same team on every novel, I would be remiss if I didn’t reach out and thank the following individuals:
To Natasha, Marion and Madison - thank you for reading endless drafts, critiquing characters and plot points, and letting me pick and shift through your feedback. As you all know, I am a terrible first-drafter, and I appreciate you helping this baby to grow from its weak roots and into the beautiful creature it now is.
To Perla, Janice and Erik - thank you for combing every line, paragraph and page break and making this manuscript as error-free as possible. I wince and laugh every time I see the near-calamities that you catch.
To Tricia Crouch - Thank you for reading every single draft, for proofing endless Radish episodes, and for talking me through the rough spots and off the ledges. I love you!
To Joey - Thank you for the inspiration, the back rubs and advice. Thank you for distracting me when I needed it and supporting me when I holed up in my office and worked. I love you more than anything on this earth.
About the Author
Alessandra Torre is an award-winning New York Times bestselling author of seventeen novels. Torre has been featured in such publications as Elle and Elle UK, as well as guest blogged for the Huffington Post and RT Book Reviews. She is also the Bedroom Blogger for Cosmopolitan.com. In addition to writing, Alessandra is the creator of Alessandra Torre Ink, a website, community, and online school for aspiring authors.
Learn more about Alessandra at alessandratorre.com or join 40,000 readers and sign up for her popular monthly newsletter at nextnovel.com.
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