by Rien Gray
He scrambles out of my reach, back against the wall and hands up. I level my pistol at his chest, emptying my expression. “Where do you think you’re going? There aren’t any windows in here, and only one door.”
“I wanted to see your face,” Richard huffs, “when I ask if you fucked my wife.”
How serendipitous. “Yes, I did. Happy?”
Jealousy, no matter how unjustified, makes people do very stupid things. He lunges for me, trying a football-style tackle his body could have borne twenty years back. I turn in line with the impact, letting Richard sail past me. Tripping him would have made the recovery easier, but a broken nose or busted teeth would take more time to hide than I have left.
He stumbles into his own desk, and the barrel of my pistol against the back of Richard’s neck stops him from turning around again. “Time to go downstairs.”
“Go to hell!” It’s practically a snarl, but he’s all bark and no bite.
“Do you want me to tell you how good I was to her? Or should we get the rest of this over with?”
Richard’s bravado collapses. It’s about time for the “acceptance” part of grief to kick in, even if he’s been bouncing like a pinball around the other stages. “Fine. Just do it.”
“This is on my clock, not yours.” I give him a little push with the gun. “Downstairs. Now.”
Technically, I could shoot him. Staging a smash-and-grab type of robbery isn’t difficult, but there’s always an investigation. It’s the type of crime that gets weeks of news attention in a neighborhood like this, attention Justine would have to weather without showing a single sign of anything amiss. That’s not what she paid me for, and…
It’s not what I want for her.
Richard takes each step like he’s made of lead, but we get back down to the kitchen without any fuss. I sit him down at the table, then pull his bottle of sildenafil out of my pants pocket and place it in front of him.
“What’s your poison?” I ask. “Eighty-proof or higher.”
He frowns. “You’re going to make me drink?”
“I’d prefer if I didn’t have to make you because that way involves a tube and some awful pressure.” Not to mention a mess, but the cops stop looking hard when a case appears self-inflicted. “Time’s up, Richard.”
“There’s some scotch above the stove.”
After the trick he tried to pull with the letter, I don’t trust him to go and get it himself. This is Richard’s best chance to run, but his eyes are locked on the pills as I snag the bottle. Johnnie Walker, narrow and half-full. I wonder if he’s calculating the potential for overdose as we speak. That part is irrelevant.
I made sure to lace the sildenafil with something that won’t show up on a single test, thanks to the scotch. I’d love to count on the drug-alcohol interaction alone, but they’re not so reliable, especially when height and weight factor in.
The glass clinks on the table when I set it down next to the pills. “All right, now we party.”
“You’re a sick freak,” Richard mutters.
I place the pistol back in its comfortable resting place against his temple. “I’m offering you booze or a bullet. By my standards, I’m being incredibly nice.”
He uncaps the scotch and guzzles down a shot’s worth before fumbling the meds open, sending a couple of them flying across the table. I leave them; there’s more than enough for the dose to kill him, and the scene will look more natural after the fact.
Richard grimaces as he mashes the pills into his mouth. It has to be bitter, and cheap scotch won’t help that. He glares at me the entire time as if expecting a drop of sympathy, like he expects my conscience to kick in at the last second. I’m more concerned about time than anything else; my plan in his office had a much wider window.
By the third handful, he starts to twitch. I take a step back, not wanting to get the mess that ensues on my suit. Something slurred and nonsensical is spit my way, and Richard slams his fist hard on the table. It topples the prescription bottle, sending a few more blue pills dancing across polished wood.
When foam rises to his lips, I count the seconds. At five, Richard nearly tumbles out of his chair, but at ten, he goes face-first against the table with a dull thud. One more ragged, desperate breath leaves him, and it’s over.
I holster my pistol, then check the envelope he gave me. It’s not sealed, but the papers inside come out clean and crisp. They’re a collection of account numbers and listed donations, with several circled in pen, and a note written at the very bottom.
Every donor you rope in, I’ll send 10 percent. Don’t fuck it up.—M.S.
“Thanks for the paper trail, Schafer.” I pry Richard’s cooling hand up off the table and slip the sheets under it, using his fingers to form a loose grip around their edge. By the time rigor sets, they’ll be like stone.
Now all I have to do is leave and never look back. All Justine has to do is listen to me.
I wish one of those things weren’t true.
Chapter Fifteen
JUSTINE
It’s been a month since Richard’s funeral.
I still have a picture of him on my desk because people would talk if I didn’t. Calls and emails keep filtering in from obscure branches of our respective families, complete strangers sending me condolences for a man most of them never met. My mother flew down and stayed for two weeks to make sure I wasn’t alone in the house.
She asked if I’d move back with her and my father. I refused, as gently as I could. After the first few nervous nights, I started to sleep so well I needed a second alarm to ensure I made it to work on time.
The anxiety wasn’t about Richard or even the police. A nice detective spent two weeks investigating me before telling me they were looking into Dr. Schafer since he went missing the day after Richard’s death went public. I played my part, shocked, asking if he thought Schafer was responsible.
I don’t mean to sound callous, ma’am, but going by the autopsy, your husband killed himself. If it turns out Schafer pushed him to it, that’s one thing, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up.
I had to fight every instinct to smile. He thought I was worried about the insurance money; the police really didn’t have the first clue.
Except neither did I, not when it came to Campbell. Night after night, I expected them to come for me and take the last breath trapped in my lungs, but they didn’t. What they said about Richard must have been true, which means I could have stayed. I could have touched them longer, had a few more secret hours that only belonged to us.
Maybe after Richard, there could have been an “us.”
It’s a dangerous line of thought, or just sentimental, maybe. I barely got to know Campbell, but even a glimpse proved how well we could fit together, given the chance. Except I might have burned my only chance away.
Last week, I tried calling the number I used to hire them. It’s been disconnected.
“Justine?” Dalia pokes her head into my office. “There’s a woman here to see you.”
“To see me?” I frown, glancing at the little digital calendar on my screen. My next appointment isn’t until Friday. “Is she one of our clients?”
“No, but—” Dalia’s voice drops down to a low murmur. “—she looks loaded. I’d entertain her, even if she’s not on the books.”
The gallery can always use more patrons, and any connections to new suppliers and artists are valuable. It’s not like I’m doing anything but daydreaming about Campbell anyway. That, and resisting the urge to slam the picture on my desk facedown.
“Send her in.”
Dalia winks at me, then disappears back into the hall. I hear the soft click of heels before I see them, and a woman with blonde hair in a tight ponytail steps into view. Her skirt and jacket are tailored to her perfectly in a calming gray that immediately puts my mind elsewhere. The faint chime of a bracelet on her wrist brings me back. While her jewelry is subtle, it’s also explosively expensive. “Loaded” is an understat
ement.
“Justine Fortin?” the woman asks.
I can’t wait to take my last name back. “Yes. Who are—”
“Sofia Cattaneo, Cattaneo and Associates.” She smiles, sparkling and professional. “Could I borrow a dollar from you?”
I don’t know a lot of lawyers who collect art. “A dollar?”
“Any form of currency will do, technically, but I’ve found it’s the easiest way to go about this.” Sofia’s smile doesn’t move a centimeter; she barely blinks.
I’ve done stranger things for clients with less visible wealth. Searching my purse, I find a dollar at the bottom and offer it to her. Sofia takes the bill, folds it over, and tucks it inside the pocket of her suit jacket. Then she turns to close my office door and sets the lock in place.
“Excellent.” Her smile is less plastic now, more pleased. “Congratulations, Justine. You’re now my client. You’re as smart as they said you were.”
Client? “Listen, I don’t need a lawyer. Whatever you think I’ve done or—”
They.
I fall quiet, and the friendly facade drops from Sofia’s face.
“Campbell sent me.”
My first instinct is that she’s an assassin, too, that this is where it all ends, but logic intervenes when I draw in a slow breath. Dalia saw Sofia come in here, and there’s no excusable accident that could happen in a minute flat. I suppose she could just shoot me and leave, but…
Lawyer. Campbell mentioned a lawyer the night we met.
“They’re your client too,” I say.
Sofia’s smile returns. “Legally, yes, although I’d dare to call us friends as long as they were out of earshot.”
So why is Campbell’s lawyer standing in the middle of my office, chaining me into privileged communication?
“Ms. Cattaneo—”
“Call me Sofia, please.” Her eyes search my face, like a shark scenting blood. No wonder the two of them get along so well. “Campbell wants to talk to you, Justine. Alone. Elsewhere.”
After a month of kicking myself, I’m hard-pressed to believe it. “Why? What about?”
“They didn’t tell me that much. When I’m asked for a favor, I try not to interrogate unless there’s a body involved.”
So she does know what Campbell does, without pretense or concern. That could have made me jealous, but honestly, it’s comforting. I don’t have to dance around the question sitting heavy on the back of my tongue.
“Do you think they’re going to kill me?” I ask.
Sofia laughs. “Oh, it’s definitely not that. If it was, I’d be very upset with them. Campbell knows not to mix their day job with mine.”
It’s a second chance, one I hadn’t even dared to fantasize about. “When and where?”
She pulls out a folded note from the same pocket where my dollar was stashed and hands it to me between two fingers. I open it, and my heart trips. Two words are written below a time and an address.
You’re safe.
I am. I’m safe from Richard because he’s dead, and from the police because Campbell did their job so well that detective barely paid attention while questioning me. They left me alone, untouched, even though I could have given up their name. I could have given up everything.
“I’ll be there.” My throat tightens; I fold the note closed again. “Thank you.”
“What else are friends for?” Sofia turns to leave and pops open the lock on my door. “Just don’t be late. They hate that.”
I was late that day at the coffee shop. Heat rushes up my face. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She disappears into the hall, and I shoot a text to Dalia, letting her know I’m leaving right at five. I spend the next hour cleaning out my inbox and checking every possible thing off my to-do list. Some of it is to pass the time; the rest is to burn through the energy trapped under my skin, sparking every time I think about seeing Campbell again.
I’m in my car at 5:01, driving toward the address listed on the note. It’s not far, about ten minutes, and an empty parking garage is the only thing on the street. After turning into the first space I see, I kill the engine and get out, searching the dull frame of concrete for any sign of them. A single yellow light is the only illumination, casting everything around it in shadow as the sun sets.
“Justine.”
A scream catches tight in my throat. I swallow it back and turn to face Campbell, who is leaning back against a smooth gray column like they’d been there the whole time. Maybe they were.
Campbell smiles. “You’re early.”
“Sofia told me you weren’t a fan of tardiness.” My heartbeat should have slowed with my fading surprise, but they’re too close. How can I possibly relax? “She’s razor-sharp, by the way. I can see why you like her.”
“I hate to ask Sofia for favors, but showing my face at the gallery was out of the question.” Their eyes lock on mine. “I already had to wait a month to make sure the police weren’t trying to sniff me out.”
“I didn’t say anything to them,” I blurt out. “I promise.”
They nod. “That part I already knew. It’s not why I came to see you.”
“Then why…” No, I don’t want to ask that question. Not yet. “I’m sorry, Campbell. Seeing those notes scared the hell out of me.”
“Of course they did.” Discomfort flickers across their face; it’s not an emotion I’ve seen from them before. “You were right to be afraid. If Richard had paid me, I would have killed you.”
The truth presses against my skin like a thorn, threatening to draw blood. “Thanks for being honest, I guess.”
“But I would have regretted it,” Campbell adds, voice soft. “You’re everything I want.”
Please tell me that means what I think it does. “Want? In the present tense?”
With fluid steps, they close the distance between us until their face is a mere inch from mine. “In every tense. Past, present, future. I’m in love with you.”
The confession stuns me. I know how well Campbell can lie. I know every awful thing they can do, but the look in their eyes is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. It’s raw, completely exposed.
Words. I need words.
“I’m in love with you too,” I whisper, and it feels right. It feels true. It’s why this last month has been absolute hell without them, but I’m still not sure what that means for us. “Is that why you came back?”
Another nod; longing twists around me like a ribbon. “I wanted to give you a chance to move on. It’s hard to think things through when you’re hypnotized by each other, and after what happened…”
“And just let you be a one-night stand?” Two, but that’s splitting hairs. “You’ve already given me everything Richard never could.”
Campbell frowns. “You should want more than that. He treated you like shit.”
“Well…” They’re not wrong, but I’m still not sure how to change my answer. “What am I supposed to want?”
“That’s up to you.” The tension between their brows fades. “Besides me, make a list. If your life could have anything in it, if you could be anything, what would it be like?”
I wasn’t expecting this meeting to come with an existential crisis, but Campbell wouldn’t have asked if they didn’t truly want to know. So I take a few minutes to think about it, putting my perfect world together piece by piece.
“I’d be an artist, painting every day.” Even the fantasy makes me sigh. “I’d always be traveling, taking inspiration from whatever I saw, whoever I met. I would never have to settle again, not for anything less.”
Campbell’s eyes light up. “Now that I can give you.”
“What?” I laugh; I have to. “You’re not serious.”
“The fifty thousand you gave me is in my car. Now, you have two choices: Either I can give you back the money and you spend it putting that dream together, or you come with me. I’ll handle the travel, and that cash goes to whatever you want it to.”
&nb
sp; “Come with you?” The fact that Campbell wants to give me the payment back, regardless, sends me reeling; their second offer dazes me completely. “How is that even possible?”
“I travel for work every few weeks, going around the world wherever I’m needed.” They hum, amused. “There’s no shortage of people that others want dead, Justine.”
Richard was awful, but he certainly wasn’t unique. “Where would you take me first, then?”
Campbell tilts their head. They’re so close, close enough to kiss. “I can’t tell you that unless you say yes. But there are plenty of beautiful places and people to paint; that, I promise.”
My throat tightens. I’m being offered paradise on a silver platter, which is why I have one thing left to ask.
“Would you have really killed me if Richard had paid your fee?” Guilt falls over Campbell like a shroud, dark and all-consuming. Still, I wait for them to speak.
“That’s a complicated question.”
“Spell it out for me,” I say.
“If I hadn’t met you a second time at dinner, if all I’d known about you was what he told me before I made my move…yes.” They sigh, but Campbell’s shoulders relax, as though telling me the truth is a relief, no matter how painful. “But then you called to hire me, too, and I suddenly had so many questions. Sofia told me right after you signed the contract that something was up with his payment.”
So they gave up on killing me before we even had sex. “But, Campbell…”
“I should have told you,” they interrupt, “but I didn’t want to ruin what we had. How would you be able to trust me, to touch me, if you knew what I’d planned to do?”
I wouldn’t have. It wouldn’t have made any sense, not then.
“And I knew that,” Campbell continues. “It was selfish. Monstrous. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I’d never been with anyone who knew about what I do, who I am, and didn’t run at the first opportunity. I’m sorry.”
When they first apologized to me, weeks ago, I’d been caught off guard, but this apology floods me with relief. I know Campbell means it. With Richard, getting any kind of concession made forgiving him feel like poison, but not with Campbell.