A View to a Kill

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  A thousand times yes.

  “Hasn’t he been staying with Ruby the last couple of nights?”

  “Yeah, it’s just—”

  “You don’t have to explain. I saw what she did today. Everyone did.”

  “It’s more than just today,” he said. “I’m not comfortable with what’s happening when she’s with him.”

  She took a sip of her tea. It was cold. Stale. She swallowed it back anyway, set the cup down on an end table. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

  “I caught Ruby trying to force Jacob to talk ... to open up.”

  “He’s so young. I’m sure he’s just confused. It’s a lot to process. It can’t be easy for him to understand what’s going on at his age.”

  Roman raised a brow, indicating she’d missed something. “Wait—you don’t know, do you?”

  “Don’t know what?”

  “She’s not trying to get him to talk for the sake of talking.”

  He was right. She was missing something. Something big.

  “What else would she be doing?”

  “Trying to get information,” he said.

  “About what?”

  “You know Jacob was with Evie when she died, right?”

  “I do. My father told me.”

  “What no one is talking about, what most people don’t know is ... Jacob isn’t talking.”

  “You mean he hasn’t said whether or not he saw anything or remembers anything?”

  “I mean, he’s not talking period,” he said. “Hasn’t said a single word since his mother died.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Quinn hovered in the doorway of the bedroom in her parents’ guest apartment, watched Jacob’s chest rise and fall. Every few minutes, he sucked rapid gasps of air through his lungs like his body was experiencing a spasm. It probably was. After rocking him for a solid hour, he’d finally succumbed to sleep. How long it would last, she didn’t know. She only knew she would be there when his eyes opened again.

  Jacob still hadn’t uttered a single word, and she wouldn’t push him. If what Roman said was true—if Jacob watched his mother die, if he saw who did it—she couldn’t imagine the boy’s torment. Part of her didn’t want him to sleep at all, fearing the only dream awaiting him was the same kind of hellish nightmare she’d lived through a short time ago in her hospital room. Except Jacob’s nightmare wouldn’t mirror hers. His would likely be filled with flashes of his mother’s final moments. Flashes Quinn wished she could erase from his mind forever.

  Questions ran wild inside her mind. Had Evie seen her attacker before she was shot? Had she known someone wanted her dead? If so, why wouldn’t she have told anyone about it? Who would want to murder Evie, and why? And possibly the biggest query of them all—would there be a second victim? A third? If the killer wasn’t caught, would the murders continue, or had Evie’s death been personal, driven by a reason Quinn didn’t know? And even more confusing—why had Jacob been left unharmed? Had the killer seen him? Felt some sort of compassion?

  Quinn still couldn’t take it all in. Couldn’t accept it. Didn’t understand. Even harder to swallow was knowing the man responsible was out there somewhere, in the wind. Free to murder again. Anytime. Anywhere.

  With exception to a few unusual incidents over the years, Cody had always been considered a happy, restful town. Safe and protected from the outside world like it was inside its own impenetrable bubble. People left their front doors unlocked, keys inside the ignitions of their cars. They even kept their vehicles running in the winter while they took their time wandering the aisles at one of the local grocery stores.

  Now residents were on high alert. Quinn could see it in their faces. Not fear. Fear was for sissies. Fear didn’t exist in the rugged, tough-as-nails state of Wyoming. Something else—a deep-rooted, vengeful indignation. The man responsible for Evie’s death was a damned fool. He’d messed with the wrong town, and the wrong kind of people.

  In Cody, a town named after one of its creators, William Frederick Cody (more commonly known as Buffalo Bill), townspeople banded together. The sound of firearms being prepped reverberated a fierce warning from one corner of town to the other. Maybe it wouldn’t be today, and maybe it wouldn’t be tomorrow, but sometime in the not-too-distant future, a valuable lesson would be learned: screw with Wyoming, and Wyoming screws right back. Quinn could almost hear the spent shell tinging on the floor now, after the metal bullet cracked its way through the clear, mountain air—so fast, so unexpected, the intended target would never know what hit him until it was too late and he had no hope of ever living to tell about it.

  A light rapping sound on the front door jarred Quinn from her thoughts. It was late. After eleven o’clock. She tiptoed down the hallway and eased open the door, planning to use a thumb instead of her mouth to let the unexpected guest know they could take a hike. Visiting hours were over.

  Bo poked his head inside the door as soon as he had the chance, looked around like he didn’t expect her to be alone. “Hey, I was hoping we could—”

  “Lower your voice.”

  “Oh ... kay. Can we—”

  Quinn flattened a hand on his chest, pushed backward, whispered, “I can’t talk to you right now. It’s not a good time.”

  He glanced past her. Grinned. “Why? Did your husband come with you? Is he asleep or something?”

  “He’s not my ... I’m not ...” Less complicated, Quinn. Less complicated. “He’s not here.”

  “Then what’s with all the ’lower your voice’ and ’I can’t talk’ stuff? Looks to me like you can. You just won’t.”

  “It doesn’t matter what my reasons are. I need you to go.”

  “You looked a little worse for wear when I saw you today. I came to see how you were holding up.”

  Nice. One minute in, and he’d already let her know she looked like a steaming pile of crap. “I’m fine.”

  He frowned, an indication he didn’t believe her. She didn’t care.

  “If we can’t talk now, when can we?”

  “I don’t know. Later. Not tonight later. Later later.”

  He covered his mouth with a hand, suppressed a laugh. “How much later?”

  “Please! Keep it down!”

  He cupped his hands on both sides of the mahogany door frame. “Are you making excuses because you’re afraid to talk to me?”

  He had some nerve.

  “This has nothing to do with you ... or me, for that matter.”

  “Why can’t we talk now?”

  She wanted to say:

  Just because Evie died doesn’t mean things between us have changed.

  I haven’t forgiven you.

  I owe you nothing.

  Her hands were pressed tight against her waist, her fingernails digging into her hips. From the opposite end of the room, she heard the one sound she was hoping to avoid—Jacob’s tender, panicked voice exploding through the air.

  “Winn! Winn!”

  Quinn closed her eyes. Dammit.

  Unable to say the name Quinn, “Winn” was the name Jacob had called her since he was old enough to talk.

  She clamped down on her top lip. “See what you’ve done?”

  Bo stood there, dumbfounded. Confused. “I didn’t ... I’m sorry. I had no idea you—”

  Quinn swung around, felt her internal body heat rising.

  Forget Bo. Focus on Jacob. He’s all that matters now.

  “I’m coming, sweetie.”

  She bolted down the hall, leaving Bo at the door, gums still flapping away as he continued to utter endless apologies. She paid him no mind, not even when he chased after her.

  “Quinn, what’s going on? Who’s here with you?”

  Without slowing her pace, she said, “What do I have to do to get you to leave? Tell me. Right now. Whatever it is, just say the words, and I’ll do it.”

  Jacob was crying again. “Winn, it’s dark ... I’m scared.”

  Earlier she’d plugged a nightligh
t into the wall beside him. She regretted not switching on the lamp, knowing now the soft light hadn’t been enough. She assumed she’d be enough, and she would have been if she’d been there when he needed her.

  “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m right here.” She scooped him into her arms, showering kisses across his ruddy cheeks. “I’m here. Everything’s all right. I’ve got you.”

  Bo rounded the corner, his jaw separating when he saw Evie’s son inside Quinn’s arms.

  Quinn glared at Bo, her maternal rage taking over. “I’ve been trying to get him to sleep for hours, and all you can think about is—”

  Jacob curled his hand around Quinn’s fingers. “Don’t leave me, Winn.”

  Bo stepped forward. “I can’t believe it. He’s talking again.”

  In her moment of bitterness, she’d forgotten about what Roman had said earlier.

  Bo was right.

  He was.

  CHAPTER 9

  Roman Chapman sat on the edge of a mattress that rested on top of a handcrafted, four-poster bed. He smoothed the tips of his fingers over the side of one of the knotty wood posts, reflecting back on the countless hours he’d spent on its creation. After seeing the gleam in Evie’s eye when she fawned over a similar bed in a department store window, he’d purchased the wood at the local lumberyard and carved an almost identical bed by hand.

  The unique piece of furniture had been a gift to Evie on their wedding day. He’d even personalized it, etching “R + E” on the center of the back of the headboard. Hidden from view, it had been sacred, only known to the two of them. After they divorced, she said she didn’t want the bed. “You made it,” she’d said. “You keep it.”

  Simple yet pernicious words.

  Evie never realized how crushed he’d been over her careless attitude. How treating the bed like it was nothing more than the average, run-of-the-mill, do-it-yourself piece of furniture made it seem useless. Made him feel empty. For months after their split, he considering selling it, but no matter what the offer, when it was time for the deal to be done, his answer had always been no. The bed was a part of him now, so much so he couldn’t sever himself from it at any price.

  A five-by-seven photo of Evie in her wedding dress sat on the front of the dresser across from him. She was all smiles, flashing a mouthful of sparkling whites for the person behind the camera. Roman recalled a phone conversation several months earlier. After several minutes of bickering, she’d hung up on him. Enraged, he’d swatted the picture frame harder than intended. It launched off the dresser, soaring across the room until it fell, exploding all over the floor. Too disgusted to see her face, he’d left the photo where it lay that day. Two days later, a much calmer Roman swept the glass fragments into the trash and salvaged what was left of the photo, affixing it to the front of the top drawer with a piece of duct tape.

  Roman tugged the photo free. A few months’ worth of dust coughed up, sprinkling the carpet below in sooty ash. He brushed a finger over a scratch where the glass had punctured the paper. No matter. At least he didn’t have to see the ring she eventually removed from her finger.

  Roman thought back to the night when everything ignited between them—the night Evie walked into his bar, plopped down on a barstool, and ordered a drink. A dry martini, extra olives. He’d made the drink, slid it over, and watched her swirl the olives around inside the glass, coating them with liquid. Once saturated, she plucked them out, shooting the olives one by one into her mouth until she’d eaten them all. She asked him for additional olives, did the same thing.

  “Are you all right?” he’d asked.

  She didn’t look at him. She hadn’t since she entered the bar. At his shirt, maybe, but never his face.

  “No, I’m not all right.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  He ran a wet rag over the counter in front of her, removed the glass. This got her attention.

  “Hey, I wasn’t finished.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  He dumped the vodka down the sink and turned back around to find her glaring at him, hands on hips.

  “What the hell did you do that for?”

  He reached under the counter, unscrewed the lid on the bottle of olives, placed it in front of her. “Here. They’re on the house. So’s the advice.”

  “What advice?”

  “Whoever he is, I think you should dump him.”

  “Him ... who?”

  “Whoever drove you to almost drink.”

  For a moment he thought he’d pushed her too far. She spun the olive glass around, her eyes fixed on his. She leaned back, crossed one leg over the other, winked, and said, “Touché.”

  And that was the beginning.

  Twenty-four hours later, they went out on their first date, spending most of the time reminiscing on how much they’d lost touch with each other since they were kids. Both recalled the time a bold-face Evie had protected Quinn at the park.

  Back then, when they dated, and when they were newlyweds, being together was fun. Invigorating. The only time in his life he’d ever felt truly alive. Nothing like the way he felt now, without her.

  Roman stared at the picture. Why couldn’t she have been patient the first time around? All the pain, the hurt, the suffering, just so the two of them could be back where they started in the end. Only the end had been the end, not the rebirth he’d fought for after so many lonely nights apart.

  Now she was gone, and he was riddled with regret. So much regret. So many things he would have done differently if he could step back in time, have one last chance to do it all over again. He would have never let her go. Never let her leave in the first place. Evie was the only person who had ever understood him, the only woman he ever loved. Before she came into his life he could have breezed through it alone, a content man, without ever knowing what real love felt like. With her gone, he was helpless. He knew he needed to get it together for the sake of their son, but he couldn’t help feeling there was no life left for him now. Not without her.

  Roman glanced to the side, watched Buffy, Evie’s cocker spaniel, poke the bedroom door open using the tip of her nose. She slid inside, hopped up on the bed next to him. She hadn’t been her usual, playful self since he picked her up several days before. He’d tossed her favorite green rubber ball down the hall a few times, knowing in the past, she’d always gone after it. Now when he threw it, she sank to the ground, watching the ball skip to a bouncy stop.

  Roman stroked her fur. “Come on, girl. Let’s get you a bone. Whaddya say?”

  He carried her to the kitchen, filled her food and water bowls, and gave her a bone to chew on before heading back to the bedroom again. Pressing the picture of Evie to his lips with one hand, he popped some sleeping pills into his mouth, washing them down with a hefty gulp of pale lager. He’d never see his sweet love again, but at least he could dream.

  CHAPTER 10

  It was twenty minutes past ten the following morning and Roman still hadn’t arrived to pick up Jacob. Quinn wasn’t alarmed. From what Evie used to say about his time management skills, he’d been tardy many times in the past. No reason for her to expect a change in his MO now.

  A text message popped up on Quinn’s phone. It was her mother, telling her to bring Jacob over. Breakfast was ready. Since waking an hour earlier, he was back to not speaking again. Quinn wasn’t alarmed about that either. He was smiling, scribbling a rainbow of colors across a piece of paper. He seemed content. And content was enough for her.

  The screen door snapped closed when Quinn and Jacob entered her parents’ home a few minutes later.

  “Quinn, is that you?” her mother called from the kitchen. “Come see who’s here.”

  A thick, lumpy knot developed in her throat.

  She swallowed.

  The knot remained.

  Stubborn.

  Unrelenting.

  She entered the kitchen resigned to find Bo engaged in a conversation with her parents.
Of all the men she’d ever dated, he’d always been their favorite. When she rounded the corner, she was met with a surprise. It wasn’t Bo. It was someone far worse. Her sister, Astrid.

  “Hey, sis,” Astrid said. “How are ya?”

  Quinn feigned a smile, and said, “Fine.”

  What she really wanted to say was: Stop talking to me. Stop looking at me. Right. Now.

  Astrid angled a fork at Jacob. “Little guy is getting big, isn’t he?”

  Jacob buried his head behind Quinn’s leg. Quinn reached down, brushed a finger across the top of his hand.

  “I wasn’t aware you’d ever seen him before,” Quinn said.

  “Once, a couple years back when I was in town for the weekend. I ran into Evie at the farmer’s market.”

  Astrid looked like she hadn’t aged since the last time Quinn saw her, which had been at least a couple years. She sat on the kitchen counter, legs spread, her long, stringy, bleach-blond locks falling in loose curls in front of her nearly sheer, body-hugging T-shirt. Standing in between the opening of her legs was a man who looked to be pushing forty, significantly older than her younger sister.

  “When did you get here?” Quinn asked, though she didn’t care.

  “Last night.”

  “You missed Evie’s funeral.”

  Astrid shrugged. “I know. She was your friend, Quinn. Not mine.”

  “You grew up with her too. You don’t have to be close to someone to pay your respects to their family.”

  Astrid jerked her head back, snorted a laugh. “To Ruby? The woman’s bat-shit crazy.”

  Quinn looked down at Jacob. His face was blank.

  “Watch your mouth, Astrid.”

  Astrid giggled. “Oh, yeah. Woops.”

  “Why are you here?” Quinn asked.

  “What do you mean ’why am I here’?”

  Astrid dropping in unannounced always raised her suspicions. She had a habit of only coming around when it suited her, or when she wanted something. Judging by the orange Ferrari coupe parked in the driveway, her current benefactor was giving her all the “something” she needed. It didn’t add up.