A View to a Kill

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  “Did he admit it to you?”

  “He did. Honestly, he had no choice. When my cousin saw them together, she stormed into the house. He begged her not to tell me, and I think he hadn’t called because he was waiting around to see if she’d do it.”

  “What did he say when you confronted him?”

  “He asked how I felt about it, how I was doing. I kept thinking about our marriage, about how everything was fine one minute and the next it was over. I wasn’t speeding, but it was dark outside, and my eyes were so filled with tears I couldn’t see the road. The lines all blended together. In the midst of all that, Lucas was still yacking away.”

  “I can’t imagine how difficult that was for you.”

  We locked eyes, and I knew he knew what I was about to say was far more difficult than anything I’d already said. “I wanted to pull off the road, but I couldn’t. There were miles and miles of orange cones on the side of the road because of the construction, and the other lane was blocked off. One of the cones blew onto the highway. By the time I swerved, it was too late. The side of my car smacked into it. I jerked the steering wheel, and my car slipped off the freeway into the ditch. I can still hear the sound of Elena screaming.”

  Finch took my hand in his.

  “My head cracked against the steering wheel before the airbag deployed, and I blacked out,” I said. “When I came to, lights flashed all around me. I was inside an ambulance. I lifted my head, tried to see Elena. I asked one of the medics to bring me to her. As long as I live, I’ll never forget the look on the medic’s face when the officer walked over and told me Elena was dead.”

  Silence passed between us for a moment, then Finch spoke. “I have witnessed death in all its forms. Even when it had to be done or couldn’t be avoided, I never found peace in it. You choose how you let it change you. What happened to your daughter was an accident. You can grieve, and you can hold on to all the good times, but you can’t stop living.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “Some days I feel numb, like adrenaline pumping through my veins is the only thing that’s keeping me alive. Other days, I feel fine.”

  “And today?”

  “Today I feel blessed to have you in my life. I know I haven’t said it, Finch, but it means a lot to me that I can talk to you.”

  He stretched out his hand, helping me get back on my feet. “You can always talk to me. I will always be here for you.”

  “I know you will.”

  “Ready to go say goodbye to your parents and head out?”

  Two hours ago, I would have jumped at the offer. Now I realized there was only one way to face things. “Yeah, let’s stop there, and after, let’s stop at the church again. There’s a reception I’d like to go to.”

  To my amazing sister Michelle.

  I would be lost without you.

  “How many legs does a dog have if you call the tail a leg? Four.

  Calling a tail a leg doesn’t make it a leg.”

  —Abraham Lincoln

  CHAPTER 1

  Zoey Marshall reclined back on the sofa, kicked her feet over the edge of the coffee table, and clicked the remote on the TV. It was just after two in the morning, and she was exhausted. She’d nursed Alice on and off for the last half hour, and now it was time to take a moment for herself before crawling back into bed with her husband.

  As the late-night talk show beamed to life in front of her, she reminisced on the past year of her life. It had been intense, at times feeling like a whirlwind. First meeting Lane, then discovering she was pregnant with Alice a few months later. At the tender age of twenty-one, being married with a baby hadn’t been part of her plans. She’d always told herself she wouldn’t marry until she was thirty, wouldn’t have a baby until she was thirty-five. Then life intervened, and she was forced to choose—an education, or a baby, husband, and marriage. Looking at Alice’s precious face several minutes earlier, she couldn’t believe there had been a time when she considered looking into alternatives.

  Even with all the diversions and surprises, everything had fallen into place.

  The house.

  Lane’s job at the construction company.

  Continuing her education online.

  Life was good.

  Really good.

  Almost too good sometimes.

  Thoughts of motherhood and marital bliss filled her mind as she nodded off, waking several minutes later to a strange, unfamiliar sound, a clicking, like someone was fooling with the knob on the front door. Thinking it was nothing more than another creak in a series of creaks she’d noticed since moving into the old house, she remained still for a moment, listening to see if she heard it again. When the room fell silent, she shrugged it off as nothing more than the old house working out all the kinks after a long day.

  She stood and yawned, stretching her hands over her head before going back to bed again. She needed whatever sleep she could get. Alice would be awake again soon. She reached the foot of the stairs then froze. There it was again. The clicking. Except it wasn’t coming from outside the house like she originally thought. It was coming from inside the house, somewhere near the entryway. Apprehensive, she turned toward the front door, but it was much too dark to see anything.

  “Hello?” she said. “Is someone there?”

  A man stepped out of the shadows. “Hello, Zoey.”

  She couldn’t see him, not clearly, but the iridescence of the moon cascaded just enough light through the panels of glass for her to make out the outline of his shape.

  Stocky.

  Muscular.

  Masked.

  His physique alarmed her, but not as much as the outline of a gun in his outstretched hand. A gun pointed right at her.

  She tried to inhale a pocket of air, but couldn’t. Her chest felt tight, like the air inside her had been sucked out. Not knowing who he was or why he was there, she assumed he was a

  burglar, thinking maybe if she kept her cool and gave him what he wanted, he’d leave, sparing her life and the lives of her family. She controlled her breathing, then said, “What do you want?”

  Through the hole in the mouth of the mask, he said, “Where’s Lane?”

  Lane.

  This man was no stranger.

  “Who are you? How do you know my husband?”

  “It’s not important.”

  Something in his voice was familiar. Did she know him?

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “It’s not important.”

  “You broke into my house. I’d say it matters a lot.”

  “Where is your husband?” he repeated.

  “Why should I tell you where he is?”

  “Tell me. Don’t tell me. It doesn’t matter. I’ll find him with or without you.”

  He took two steps toward her. She stood strong, legs wide, arms crossed, blocking him from passing. If he intended to shoot her, he’d do it either way. And she wasn’t going down without a fight.

  “Get out of my way,” he said.

  She remained still. “Why do you have a gun? Are you planning on shooting him? Shooting me?”

  “Yep.”

  Uncontrollable spasms pulsed through her body, a mixture of anxiety and panic from not knowing what was about to come next. “Will you tell me why, at least?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why do you want us dead? We didn’t do anything.”

  “Yes, Zoey. Yes you did.”

  “What did I do?”

  “Last chance to stand aside. I won’t ask again.”

  His voice was more insistent now, impatient and rough, like he’d reached his level of tolerance. Down the hall, Alice stirred in her crib. The man’s body shifted toward the sound of the infant, sending Zoe into protective mode. Regardless of what happened to her or to Lane, her precious baby girl needed protecting. Feeling like she had no other choice, she bowed her head, took a deep breath, and said, “Follow me.”

  Together they climbed the stairs, Zoey in front,
the man following close behind, gun pressed against the small of her back. They entered the master bedroom. Lane was asleep on the bed, his chest rising and falling, blissfully dreaming like it was just another ordinary night. Zoey reached a hand toward the wall, attempting to flip the light switch, illuminating the ceiling fan above so she could get a better look at him. He anticipated her move and reacted quickly, grabbing her arm, and yanking it back.

  His hot breath filled her ear. “Don’t be stupid.”

  Lane woke, rubbed his eyes, then sat up in bed. “Zoey? Is that you? What are you doing?”

  “Hello, Lane,” the man said.

  “Where’s Zoey? Where’s my wife?”

  “I’m here,” Zoey said.

  “Who’s with you?” Lane asked. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Where is it?” the man answered.

  “Where’s what?”

  “The gun. Where’d you hide it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Turn the light on. Let’s talk about this.”

  “The light stays off for now,” the man said.

  “I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, but you have one minute to get out of my house.”

  “Stop it, Lane,” Zoey said. “Now’s not the time to get cocky. He has a gun.”

  “Did you really think you could get away with what you did?” the man said. “Did you really think you could just move on with your life, never having to pay for your crime?”

  “My ... crime?” Lane asked.

  “You killed a man, left him for dead in the alley like he was a nobody, a penniless piece of trash.”

  “Says who? You? Look, man. I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but you’ve got the wrong guy. I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “The man you murdered was innocent.”

  “Innocent?” Lane laughed. “Uhh ... look, man, he wasn’t innocent.”

  “Lane!” Zoey said. “Stop it! Stop talking!”

  Once again she felt the barrel of the gun push against her back. She closed her eyes and waited.

  Is this it?

  Is this the end?

  “I’ll tell you what,” the man said. “You don’t need to tell me where the gun is. Doesn’t matter anyway. What’s done is done.”

  “What does that mean?” Lane asked.

  The man leaned toward Zoey once more. “Turn the light on, hun.”

  “But I—”

  “It’s okay. Do it.”

  She complied.

  Both men looked at each other. Lane spoke first. “Should I know you? You seem to know me. Take off the mask, and let’s see who you really are.”

  The man ignored the questions and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a knife. He pressed the knife against the back of Zoey’s neck, then handed her the gun. “Go on, take it.”

  “I don’t want to,” she said. “I don’t like guns.”

  “Really?” the man laughed. “Your husband sure does. Now take it.”

  He shoved it into her hand. She pointed the barrel toward the floor, even though she wished she could turn, point it at the man, pull the trigger, and make the nightmare go away.

  The man leaned forward. “No, no, no. That won’t do at all. Aim the gun at your husband. Aim it right at his heart.”

  “What? No. I can’t. I don’t want to—Please.”

  “Do it!”

  Eyes blurred with tears, Zoey raised a shaky, unsteady hand.

  “Good,” the man said. “Now, shoot him.”

  Her limbs were pliable and weak, like her legs were about to give way beneath her. “No, I can’t do it. I could never—”

  “Of course you can. It’s not hard, hun. Just aim for his chest like I told you and squeeze the trigger. And hey, if you don’t get it right the first time, you can always try again.”

  No.

  She wouldn’t.

  She couldn’t.

  She opened her hand, allowing the gun to slide down her palm, clanking on the wood floor below.

  The man drove the tip of the knife into the side of her neck, giving her a taste of what was to come if she defied him. “Pick it up! Now!”

  Blood dripping down her neck, Zoey locked eyes with Lane, seeing the terror in his eyes, his pain in knowing there was nothing he could do to help her. Nothing he could do to help himself.

  “Stab me if you want,” Zoey said. “I’m not picking it up.”

  “I guess you’ll have to decide then.”

  “Decide what?”

  “Your husband or your baby. Which one dies tonight?”

  “No! Please! How could you? She’s innocent. She’s just a baby. She has nothing to do with this.”

  He was unmoved. “It’s simple, really. Shoot your husband, or I’ll shoot your baby. You decide.”

  Palms sweaty, tears flowing down her face, Zoey reached down and picked up the gun, once again pointing it at her husband. “Lane, I ... I’m so sorry. I love you.”

  Lane waved both hands in front of him like the gesture would stop the bullet from hitting him when the gun fired. He looked at the man and said, “Please. You don’t have to do this. Think about it. I’ll tell you where I hid the gun. I’ll show you. All right?”

  “Do you really think I care about the gun? I’ll take it if you want to give it to me, but that’s not why I’m here.”

  “I’ll confess,” Lane said. “I’ll ... tell the police everything.”

  “You don’t get it,” the man said. “I don’t want you in prison. I want you dead.” The man turned toward Zoey. “Shoot him. Now. Or he dies and your baby dies.”

  Zoey closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger. The bullet exploded out of the gun, ripping through Lane’s shoulder, exactly where Zoey intended. Taking advantage of the few seconds she had, she spun in the man’s direction, fired, and missed. He snatched the gun from her hand, pointed it at Lane’s head, and fired. Lane slumped over.

  Zoey grasped at the mask around the man’s head, her fingers digging beneath it, prying at it until it snapped off his head. She looked at him, recognizing his face, and then she screamed.

  CHAPTER 2

  Thirty Minutes Earlier

  The masked man sat inside his car, eyes fixed on the house across the street. It was dark out, after midnight, but through the open slats of the mini blinds in the living room he had the perfect view of the back of Zoey Marshall’s head, which, at the moment, emitted a soft glow due to the luminescent light shining from the screen of her flat screen TV. She was sleeping. At least, she appeared to be sleeping. Her head was tilted to the side, resting on an afghan she’d bunched up behind it about a half hour before. She seemed so content and peaceful. Happy. Too bad it was all about to change.

  His focus shifted, turning instead to the seat next to him, which was empty except for a single item: a revolver. Looking at it now, the weapon seemed simple and innocent. So small, and black, and ... deadly.

  It was remarkable, really, how such a little thing had the capability of taking a human life, or multiple human lives in some cases, ending another’s existence when they least expected it. For some, it was justifiable, the way it had to be, a necessary punishment befitting the crime, even if society didn’t always agree. Times had changed, and with it, people had become soft, forgiving others for unforgivable acts. Now, hard criminals were granted a life behind bars instead of what they really deserved—a public execution, a death mirroring the crime they committed.

  Whatever happened to an eye for an eye?

  Didn’t anyone believe in justice anymore?

  He wasn’t without sin. Without stain. He’d indulged his own fantasies, possibly even taking his indulgent urges a bit too far from time to time, but as sinful as he’d been, he’d never killed anyone before—not until tonight.

  He grabbed the revolver off the seat, checked to ensure an adequate number of bullets were inserted into the chamber, cursing aloud when he realized only three bullets remained. He punched the steer
ing wheel. How had he not thought to check to make sure he had enough bullets before he left? He leaned back in the seat, contemplating his next move. Carry out his plan, or withdraw and try again another day? He glanced around the neighborhood. All was quiet. So quiet it seemed the slightest noise would rouse everyone from sleep. Still, he hadn’t come this far to back down now.

  He opened the car door and stepped outside, giving the mask on his face one last tug to ensure it was secured into position. He looked both ways then crossed the street, taking a long breath in, allowing the crisp night air to filter through his lungs. How fresh it seemed tonight. How pure. How deadly.

  His eyes shifted back to Zoey. She was now stirring, her head shifting from side to side like she was struggling to get comfortable. In the next minute, when she woke from her pleasant dream, he’d be there, standing over her, and she’d never dream another dream again.

  CHAPTER 3

  A shrill, hair-raising scream woke seventy-year-old Maisie Fezziwig from a semi-sound sleep. Over the last half hour, she’d drifted in and out of consciousness, trying to get some shut-eye while the male counterpart sleeping next to her sounded off like a wheezy, broken-down foghorn. It wasn’t his fault, of course. It was hers. After all, she’d broken rule number one: never, ever, under any circumstances allow a man she was sleeping with to stay the night. Up to now, Maisie had never broken that rule, but after indulging in one too many glasses of red wine, she’d lost track of time and dozed off unintentionally.

  To rectify her mistake, Maisie decided swift action was the best remedy. She switched on the bedside lamp, hoping that would wake him. But his arm stayed draped across her chest, his hand cupping one of her breasts. With two fingers, she lifted his arm and placed it across his own chest, letting it plop down, not gently. When that didn’t wake him, she stabbed his shoulder repeatedly with her finger, aligned her mouth with his ear, and said, “Daniel, wake up!”

  Daniel partially lifted one eyelid, closed it, and rolled onto his other side. “What is it, Maisie? I’m trying to sleep.”