A Thousand Tombs

by Molly Greene

  “That’s crazy.” Mack’s defenses came up and he took a step away. “How would the kid know her, why would he tell her about this if he did know her, and just where the heck did you come up with that irrational idea?”

  “He has a phone.”

  “That’s too big a leap even for you, Genevieve.”

  That comment smarted. Okay, if it’s going to get personal, here goes. Gen heard the iron in her voice and told herself to stop before she was sorry, but she couldn’t.

  “I told you once before, San Francisco Police Detective Mackenzie Hackett, the kid is playing you. You might as well be his guitar. For a cop, you’re acting like a frigging pushover.”

  She felt like a runaway train whose driver had bailed before the last downhill run. Her fingers were trembling. Her heart was beating slow and hard, like a drum with a single note. She fisted her hands at her sides to stop him from seeing her weakness, and blundered on.

  “You’ve got no eyes for the truth here, Mack. Luca isn’t you, and you can’t save him like your brother saved you.”

  When she saw the flash of fury in his eyes, she knew she’d gone too far. He threw her off for an instant when his expression softened and his lips curved up. When he spoke, his voice didn’t reveal anger or berate her for her insensitivity.

  She only heard sadness and, strangely, pity.

  “You don’t do that, Genny.” His voice was like silk, soft and quiet and strong. “It’s a rule, isn’t it? When somebody you care about shares something about themselves, something vulnerable, you don’t throw it in their face. You don’t use it against them.”

  His words cut like a knife and scared Gen to her core. She should have had enough sense to let it alone, but the train had left the station.

  Livvie was correct. She wanted Mack to be wrong. She wanted the boy to be bad news. Maybe she was immature enough that she wanted to be the only good thing that had come into his life recently.

  She kicked herself for her shallowness, and then she wondered how she’d have to pay.

  She didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  He ran his fingers down the length of her arm, bicep to elbow, then dropped his hand. She saw him square his shoulders, as if what he was about to say was going to be tough.

  “This isn’t about Luca or some woman who’s paying attention to me, Genny. This is about trust, and loyalty, and having somebody’s back. It’s about supporting someone’s decisions and letting them walk their path, not trying to derail them at every opportunity.”

  Her reply sounded nervous, even to her. “That’s an exaggeration, Mack. I’m worried you’re getting attached to Luca and he’s going to let you down. You’re going to get hurt.”

  “For chrissakes, that’s a crock. You’re worried about you.”

  “Okay, maybe. Maybe I’m also wondering if you’re exclusive.”

  His eyebrows shot up toward the ceiling and he sucked in about an acre of air. When he let it out he said, “If you really knew me, if you took the time and paid attention and looked at me,” he stabbed his thumb at his chest, “you’d understand that I would never step out on someone. Never, Genny. I dance with who I came with. That’s who I am. I’m with you because you’re who I want to be with. I thought I made that clear, waiting so long for you to come around. You think I’d throw it away? No. But you are. You’re willing to throw it away.”

  “What do you mean?” Her back was really up now. She was angry, and at the same time her tone was edged with worry. She heard it, and she knew he heard it, too, because she saw his eyes go gentle and determined at the same time. She tried again. “Look, you’re the one who said not to make this about us.”

  He took another step away and crossed his arms over his chest, like he felt the need to protect himself. Then he dropped the stance and slid a hand beneath his tie and clenched his fingers around something. Jimmy’s dog tags. Of course, he was wearing them beneath his shirt; he never took them off.

  Gen knew he went for the tags for strength. She wondered if he needed it to distance himself from her.

  “You crossed that line, not me,” he said. “I know for damn sure this isn’t about us. The question is, do you know that?”

  Gen felt a rush of certainty that he was about to walk away. Over her dead body would a guy blindside her again. She’d rather choose first, for both of them, than hear the news from him.

  “Maybe we should take a break,” she replied. “Until this is over, and Luca has a permanent place to stay.”

  There it was.

  Sorrow skipped across his face, then pain, then that neutral, self-possessed expression she knew so well replaced it.

  Was she wrong? Had she let wrath and insecurity get the best of her? Gen’s back straightened. Her chin came up. She blew out air and felt her stomach muscles tighten like she’d just taken a blow to the solar plexus.

  “If that’s what you want.” Mack slowly unclasped his fist from the chain around his neck and dropped his hand.

  She stepped forward and touched her fingertips to his cheek, then turned and walked toward the exit. From the corner of her eye, she saw Carla duck back through the doors and into the main gallery.

  Bitch.

  Chapter Twenty

  On the way home Gen cycled between bereft and irate, but furious won. She jammed the sedan into its place in the underground garage and marched to the elevator with her heels in hand, wearing the spare tennis shoes she kept in the back seat.

  During the drive, she’d taken off her earrings and pulled her hair into a ponytail on top of her head. The look was distinctly different from the way she’d started the evening, and she didn’t give a freaking hoot. Her mind was roiling like a tornado when she exited the elevator on the sixth floor and padded to her condo with the key ready.

  But she didn’t need it.

  Her front door was cracked half an inch.

  The minute she saw that, she reached to unholster the stun gun mounted inside her purse, but no luck. She’d taken an evening clutch to the gallery instead, a decision she now chalked up as stupid move number three hundred and forty-two.

  And that was only this evening.

  It was turning out to be a really bad night.

  She crept to the door, then leaned in to check out the jamb and have a listen. No evidence of forced entry. No sounds of movement inside, no rifling of drawers or scraping of electronics off the shelving and into pillowcases to be hauled away.

  Had she accidentally left it open? She recalled the self-satisfied state she’d been in on the way out. Yeah, it was possible. Or had someone picked the lock? She should have moved the note have a deadbolt installed to the top of her to-do list long ago.

  Too late now.

  She straightened, thinking. There was another possibility, of course; Oliver could be inside, leaving something in her closet.

  Gen pulled out her cell and sent him a text.

  Where are you?

  She paced in the hall and waited for a reply. Two beats later the phone pinged, and she sighed and felt her keyed-up nerves relax as she read the message.

  In your kitchen.

  She pushed through into the foyer and cried, “You left the door–” and stopped cold.

  Oliver was standing on the threshold between the dining area and the kitchen, holding a broken plate. His hands were trembling. All the color had drained from his face. He waved the piece of china around vaguely, and it was only then that she really looked at the room.

  Someone had torn the place apart.

  Every drawer was ajar and the contents spilled out over the top. The furniture, including Oliver’s favorite chair, had been upended and the cloth underneath cut away to reveal the stuffing.

  The huge old antique reproduction clock had been ripped off the wall and lay on the floor with its inner wiring sprung. Cabinets and baskets and pillows and books had been methodically opened and cut and emptied and tossed into piles in the middle of the floor.

  Gen took
it all in.

  Oh yeah, this was fast approaching the worst night ever. Worse than the morning she got the black eye, worse even than any perceived drama that had ever happened in high school or any time thereafter. Worse than the broken leg she’d suffered when she fell off the ski lift.

  Worse than Ryan leaving her.

  She felt the anger drain away, and an odd sort of gallows humor took its place. “Was it something I said?” she deadpanned.

  Oliver pursed his lips. “Not funny.”

  “Too soon?”

  “Genevieve.”

  Livvie wasn’t in the mood for jokes, so she moved on. “What happened?”

  “Your place got ransacked, that’s what.” He finally put the plate down on the dining room table. “Help me with the couch,” he said. They each grabbed an arm and righted it, then re-zipped the cushions, replaced them, and took a seat.

  “I was just getting off the elevator when two guys walked out your front door,” he said. “I passed them and pretended I was going to the condo beyond you. They were in a hurry. I heard them take the stairs, and I turned around and came in and found all this. If it’s any consolation, it looks like they didn’t make it to your bedroom.”

  “How long ago did you pass them in the hall?”

  “Four-point-eight seconds before your text.”

  “So they were going down the stairs while I was coming up in the elevator.”

  “That’d be my guess.”

  “What did they look like?”

  “Tall, gnarly, dark hair, heavy five o’clock shadows, lots of hairy chest. Unsmiling beasts, both of them.”

  “Would you describe them as ethnically Italian?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “So not street kids, not druggies, not Latino gang types? Not your typical crash-and-grab addict trying to score enough for another fix?”

  “No. They looked like professional wrestlers, for whatever it’s worth. Nice clothes, muscular. Good shoes. You know I always notice shoes. What do you think they were after?”

  “I have an idea.” Gen slammed a fist down on the arm of the couch.

  “You better call Mack.”

  When she didn’t respond, Oliver took one look at her stony expression and knew. “Oh no. Genny.”

  She stood and righted a chair and put it back where it belonged. “I suggested we take a break, so that’s what we’re doing. Are you going to help me?”

  “Genny–”

  She held up her palm like a barrier between them. “No, Oliver. Off limits.”

  “Are you at least going to call the cops?” He kneeled and began to close the chaotic pile of books and stack them neatly on the floor.

  “I’ll think about it. But what good would it do? It’ll just be another B and E in a long list of unsolved home invasions. I’ll settle for being relieved that you weren’t here when they arrived.”

  “But it could give you a lead. If you report it, I can look through mug books and maybe find one or both of them.”

  “If I report it Mack might hear and feel obligated to see if I’m okay. Or console me. And right now I don’t want either of those scenarios. You can look through mug books anyway, if you’re willing. All you need to do is say someone stole your wallet. That would keep me out of it.”

  He finished the books and stood, then leaned over and picked up a pillow with the stuffing hanging out. “I’m sorry, Genny.”

  “Don’t worry about it. That one never matched anyhow.”

  “I’m not talking about this,” Oliver replied. “I’m talking about–”

  “Nope, nope, stop.” Gen held up her palm again.

  “That is so damn aggravating.” His tone was in sync with his words. He stomped to her side and stopped with a foot of air between them. “Denial will not make the problem go away.”

  She stared at him, breathing hard, and worked to replicate the fury she’d felt on the way home, but couldn’t. Not toward Oliver. But she needed to cling to that rage right now, knew it would protect her.

  “Angry is better than sad, Liv. For now, anyway. I can’t change what happened tonight. I messed it up. It was my fault, because I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut. So I’m going to keep it shut now, and I’m going to stay pissed off, and I’m going to focus that anger on whoever did this and whatever is going on. Will you please just let me do that?”

  When Oliver nodded, she could tell he understood. He reached for her hand but she stopped him again. “No pity, Liv. No tears, no talking about it. I can’t open the floodgates. And if I did, I’d only be feeling sorry for myself. I’m a screw-up, and I need to move on and see if I can make it right.”

  “You could just call him.”

  She shook her head. “I won’t, and you’d better not, either, I’m warning you. He won’t fall on his knees and beg me to change my mind. In fact, he might just write me off forever for kicking us to the curb.”

  “Taking a break is not kicking anyone to the curb.”

  “I’ll overthink all that and more tomorrow. Right now, I need to deal with this mess. Will you help me?”

  They spent nearly two hours cleaning and stacking and filling garbage bags with discarded upholstery stuffing and broken décor. Gen lovingly pushed the wiring back into the clock and re-hung it. They replaced the pictures on the walls, then moved into the kitchen and did the same.

  It was midnight before Oliver went home.

  Gen opened a bottle of wine and collapsed on the sofa with her glass. Her mind started to pour over the argument with Mack but she forced it away, and instead concentrated on who, what, and why.

  Was it the same pair of hoodlums she’d seen yesterday, rousting Zuccaro? What were they after? Why had they trashed her house but skipped the bedroom? It was almost as if someone had tipped them off she was on her way home.

  She got a refill and drank and looked around the reconfigured room. It was time to get the locks changed. Not that a new lock would keep out an experienced burglar with a good set of lock picks, but what else could she do?

  She understood now why people felt so violated after a break-in. Somebody she didn’t know had touched her stuff, for God’s sake. She wondered how long it would take her to feel the same about this place.

  Maybe Oliver was right.

  Maybe it was time to get out of the city.

  But the only thing she had the energy to get out of right now was her clothes, and this room. She struggled up from her seat and went into the bathroom. When she turned on the light, it all looked the same. She and Oliver had gone through it and verified that everything was where it had been before. Then why did she feel as if it had all been defiled and something important was gone?

  She looked at herself in the mirror and knew.

  It was Mack. Mack was what was missing.

  Gen raised her glass and toasted her reflection. “Congratulations, Dumbass. Tonight you managed to alienate the very thing you wanted more than almost anything in the world.” She took a pull on the wine, then twirled the stem in her fingers.

  “I hope you’re proud of yourself,” she whispered.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A week had passed since Mack’s show. Gen had moved beyond anger to self-pity and was aching to get back to some kind of normal, but her regular morning walks around the city failed to provide any relief.

  She wanted a way to let off steam about the break-in, and to pound out some of the resentment she harbored against herself for needling Mack until he broke. Mentally, she’d been stuck since her perp walk out the gallery door.

  What she needed was a good dose of Stan’s. Weeks had passed since the last class, so Tuesday morning she dressed in sweats and drove over to join the group.

  “Good morning, ladies. Today you’re going to learn several effective methods to escape from an assailant who has you under his power.”

  The same instructor was at the helm today, and Rick was a husky guy. Gen doubted even the ablest student would be able to get away from
him once he had them in a solid hold.

  “You’re not just going to learn how to get out of physical holds, you’ll also explore how to get out of a car trunk you’ve been shut inside, even how to get your hands out of zip tie handcuffs.”

  “What if you don’t want to?” The question came from a buxom bottle-blond at the front of the group. “Get out of handcuffs, I mean.”

  She was smiling at Rick with a come-hither look, but her invitation backfired. His eyes slid to her and she withered beneath his to-the-point reply.

  “Miss, what you consent to in your personal life is your business. But we don’t joke about the type of life-threatening events women face every single day. I hear stories all the time that would make you break down and cry. That’s why I’m here, to try to equip you with tools and resources and the wherewithal to prevail.”

  He panned the gathering. “Any more questions?” The place was as quiet as church.

  “Okay then, let’s get to it.”

  Rick took a fighter’s stance and held up a fist, as if punctuating what he was about to say. “I want you to unlearn everything you’ve been taught. When you get in a tight spot, I want you to ditch any ideas you might have about kindness, or thinking nobody’s going to hurt you because you’re a girl.

  “I’m here to testify that there are people lurking in every place you think is safe who dream about hurting women. You better get clear about that today. And don’t make the mistake of thinking only men are out to get you. Don’t trust strangers, just like your parents told you when you were a kid. Don’t get into a car or any vulnerable place with a woman because you think there are no women predators. If you think that, ladies, you’re wrong.”

  The crowd was silent, no doubt considering the implications of what he’d just said.

  “I’ll address the bad guy as ‘he’ today for convenience, but don’t you forget what I told you. Do you copy that?”

  A sea of heads nodded in tandem.

  “If you ever find yourself in a life-threatening situation, I want you to think of me. I want you to fight dirty, gouge their eyes with your fingernails, knee the guy or girl hard in the crotch, do anything you can – and I mean anything – to get away and avoid being restrained. Because once you’re cuffed, taped, or tied up with rope, it’s a whole different ball game.”