Double Vision

by Colby Marshall

  Jenna watched as the paramedic slammed the other back door, then climbed in the passenger’s side of the ambulance. Lights swirling, siren on, the emergency unit sped away.

  “All’s well that ends well, huh?”

  Jenna turned to see Victor striding toward her across the lawn. She nodded and grinned. “I can think of a lot of ways it could’ve gone worse, for sure.”

  He smiled back.

  “We make a pretty good team, Hardass. When that court date for Hank’s will does come around, I have this feeling we’ll see the situation is under control. Ayana has nothing to worry about. Her grandmother will know it, too,” he said seriously.

  Jenna looked at her feet, the knowledge that she should find out where they stood regarding Yancy’s predicament heavy on her shoulders.

  Fingertips, soft against her chin, urged her face upward. Her eyes met Victor’s—Hank’s. The resemblance was so striking it was just unheard of.

  “Hey,” he said softly. “No worrying about that right now. I told you I’d take care of it, and for now, that’s all you need to know. We can talk more tomorrow. Or next week. Yeah. I think next week sounds good.”

  She bit her lip. Why in the hell was this man treating her so well? He had absolutely no reason to, other than that she used to be in a relationship with his brother long before said relationship got his brother killed.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said.

  With a smile, Jenna remembered making a similar statement to Yancy last year, and he’d told her he charged a tall fee. She’d bit, and he’d asked to know his color—the one she associated with him. He’d been the first person she’d actually told his own color.

  Victor laughed. “Just don’t shoot me next time I drop by to say hello. That’s thanks enough.”

  As a venetian red flashed in, the color she realized Victor had now claimed in her mind, she gave Hank’s brother a nod. “I think I can manage that.”

  Victor stared at her, not letting go of her gaze for a long few seconds. Then he cocked his head toward the porch. With a hitchhiker’s thumb, he gestured toward Yancy. “You better get back. Even if lover boy dug himself a pretty deep one this time, I’d say it’s a good day to keep making up.” Victor wandered past her, back toward the command center. A few steps away, he turned, backpedaled. “But you know how they say forgive and forget? Don’t forget, because I still wanna have lunch with you next week.”

  She caught herself laughing. “You’ve got it,” she called.

  Then she turned and headed for Yancy, who’d been checking on CiCi and Eldred. When Yancy saw Jenna coming back over, he wrapped up his conversation with CiCi and strode her way.

  Jenna waited for him on the bottom porch step. “How’s Eldred?”

  “Shaken up. Disoriented. I think CiCi’s planning to take him back to Carmine Manor, let him sleep in his own bed so maybe he’ll manage a full night’s rest,” Yancy replied. “I could use one myself. Miss my own lumpy, saggy excuse for a mattress. Might not come from a high-end furniture store, but man, it’s comfy.”

  Jenna felt the raise in her eyebrows. It made sense that Yancy wouldn’t stay at CiCi’s now that the person after Eldred had bled out by sniper bullet in the house behind them, but somehow, she hadn’t expected he’d leave yet. At least not while CiCi was still in danger of Denny the dirty cop/pimp’s friends coming after her.

  “She’s okay with being alone at her house so soon?” Jenna asked.

  Yancy shook his head. “She’s not going back. Checking into a hotel for now while she gets a real estate agent and looks for an apartment. Putting it up for sale. It turns out—” He glanced toward CiCi, then stared at the ground, almost like he didn’t want to see Jenna’s reaction. “It turns out she’d stayed so long because it was her parents’ old house. She kept it in hopes she could bring him to visit, help him keep his memories longer. It ended up ruining her marriage. You know how we assumed all those nine-one-one calls she claimed domestic violence for were the pimp? Turns out what I walked into was a one-time thing. Makes sense, too, since she didn’t call dispatch that day at all. I’d been right in thinking she didn’t want to get caught involved in a prostitution ring, only I was wrong in thinking she lied about her husband beating her to avoid it. The nine-one-one calls were about Eldred. Every time, she’d checked her father out of Carmine Manor for overnight visits. He turns violent when he’s really confused sometimes, and more than once, she was on the receiving end of his temper. Husband used to pull him off of her when he was in a rage. Her husband left after a skirmish that resulted in her miscarriage because she refused to put Eldred in a nursing home even after that.”

  “Guess that explains why she never called nine-one-one before those first hospitalizations,” Jenna replied. But damn. She couldn’t blame the husband. Granted, Jenna’s calls involving a parent had been a little more clear-cut. Arsenic pretty much disqualified Claudia from birthdays and Christmases. But still. Loving a parent was one thing, but losing a child to that parent’s temper? That seemed another thing entirely. “I know it’s a hard decision, but I still can’t imagine.”

  Yancy sighed. “She knows Alzheimer’s is always going to be a downhill disease, but she thought the longer she could keep him in a home where he was watched but allowed to be checked out, taken to familiar places, she’d keep him him longer. Then, after the husband left, she started having to call nine-one-one when Eldred’s temper flared. She never told the truth about it when she called nine-one-one, because if she had, the police would’ve notified a social worker, and the social worker would’ve contacted Carmine Manor. The assisted living place doesn’t allow residents with those sorts of tendencies. They aren’t staffed or trained to deal with them. CiCi would’ve had to move him to a full-time nursing home. She still couldn’t stand the thought of it, so she pinned the domestic disputes on her husband. It definitely explains why she wouldn’t press charges any of those times.”

  Jenna frowned. She couldn’t believe it. It made so much sense, and yet she hadn’t put it together at all. And while she understood CiCi’s reasoning, her blood ran hot at the thought. If that woman hadn’t lied to Yancy on her emergency calls, he’d have never seen the pimp at her house and mistaken him for an abusive husband. The danger he’d seen had been real, and anything still could’ve happened, but this changed things.

  If CiCi hadn’t called and lied about an abusive spouse, chances were that Yancy would’ve never gone to her house that day at all. Whatever would’ve happened would’ve happened. Her father would’ve been moved to a nursing home, the calls to emergency dispatch ended.

  Jenna swallowed hard, hot guilt washing over her as she realized the full implications of what she was wishing. If Yancy hadn’t been at CiCi’s house that day, Denny probably would’ve killed CiCi. If not that time, then another.

  She shot a look at CiCi. The woman stood on the porch with her elderly father, watching him with worried eyes as she held a Styrofoam cup of water the paramedics had given him so he could sip it through a straw.

  Eldred wasn’t Claudia. He hadn’t caused CiCi to lose her unborn child on purpose or in cold blood. The woman was losing her father, but he was losing himself, too. That was the difference. Everything that had happened with Claudia had happened because of who Claudia was. Eldred’s temper flared when he wasn’t himself at all.

  An image of her own dad’s face flashed in Jenna’s mind, the times she’d fought to save him. For CiCi, things had gone so wrong because she was fighting to save her dad, too. It might not have been a living, breathing psychopath trying to take him from her, but the reality was as terrifying in its own right. In a way, maybe it was easier to fight a separate, physical demon. At least then, it’s easy to tell the good from the evil.

  You do what you have to for people you love.

  She turned back to Yancy. “I guess every family has their dark little secre
ts then.”

  He nodded. “Yep, unfortunately. And mine is—” Yancy stopped and frowned. “I’m sorry. I guess I shouldn’t even start to make that joke under the circumstances. My real dark secret is fucking awful enough.”

  Victor’s words echoed in Jenna’s head. Jenna grabbed Yancy’s hand, twined her fingers with his.

  “No worrying about that right now,” she repeated Victor’s advice to her. “Let’s talk about it next week. Besides, we both know your dark secret. You trick people you don’t like into strolling with you during storms, then use your natural conduit to draw lightning to them.”

  She grinned as he stared back at her, surprised.

  Then his face broke into a smile all his own. “Only works if I stand on my head, but they always get so suspicious.”

  Jenna pulled him toward her, and she kissed him on the lips. Short, but so sweet.

  “Come on, Magneto. Let’s go home.”

  “Home?” he asked. “Whose home?”

  She gave him another quick peck. “Either, as long as I can have a few good hours with you to test out that electric current of yours . . .”

  “Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Yancy said, wiggling his eyebrows.

  Jenna urged him to walk with her, and side-by-side, they made their way toward the command center to check in and verify they were cleared to leave.

  “I brought CiCi and Eldred in my car, but surely one of the cops can give them a ri—oh, shit. I just remembered. We’ll have to go by CiCi’s place anyway. I have to pick up Oboe. So we might as well drop them off.”

  Jenna was so happy just knowing Yancy wouldn’t be at CiCi’s tonight that not even the little wiener dog’s inconvenient needs could bother her. “Sounds good to me. Besides, if we’re gonna have to ride all the way home without stopping every few miles for me to touch you to make sure you’re really still here and okay, we might need a chaperone.”

  “If Oboe’s good at one thing, it’s badgering people. Get it? Badgering?” Yancy looked expectantly at her.

  “Um . . .”

  “You know, because dachshunds were bred to hunt badgers . . .”

  Jenna swatted Yancy’s rear end with her free hand. “Stick to the leg jokes, Tin Man. You’re better at those.”

  He leapt away from her, squeezing his butt in and arching his back to keep it away from her as if the spank had hurt more than it did. “Hey! I thought you said you never notice my leg anymore.”

  She caught up to him, re-clasped his hand. “I said I didn’t think about it, not that I couldn’t think about it. Come on. Let’s get cleared so we can pick up Toto and head back to Oz.”

  • • •

  Jenna and Yancy helped CiCi settle Eldred into CiCi’s car for the drive back to Carmine Manor before they were finally alone. The assisted living home had agreed to allow Eldred to stay a few more days while CiCi arranged care for him at a more appropriate facility.

  After watching them drive away, Jenna followed Yancy to the front door of CiCi’s house and watched him unlock it with the key she’d left him. Between Jenna and Yancy, they’d been able to talk her into taking her father straight back to his own home rather than waiting around. It wouldn’t get any easier, and Eldred had had a long day. If he got frustrated, he’d be prone to more outbursts like the ones they now knew, and the less encounters with cops that CiCi could manage in her life right now, the better off they’d all be. Plus this way they could both get some rest—Eldred where he could be watched by professionals.

  The second Yancy opened the door, Oboe darted outside. Jenna, closer to the steps, gave chase as Yancy stepped inside the house to flip on the porch lights. The dog wouldn’t get far. Every other time he’d made a bid for escape, it only took a few steps before he gave up, lay down, and rolled over for a tummy rub from his pursuer.

  “Oboe, you ass! I could’ve sworn I closed him in the bedroom,” Yancy muttered.

  Jenna, however, had honed in on something about the dachshund. Something looked different. His collar. Something bulky protruded from behind his neck . . .

  She bent down and scooped up Oboe, kissed the top of his head, then reached for his collar. A folded piece of paper.

  She handed the dog to Yancy, who was already scolding him.

  “Oboe, you know, one of these days I should just let you go. You know? You’ll run outside, and I’ll just be like, ‘Peace, fucker. See you later, dude.’”

  But as he yammered on behind her, his words were drowned out by the blood pounding in her ears as she read the piece of paper that had been tucked under the dog’s collar. The grass under her feet seemed to tilt, her eyes twitching like she hadn’t slept in weeks.

  I know I haven’t written the way that I should. In the coming days, I hope I can make up for it, but for now, just dropping by to let you know that even if I forget to write, I’m always with you in spirit. With your boy toy Yancy, too. Even when he’s being quite naughty. Not to worry, though. We’ll just let what I watched him do be our little secret . . .

  For now.

  Give Ayana my love.

  Your favorite mother,

  Claudia

  Jenna stared at the words, unblinking, adrenaline pumping through her veins. Finally, she tore her gaze from the paper, her eyes darting from house to house in her view, cars, people . . .

  Nothing but darkness.

  “Jenna?” Yancy said from the porch. “What is it?”

  Jenna’s breathing caught in her throat. She couldn’t swallow. Fear engulfed her.

  “We have to call Victor tonight. We can’t wait anymore. It’s Claudia, Yancy,” she said, her voice sounding foreign in her own ears, like she was inside a tunnel in her own head. “Yancy . . . she knows.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book may be titled Double Vision, but just like with any book, so many different people bringing different points of view to the table were vital in this book’s “birth.” But whether I have four books out or four hundred, I’m sure one of my biggest fears will always be leaving out someone extremely important. So, if you happen to be the one I’ve left out of these pages this time, this entitles you to this blanket but sincere thank-you for your role in this book’s creation, as well as one coupon for a free small coffee between the hours of 11 a.m. and 4 a.m. at participating locations while supplies last.

  To the fantastic crew at Penguin Random House and Berkley: I have to start with my phenomenal original editor, Faith Black, for believing in, loving, and just plain “getting” the Jenna series. For taking it to new places and pushing for it to have a place in the world of thrillers. Thank you for knowing and understanding me as a writer so well that you could guide me to grow. For not only being the driving force behind this dream come true of mine, but also being a friend, thank you. To my outstanding current editor, Amanda Ng: Thank you for your leadership and enthusiasm in taking on Double Vision, full speed ahead, with grace, passion, and skill. I’m looking forward to many more words and successes with my new “partner in crime.” To my staggeringly good-looking and brilliant publicist, the unparalleled Loren Jaggers: I can’t thank you enough for your (always superhuman) efforts in getting these books seen and heard about. Thank you for answering my questions, aiming for the stars, and changing at least part of my name when talking about my craziness to your colleagues at parties so that I don’t have to wear a bag over my head if ever I’m in the building. Making your author adore you: nailed it! To my cover designer, Jason Gill, and the entire design team: I’m so grateful for the unique vision for my work you turned into an eye-catching concept I’m proud to have represent the book. Thank you to every person at Penguin/Berkley who had a hand in this book’s development—so much goes into a book making it out into the world. Your roles came together to give my novel a place on the shelves, and for that, I am grateful. And to Leslie Gelbman, my publisher, president
of Berkley: Thank you for making Double Vision the book a reality. I am honored and humbled to be a part of Berkley’s line.

  To the absolute force of nature that is my agent, Rachel Ekstrom: my advocate, my superhero, my friend. Knowing you’re always in my corner, watching my back, and at the same time, taking the lead and constantly moving, shaking, and fighting for my work in every way it needs is a security that simply can’t be bought or replaced. Thank you not just for loving my work as much as I do, but for championing it every step of the way, for nurturing me as an author, and for cultivating the trust and teamwork in our partnership. I’m thankful and honored to call myself your client. To Irene Goodman and everyone at IGLA, thank you for all of the hard work you do day in and day out to help books like mine become something more than a stack of printer paper held together with a rubber band. To my foreign rights agents, the elite team of Danny Baror and Heather Baror-Shapiro of Baror International, thank you for your tireless pursuits to bring my books to new countries and for such an unprecedented opportunity to reach a wider audience.

  As always, thank you to others in the industry who have stood by me and helped my books make their long, winding journey that is this industry. To Pat Shaw, for digging me out of the slush pile and fighting for my honor. To Stairway Press, my first publishing family. To Matt Stine, Paul Stoffer, and 27 Sound Entertainment for keeping my Internet home spiffy.

  For every book I write, I spend at least as much time on research as I do actually penning the story. “Getting it right” is important to me, so it’s a good thing I’m fortunate enough to be surrounded by many intelligent people from all different walks of life, and that occasionally, they’re kind enough to indulge my questions. As always, a massive thank-you to Dr. Richard Elliot for providing expert analysis of fictional crimes and your consulting services for all questions in the area of forensic psychiatry. To Doug and Margeaux, for being my phone-a-cop contacts. To Zach Broome and Todd Meador, for your contributions to Molly’s number facts. To Kate Crumbley, for her help with the Triple Shooter’s “serial killer name.” Thank you to Mark Ballard and Brian Woods for your expertise in art and color theory. To Amelia Garrett, for your knowledge of and experience with the tattoo industry and schooling me in the ins and outs of getting ink. To Flint Dollar and Jim Penndorf, for your ideas on music for a child prodigy.