by Lisa Lutz
“What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything,” Blue said without any conviction. “He realized that his days were numbered as a free man, and he wanted to go out on his own terms.”
“So he just drove off the bridge all on his own?”
“It seemed like a poetic end. He dies on the same bridge that first made him a killer. I do love symmetry, don’t you?”
“I prefer justice,” I said.
“Sometimes you get both.”
BLUE AND I hiked up the embankment back to the road.
“Give me a ride to my motel,” said Blue.
“We should go to the cops.”
“Why?”
“Because you were in the car with him.”
“Was I?” Blue said. “I don’t remember that.”
I didn’t argue with her. I didn’t see how it changed anything in the end. I drove Blue to the Super 8 on the outskirts of town. She told me to wait in the car. I had the heat on full blast, but I was still shivering from being soaked through.
When Blue returned to the car, she was carrying a large manila envelope.
“You should have this,” she said. “I thought Logan’s death was the ending I was looking for, but this is the Nora Glass story, and that’s not over yet. I can’t publish it as it is. You probably know most of the stuff that’s in there, being Nora Glass and all. But there’s one thing about Nora that you might not know, and it would clear a few things up.”
“I don’t want it,” I said.
“Take it anyway,” she said, dropping the stack of papers on the passenger seat. “Be happy, Nora. Justice was served.”
“You and I have a very different idea of justice.”
“Do we?”
“Good-bye, Blue.”
“This isn’t good-bye,” Blue said as she walked away.
I went back to my old house and took a hot shower. Later Pete came home and asked me where I had been. I said it was all too much for me and I had to leave. I crawled into bed and slept until my conscience woke me. All I could see was Logan bucking against his seat belt, awaiting death. I turned on the reading light and picked up the pages from Blue’s damp manuscript.
As I leafed through the papers, I had to laugh. They were all blank except the title page and the last page, which was a report that took me some time to understand.
Blue was right. There was one thing about me that I didn’t know, and it did indeed clear up a few things. At least now I knew why my mother and Mr. Oliver were so determined to send me away. Still, I think there had to be another way.
I STAYED two more days in Bilman helping Pete clear my mother’s things out of the house. I was standing right next to him when the phone rang and he got the news of Logan’s demise. The police were calling it a vehicular suicide.
I packed up my mother’s car and said good-bye to Pete. I drove to Roland Oliver’s house. I had one final piece of business before I’d leave Bilman forever.
I found Mr. Oliver sitting on his porch drinking a whiskey. It clearly wasn’t his first of the day.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.
“Are you?”
“A little. I suppose I think of Logan differently now.”
“You know?” he said.
“I know.”
“Now do you understand?” he said.
“I understand why you and my mother wanted to send me away. I don’t understand why you tried to have me killed in Austin.”
Mr. Oliver sighed and closed his eyes.
“That wasn’t me. Logan found out you made contact and he—” Roland didn’t finish that sentence.
“I see.”
“Ryan can never know.”
“I agree,” I said.
“Forgive me,” he said.
“I don’t think I can,” I said as I passed an envelope to Mr. Oliver.
“What’s this?”
“It’s the money I borrowed. I’m paying you back.”
“I don’t want your money, Nora.”
“I don’t want yours.”
I stood up and looked down at the old man one last time. I tried to see him differently, but he was still the same.
“Good-bye, Dad.”
Epilogue
* * *
I GOT into my car and drove. I took I-5 South to 405 South and exited onto I-90 East. I drove until midnight. I stopped at a cheap motel in Missoula, Montana, woke up the next morning, and kept driving. By dusk I was in Wyoming. I took I-25 South toward Casper. I got a room at the Friendly Ghost Inn, where I took a hot shower, changed my clothes, and put on a bit of war paint.
I strolled down the street and into the establishment called Sidelines. I ordered a top-shelf bourbon. I was celebrating my innocence. I sat and nursed my drink as I waited for him to notice me. My drink was almost empty by the time he took a seat next to mine. He cautiously looked in my direction but didn’t say a word. I brushed the hair away from his forehead and touched the scar I had given him when I’d slammed on the brakes.
“You seem to be healing all right,” I said.
“Just on the outside,” he said, winking.
“You’ll be fine.”
“So what brings you to town, sweetheart?”
“Domenic, do I have to keep looking over my shoulder?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Do I have to keep looking over mine?”
“I just want to be free. Am I?”
He looked me in the eye and seemed to mull the question over. “Will you promise to be a law-abiding citizen?” he said.
“I’ll do my best.”
“That’s all any of us can do,” he said.
“How about we start over,” I said.
“I like the sound of that. Can I buy you a drink?”
“I think I owe you the drink.”
“I think you do,” he said as he extended his hand. “My name’s Domenic.”
We shook hands.
“Nice to meet you, Domenic.”
“And you, darling? You got a name?”
Acknowledgements
AS always, I must first thank Stephanie Kip Rostan and Marysue Rucci. I am ridiculously fortunate to have an agent and an editor who had faith that I could write a whole book based on a two-sentence pitch in a bar.
At S&S I must thank Carolyn Reidy and Jon Karp. You both have been extremely generous and supportive. I am in your debt. Also at S&S: Richard Rhorer, Laura Regan, Amanda Lang, Sarah Reidy, Marilyn Doof, Allison Har-zvi, Kristen Lemire, Ebony LaDelle, and Maureen Cole. You are all fantastic. Last but not least, Jonathan Evans. Thanks to you I will never have to master the English language.
To all of the amazing people at my literary agency, Levine Greenberg Rostan! (I added the exclamation point, but I think it works): Jim Levine, Dan Greenberg, Melissa Rowland, Beth Fisher, Miek Coccia, Monika Verma, Tim Wojcik, Kerry Sparks, Lindsay Edgecombe, and Shelby Boyer. Thank you will never be enough.
Clair Lamb and David Hayward deserve some kind of award for having to suffer through my writing in its lowest form. They are remarkable at finding the right words that keep me going. I love you both.
And friends: Morgan Dox, Steve Kim, Julie Ulmer, and Julie Shiroishi. I’d be lost without you. Diego Aldana, thanks for the catch in the last book and the idea for the hideout in this one. Hopeton Hay and Tim Chamberlain: Thanks for the scoop on Austin and for the years of great interviews.
Thanks to David at Camp Scatico for the tour.
Family: Aunt Bev, Uncle Mark, Uncle Jeff, Aunt Eve, Jay, Anastasia, Dan, and Lori.
Thanks to all my criminal friends who make me feel like I’m part of something. There are too many to list, but you know who you are.
Since I have to turn this in now and I know I’m forgetting someone:
Thank you, .I You are like my favorite person ever.
* * *
I. Insert your name here.
© DAVID MIDDLETON
LISA LUTZ is the New York Times bestsel
ling author of the Spellman Files series, Heads You Lose (with David Hayward), and How to Start a Fire. Lutz won the Alex Award and has been nominated for the Edgar Award for best novel. She lives in upstate New York.
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ALSO BY LISA LUTZ
How to Start a Fire
The Spellman Files
Curse of the Spellmans
Revenge of the Spellmans
The Spellmans Strike Again
Trail of the Spellmans
Spellman Six: The Next Generation (previously published as The Last Word)
Heads You Lose (with David Hayward)
How to Negotiate Everything (illustrated by Jaime Temairik)
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN 978-1-4516-8663-0
ISBN 978-1-4516-8665-4 (ebook)