“That’s incredibly cruel,” I said. My heart hurt for poor Cora.
“It was psychotic,” Joyce said. “And still, the bullying continued. She would taunt and tease Cora every day like it was her mission to destroy her. And so . . . she did.”
Joyce paused for a long moment, her eyes flickering back and forth as if she were actually reading her daughter’s diary. At last, she continued. “She convinced Cora that she was worthless. That she was a nothing. That she shouldn’t even be alive. She told her that if she really wanted to do the world a favor, she should go drown herself in the ocean. The next day, that’s exactly what my daughter did.”
I put a hand to my mouth. As a mother, I was fiercely protective of my sons, but even they had each other for those times when the occasional bully came along. Cora had had no one. She’d borne the brunt of Heather’s cruel bullying without a soul coming to her rescue. And I had no doubt that Joyce hadn’t been aware of her daughter’s daily struggles. That’s just how some kids are. They take it all in and internalize it.
“All this was in her diary?” I asked.
“Yes,” Joyce said. “Pages and pages of the cruelty she’d endured. And it explained so much about the slow withdrawal of our daughter over those months. Her sullen mood—keeping to herself and her desire for long stretches of exercise. I believe she was chasing endorphins, anything to pull her out of the depression slowly sucking the life out of her. If Heather hadn’t planted the suggestion of killing herself when my daughter was at her most vulnerable, her most exhausted, her most depressed, maybe Cora would still be here, but Heather always had a sense for when to initiate the perfect strike to take down her enemies.”
“Why didn’t you take the diary to the police?” I asked.
Joyce scoffed at me. “And say what, exactly? Catherine, you have to remember that back then, there was no anti-bullying legislation. Things like that were simply what kids did to each other, and parents were left to blame themselves, and blame myself I did for years and years. And then, when the spotlight began to shine on the weaponization of social media, and how a number of children were being targeted and bullied through it, I began to rethink my daughter’s diary and my role in her death. I realized that it hadn’t been me or my husband who were to blame. It’d all been Heather.
“So I waited until my husband died, and I moved back here and retook my maiden name. I looked up Heather and discovered her still here, still evil, still conniving and cruel.
“I went to a local women’s group gathering where she was a speaker, and much to my relief, I discovered that she didn’t recognize me. It was so easy to become her acquaintance. I simply told her how clever she was. How cunning. She lapped it up like a hungry dog.
“And then I waited for my chance. I’ve had that bottle of quinine pills in my purse for almost two years, you know. While everyone was distracted over talk of you, I slipped a few into the punch and waited. But Heather didn’t have any punch at the party, and I thought my opportunity had been lost. But then I woke up to read the paper and discovered that someone else had done the deed!” Joyce laughed and clapped her hands together. Smiling in near delight, she said, “That was one of the happiest days of my life. It was made only happier when I read that you were no longer a suspect because the evidence at the scene suggested that Heather had been poisoned, not bludgeoned to death.”
Joyce closed her eyes, sat back in her chair, and sighed happily. “Revenge,” she said. “Sweet, delicious, citrus-infused . . . it was the very best punch I ever sipped, Catherine. Thank you for making it.”
My eyes widened. “I had no idea you’d use it to murder her, Joyce.”
“Of course, dear. I know. Still, I’m grateful.”
I opened my mouth to protest further—I didn’t want anyone to think I had anything to do with Heather’s murder, but at that moment a shadow appeared next to our table.
I looked up and saw the woman with the flaming red hair standing there, but she was turned toward Joyce, who was also looking curiously up at her. The woman reached over our table and pulled out a small round disc from the sugar container. I had no idea what it was, but she palmed it before reaching up to pull on the cord connecting her earbuds, and they fell away from her ears, clicking against something in her other hand.
It was then that I noticed the gun pointed directly at Joyce. “You stole my paycheck,” she said to her and fired two rounds into Joyce.
I sat there frozen as the elderly woman toppled backward onto the floor, a deep red stain spreading out from her limp form as pandemonium erupted in the café. Screams filled the air, along with the sound of furniture scraping and tumbling across the bare floor as people scrambled in all directions to flee the place.
As the chaos around me unfolded, however, I remained still as a statue, stunned into a frozen posture, unable to move, to duck, to flee. It was like everything was happening slowly and distantly. I was looking at Joyce, trying to process what’d happened to her while trying to also process that the Angel of Death had come to stand next to our table and take out an old woman, and was now pointing that same gun right at my face.
“Say goodnight, Catherine,” she said to me.
The words rose above the panicked screams and cries of those fleeing the scene, and they should have terrified me, but I couldn’t seem to make the connection between what was happening and what’d already happened. “You killed her,” I whispered, moving my gaze from the gun to the woman’s face. And in that moment, that brief second or two, I saw her. I really saw her through the façade of her wig, and the glasses, and heavily applied makeup. I took in all of her features and imprinted them into my memory like a brand.
Her eyes widened ever so slightly, as if surprised that I was making direct eye contact, and then a cruel smile appeared on her lips, and I knew that she was about to kill me too.
I blinked, slowly, dully, almost drunkenly, and in the time it took to blink, I felt a puff of air and heard a high-pitched buzzing sound.
The next sound I heard was a gunshot, and then something hit me with tremendous force, and I went flying backward.
Chapter 17
My back connected with the chair and table behind me, which I guess broke my fall and prevented my head from slamming against the concrete floor.
Still, it hurt like a son of a bitch.
Sprawled out on the ground, I tried to move, but something heavy lay on top of me. As I feebly tried to move, I felt a wetness begin to seep through my blouse. I managed to get a hand free and felt around on my chest, which was wet and sticky. Pulling my hand up, I saw it covered in blood and felt my stomach muscles clench.
And then Gilley was there, hovering above me, his tablet clutched in his hands. “Cat!” he cried. “Are you hurt?”
I nodded, tears misting my vision. “I . . . I think I’ve been shot!” I gasped.
Gilley sank to his knees and put his hand on the heavy object lying on me. “Shepherd!” he said urgently. “Detective!”
It was then that I realized that Shepherd was the thing pinning me to the floor.
“What?” he said weakly.
“Get off Catherine!” Gilley cried. “She’s been shot!”
Shepherd grunted and rolled to the side, sliding down off me to the floor. “She’s fine,” he growled.
Gilley jumped over the detective to my other side and crouched down. “Ohmigod!” he wailed. “She’s not fine, you ass! She’s covered in blood!”
My breathing was coming in short, raspy pants. I’d been shot. I’d been shot! “Call my sister!” I said, taking Gilley’s hand. “Tell her I love her!”
“Oh, Cat!” Gilley wailed, tears forming in his eyes and dribbling down his cheeks. “Honey, stay with me! Stay with me!”
I closed my eyes and squeezed Gilley’s hand. “Call the boys,” I said next. “Tell them I love them more than they’ll ever know, and if I don’t make it, Gilley, . . . you tell them . . . tell them . . .”
“Oh, for
Christ’s sake!” Shepherd moaned.
Gilley and I both looked over at the detective. I was so angry that he was ruining my good-bye speech. I was obviously mortally wounded, and he wasn’t even helping to staunch the flow of blood!
But then I saw Shepherd use one arm to painfully prop himself up, and as he did so, several drips of blood fell from just under the shoulder area of his other arm. “She’s not wounded,” Shepherd insisted. “I am.”
The sound of sirens in the distance drew closer, but otherwise an eerie silence filled the café. Just to make sure, I began to pat myself down and quickly discovered that I was in fact completely sound . . . well, save for a bruised back, of course. Gilley helped me to sit up, and I crawled over to Shepherd, who’d managed to wiggle himself against the wall. Sitting there awkwardly, he tried to apply pressure to his wound, but the angle made it difficult. “Gilley,” I said. “Take off your shirt.”
“Why?”
“We need something to apply pressure with to stop the bleeding,” I snapped. I had no time for explanations.
“But this is a new—”
“I’ll buy you another one!” I roared. “Just give it to me!”
Gilley quickly pulled off his dress shirt and handed it to me. “Sorry. Of course. Sorry!”
I wadded up the shirt and pushed it against the terrible hole in Shepherd’s shoulder. Looking at his face, I could see the color draining away. He was losing too much blood. “Stay with me, Detective!” I commanded.
“Sure,” he said, patting my arm with his good hand. The move was sluggish.
“Gilley,” I said next. “Check on Joyce.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Gilley said, “She’s gone, Cat.”
I swallowed hard as a wave of emotions washed over me. Fear and anger and adrenaline all fueled an instinct in me that I’d never felt before. “What happened to the assassin?”
“She got away,” Gil said. “The second she shot Joyce, Shepherd ran out of the sub shop to try and get to you. It took me a minute or two to think about dive-bombing her with the drone. I’m really sorry. I should’ve thought of it sooner.”
I shook my head, fighting tears as I pushed hard against Shepherd’s shoulder while the blood continued to seep out of the wound and soak Gilley’s shirt. “What’s taking them so long?!” I growled.
“They’ll wait until all units have responded,” Shepherd said. “Set up a perimeter around the café and try to make contact with us before coming inside.”
“Why?”
“Cuz they don’t want to get shot themselves,” he said, his words thick and slurred.
Gilley squatted down next to us. “Should I go out there and tell them to come in?”
“No,” Shepherd said. “They might shoot you.” Patting his pocket, Shepherd added, “Hey. Help me get my phone out. I’ll call them.”
Gilley worked with the detective to retrieve his phone and held it for him while Shepherd tapped at the screen with a shaky finger. After a few taps, Gil held the phone up to Shepherd’s ear, and the detective said, “Hey, it’s me. No shooter inside the café. You guys can come in. And let the paramedics in too. There’s an officer down.”
With that, Shepherd collapsed into my arms, losing consciousness.
* * *
Hours later, Gilley and I were with Sunny in the ER waiting room. We sat on either side of her, each holding tightly to her hand while we silently waited. And prayed. And waited some more.
“It’s bad when it takes this long, isn’t it?” she asked softly.
“Not necessarily,” I was quick to reply. “It simply could mean they want to do a thorough job of repairing the wound.”
“He can’t die,” she said wetly. “I’m naming the baby after him. He can’t die before they meet, I mean, he can’t. Right?”
Gilley squeezed her hand. “Hey,” he said. “Sunny, Steve is going to be okay. He will be. He will.”
Sunny stared at Gilley as if she needed to hear those words, put exactly that way. She nodded even though more tears slid down her cheeks, and I had a hard time holding my own in check.
After all, the man had dived right in front of me to block a bullet meant to end my life, and in doing that, he’d been willing to sacrifice his own life. I knew exactly how Sunny felt. Shepherd couldn’t die. He just couldn’t leave me with the guilt of knowing he’d done that.
I shut my eyes and began to pray again when I heard Gil say, “Here comes the surgeon.”
We all stood up as Dr. Najib approached. She wore scrubs and a blank expression, but when she came to a stop in front of us, she smiled widely, and I felt such a rush of relief because no surgeon with bad news could ever beam such a beautiful smile. “He did very well,” she said. “The bullet pierced his axillary vein, which is the reason he lost so much blood so quickly, but we were able to repair it and transfuse enough blood to keep him stable enough to then reinflate his lung, which had collapsed as a result of the internal ricochet of the bullet. Two ribs were also broken, but we’ll just have to allow those to heal on their own.”
“Oh my goodness!” I gasped. “The bullet did all that?”
She nodded solemnly. “It was a high-caliber bullet shot at nearly point-blank range. I think he’s very, very lucky it didn’t do even more damage.”
I felt my face drain of color. The poor man had suffered all of that and very nearly lost his life—just to save me. The weight of the debt I owed him settled on my shoulders like a boulder.
“Can I see him?” Sunny asked.
“He’s still coming out of the anesthesia,” Dr. Najib said. “He’ll be in recovery for another hour or so. When he gets moved to the critical-care unit, I’ll alert a nurse to take you to him, but it will have to be a brief visit. He really does need to rest and allow his body to heal.”
Sunny nodded, and she squeezed our hands. Both the relief and the continuing worry for her twin were evident in her expression.
Dr. Najib left us, and we returned to sit vigil with Sunny. “Are you hungry, Sunny?” I asked after a little while.
She sighed tiredly and rubbed her belly. “I do need to eat,” she said. “The baby needs his nutrition.”
I stood and eyed the clock, somewhat shocked to realize that it was nearly nine o’clock. “The cafeteria is probably closed by now, but Mitchell’s is just down the street. I’ll head there and bring you back something, okay?”
She smiled gratefully at me. “That would be lovely, Catherine. Thank you.”
I nodded to Gilley. “You stay with Sunny. I’ll bring you back something too.”
He grinned as well. “Thanks, Cat. You’re the best.”
I left the pair and headed out to the parking lot, shivering in the cold air of the evening. I’d traded my bloodstained clothes for a pair of hospital scrubs, and the kindly hospital staff had allowed me to use the faculty shower to clean off the blood that’d soaked through. I could’ve gone home to shower and change, of course, but I hadn’t wanted to leave the hospital until I was sure of Shephard’s condition.
After making the quick drive to Mitchell’s, I parked and scooted inside, hurrying to the bar, where it was warm and I could order a carryout. After settling into a barstool and being handed a menu, I was surveying the dinner entrées when I heard a familiar voice say, “Catherine?”
I stiffened. Peering over my shoulder, I pushed a giant happy smile onto my face and said, “Hello, Maks. What a sur—” I gasped before I could finish the sentence.
It was clear that Maks, who was wearing a coat and scarf, had spotted me as he was leaving, but that wasn’t what took me aback. No, it was the woman beside him, strolling for the door with a quickening pace.
The Angel of Death was also leaving the building.
“Catherine?” Maks said, his gaze shifting between me and the woman leaving. And then he quickly came to me, but I slid off the chair and backed up against the bar, terrified.
“Catherine?” he said again, putting a hand out to touch me, b
ut I jerked away.
I stared into his eyes and saw genuine confusion there. Meanwhile, the Angel of Death was waltzing through the double doors of the restaurant like she didn’t have a care in the world.
And then I began to wonder if I’d really seen what I’d seen. Had she been the assassin I’d made eye contact with only hours before?
I pointed to her retreating form, still only just visible through the doors as they were closing. “That woman . . . ,” I said breathlessly.
Maks glanced over his shoulder. “Oh!” he said, his expression blossoming with understanding. “She and I were discussing business. I assure you, there was nothing romantic in our dinner meeting.”
I blinked at him and shook my head. “So you do know her.”
“Greta? Yes, we’re old colleagues. I’ve known her for years.”
My breathing was coming in short quick pants, and I was conscious that a cold sweat had broken out across my brow. I slid sideways along the bar away from Maks. I had no idea what was going on, or why he had a colleague who was an assassin, but I didn’t really want to stick around and find out.
Confusion returned to his expression. “Catherine?” he said again. “What is it? And why are you wearing scrubs?”
He stepped closer to me, and I held the menu out in front of me like a shield. “Don’t!” I said loudly.
He stopped in his tracks as several patrons glanced our way.
“Ma’am?” the bartender asked me. “Are you all right?”
I shook my head, my gaze focused on Maks, waiting for him to do something that would cause me bodily harm. “No,” I said. “I’m not. Call the police.”
Maks’s eyes widened, and there was something in his eyes . . . something like hurt. “Catherine,” he said softly, “what is it that’s frightening you so much?”
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