Murder

by Ella James

  “Such a comedian,” he says now. He runs a hand along my hair. “Be safe, now.”

  “For sure. You too. Talk to you soon?”

  “I’ll call tomorrow.”

  I blow him a kiss and climb up into Jamie’s silver Caddy, bound for my favorite place on earth.

  SEVENTEEN

  Barrett

  November 6, 2015

  “Hey, man.” I hold my phone against my ear and lean against the bathroom wall. “You probably won’t remember me, but you did a tat for me about three years ago.”

  “Yeah, man. Sounds right. I’ve been here since ’09.”

  “It was a snowflake.”

  “Yeah?”

  “A little snowflake on my neck, kind of near my hairline in the back.”

  “I think I remember you. Real big guy? Dark hair?”

  I nod, and blink into the mirror. “That was me.” In my line of work, it’s wise to assume you’re going to stick out. When you’re six-foot-three, you have to.

  “So what can I help you with?” he asks.

  “I was wondering if you drew it.”

  “That snowflake?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I draw them all. So yeah. All my shit is custom.”

  “You give them out a lot?” I ask.

  “You got a problem, man?”

  “No. No problem.” I inhale slowly, hoping to bring my voice up from where it goes down deep when I’m thinking hard about something. So I don’t sound pissed off. “I saw a girl the other day—same tat. I was wondering if that means she got it up in Breckenridge.”

  “Exact same?”

  “Yeah. You do the same snowflake on everybody?”

  He hums, as if he’s thinking. “For a while I did. Last year I started doing another one, seven pointed, kind of artsy. Gotta keep it fresh.”

  I exhale slowly. “Yeah. Well brother, thanks.”

  “No problem. Nothing I can help you with?”

  I laugh, as if I’m embarrassed. “Just chasing a girl.”

  “Good luck, man.”

  “Yeah. Thanks, dude.”

  “Have a good one.”

  “You too. Catch ya later.”

  I hang up with Roy J. Bidd from High Altitudes Tattoo & Piercing and stare down at my phone.

  So the tat we have is custom, sort of. He didn’t get it out of some tattoo artists’ stock art book. I couldn’t tell if it was identical, because I can’t see mine easily. But now I know it probably is. It doesn’t matter. Gwen won’t know.

  I slide the phone into my pocket and walk back into my bedroom. Like I did a little while ago, I catch myself staring at the bed. Gwenna made it before she left. Piled the pillows up, straightened the duvet so there’s no wrinkles. I don’t think I’ve seen a bed this neat since boot camp.

  I step over and look down at the note still lying where she left it right in front of the pillows.

  How’d you know my favorite scones?

  Don’t be a stranger. Pretty please…

  XOX

  I tuck the note into my pocket and consider getting up there on the bed, but decide to leave it untouched for right now. I go over to the armchair, which I pulled away from the window when Gwenna was here. It feels strange, sitting in it near the middle of the room. I start to drag it to the window, but for some reason I stop halfway there.

  I sink back into the chair and scroll through my phone. Sooner or later, someone’s going to notice I still have it, or maybe they don’t give a fuck. It is mine, after all. I did all the coding. They would need to gut it—software, hardware, all—so it’s nothing more than just a case, and what would be the point of confiscating that? I could build the same thing inside any regular ass iPhone case. Easier just to let me keep the one I have already. That way they can still track me. We’re told they won’t do that once we leave the Unit, but when I called Alec Ludlum about tracking Blue, he asked me what I was doing down in Tennessee.

  I look open my phone’s screen and look briefly at the picture of Gwen’s little snowflake tat, then nav over to track Blue. I find him sidelined in Kentucky, somewhere known as Berea, where he seems to be spending time at a local library.

  Then I read Dove’s latest text.

  ‘All cool, Bear?’

  ‘All cool,’ I reply.

  I shut the thing right down, then wash my face with ice cold water and pop a piece of MEG gum so I don’t have to drink a coffee or a Red Bull. I make a mug of Keurig hot chocolate and take it to the back porch, where, for once, I don’t do anything but sit there watching the trees.

  Then, when the sun starts slipping behind the foothills, I grab the groceries I bought a couple hours ago, after I delivered Gwenna’s scones, and put them in my rucksack. I leave it at the bottom of the stairs and go back up to the bathroom, where I stare at the tub for a minute before brushing my teeth.

  I rinse with mouthwash like a fucking teenager and can’t resist a quick look in the mirror. Looking fucking weird with this long hair. I trimmed the beard down so it’s kind of prickly. I rub my eyes and look down at my white shirt and black jeans.

  I should maybe call first…but I don’t. I go downstairs and get my pack and lock up. I put my hand against the swing, making a mental note to bolt it down or move it before I go down the stairs. As I step into the woods, I check my pants for my .38 and find I left without it.

  That beats all. Unarmed and with a rucksack full of food. I smile a little as I trek toward her place.

  GWENNA

  It’s too warm in Tennessee for hibernation—at least the kind you hear about. Black bears just curl up nice and cozy somewhere and don’t move much. But they’re still bears. Their bodies still know the cycle of things. So they still try to stock up on food before.

  I have cameras set on two of their most common dining halls: a patch of wild grapes and a grove of oak trees, heavy with acorns. When I look, after I get home from Barrett’s in the morning, both places look pretty picked over. So I make an unplanned trip into the enclosure a little after noon.

  I throw out nine vitamin ball bombs and sink a wooden case of frozen rainbow trout in the pond. I don’t see Papa, who I know from my pre-visit cam check is many acres away. I decide not to linger, even though it makes me sad. I consider going back in tomorrow to organize the stock shed. If Papa scents me and wanders over… Well, who am I to protest?

  With a silly smile on my face, I walk back to my cabin, call the local Wal-Mart to ask about Christmas lights, and spend the next two hours catching up on work-related emails—with St. Jude’s, with the stuffed bear supplier, with a few Beary Appreciated Donors, and with the fencing company, who last week was supposed to send someone to patch a weak spot on the east side of the fence, but didn’t.

  I realize as I wait on hold with the fencing place that I haven’t even thought to check the cameras for my creeper. I skim through a few hours of footage, then Jamie calls and I keep on skimming as she tells me about Niccolo, and how his mom is depressed because she and his dad are having trouble, and Nic’s brother—the poor, sweet, dead one, John—was honored recently with some kind of posthumous Army award, and did I know Jamie thinks she might have gotten her very first gray hair, and before I know it, I’ve skimmed 42 hours of cam footage and there hasn’t been a single trace of anybody.

  Sweet!

  I hear Jamie stop her motor-mouthing and take a sip of something.

  “Are you at Starbucks?”

  “I’m meeting a client.”

  “When?” I giggle. “We’ve been on the phone almost an hour.”

  “Hmm, well then they’re late. I should go find out what happened.”

  We hang up without me telling her about my night with Barrett, and to be honest, I’m kind of glad. It’s nice to keep it to myself: my very own delicious secret.

  I spend the next hour doing Bible study and then meditating, and by the time I’m finished, I’m feeling very zen about this thing with Barrett. Either it’ll bloom into something or it won�
��t. All I can do is open myself up to what God wants to give me and continue trying to be grateful for whatever comes my way.

  I pass the rest of my afternoon fertilizing my gardenias, making a trip to Wal-Mart for a laundry list of household items, and then dragging a ladder around my bedroom, stringing lights from the ceiling.

  I tell myself if nothing more happens with Barrett, I’ll be glad to have the lights. It’s getting colder, closer to the holidays, and usually when it gets near Christmas, I have a harder time with my own nightmares.

  On that note, I decide to pull out my journal and get a hold of my feelings.

  I spent the night at Barrett’s last night. I went over there drunk, and he seemed really off from the first moment, now that I look back on it. I tried to leave after just a little bit, and he wanted me to stay. And then we were in his den and he started having a panic attack. I felt so bad for him.

  Somehow he ended up telling me he’s a killer. And of course, I had no idea what to make of that. I finally figured out he was saying he was a sniper, and somewhere in the night he said he was in ACE. I saw some random internet news story about Delta Force where they talked about the name change, so that’s the only reason I even know what it is. (So, holy hell, Barrett came from Delta Force… I now understand the mad martial arts skillz).

  Anyway—he talked so long about how he should keep his distance from me because of the things he’d been through, and at one point he even said something along the lines of ‘people shouldn’t come back from war,’ or maybe just he shouldn’t have. I know what PTSD is like but… I don’t know. His stuff is so different than mine. He just seemed so lost. I can see that he’s in so much pain, and I’m not even really sure what to do for him. It’s hard, and it already really hurts, and we don’t even know each other long term or anything. There have been so many moments that I’ve had my arms around him, just holding him. I can feel how much he needs it. I can tell he’s trying to be strong. I asked once in bed last night if he was awake and he said he didn’t know. And then he said he was sorry. For having this traumatic dream where he sobbed and sobbed. I can’t even imagine him there by himself when that happens. Even last night with me there… he really didn’t accept that much comfort from me.

  Downstairs earlier in the night he laid on the floor with me after telling me about how he sees people he knows, dead. He let me hold him, and he held me back. But after his dream, the second he was collected enough to get up, he did. He had a really hard time accepting comfort from me at first. And I said we should sleep together more—like the close your eyes kind of sleep—and he didn’t get why I would offer. I don’t know. It makes me sad.

  And then there’s this entire other element because we had sex last night. THREE times. He took me from behind the first time downstairs, and oh my God—the way his dick rubbed my G-spot. He’s…shall we say ‘well hung’ and he knew just when to reach around and rub. I still get all hot thinking of it. And then upstairs… We got this bath together after his nightmare, and I was in the bath with him and… Whoa. He’s just so beautiful. I can’t even. Even his feet are perfect.

  I found out he’s 29, and he says in special forces, that’s old. He said he heard me talk at county commission, and you know what, I think I remember? I’m going to ask him next time I see him if he has a blue ball cap. Anyway—geez. He’s said so many kind things to me. So many sweet things. Still, I didn’t feel like I knew for sure what was going on until he jumped on me at the end of our bath last night. He said something like “I tried to stop myself.” All his sounds, all his movements, they were frenzied. As soon as we finished, we went and got in bed, still wet. I’ve felt on guard for so long, and lonely, and then I’m with Barrett and I just feel like I can rest. I’ve got it bad. I know. The funny thing is, I’m scared but in a larger way I’m not. I feel like someone standing on a precipice with my arms stretched wide. I’m not scared of falling. Especially if he falls with me, and I can hold onto him.

  I laugh when I realize I didn’t write a thing about my own trauma or my own nightmares. But that’s not bad, I tell myself.

  I notice when I put my journal back on my bedside table that it’s 4:30. I wonder what he’s doing. Then I tell myself I can’t wonder. I make a plan to take a bubble bath, in which I’ll shave and groom…certain areas. Then I’ll lotion myself up and re-paint my nails and maybe do a mask. After which I may have some Absinthe. I might cook the tenderloin I got the other day: an easy, crockpot thing. Then, if nothing else comes up, I’ll read. I’m still a little tired from last night, so if nothing else happens, I’ll hit the hay early and skip my workout today.

  I do a good job sticking to my vows, and I do things in the order I planned. I’m lying on my bed, holding my phone up above my face so I can read Kyland by Mia Sheridan, one of my favorite authors, when I hear my doorbell ring.

  I swear, my heart nearly explodes. I set my phone down, grab a deep breath, and look down at myself.

  It’s probably the mailman, I tell myself. Mom was going to send a package with some jeans she bought me at some special best-ass-ever jeans store. I tap my face—my cracking, blue-green face—and tip-toe to the door. I peer through the peephole and my stomach ties itself into a knot.

  Not the mail man.

  Barrett.

  EIGHTEEN

  GWENNA

  December 30, 2011

  The Madisons always fly us out to Colorado first class—going back to when Jamie and I were geeky freshmen lugging dorm room pillows and dangling gemstone-colored earbuds from our iPods.

  Jamie’s dad is Larry Madison, the infamous economist, Machiavelli enthusiast, Republican talking head, and real estate magnate. It’s true he loves a good debate, and I can’t vouch for him in business dealings, but when it comes to family, the man is a big fluff ball.

  Even though I just starred in a movie, and in October signed a really decent record deal, the Madisons would never dream of letting me pay for my own plane ticket. I imagine even if—no, when—I hit it supernova big, Larry and Jamie’s mother, Fiona, will always book our New Year’s flights.

  Unless Elvie and I are married. Maybe then they’d let me pay for my own.

  Jamie covers her ears. “Stop!”

  I blink, and realize I’m slurping up the last drops of my screwdriver. I grin and give my red straw one final slurp. A gray-haired man across the aisle, wearing a pair of square-ish reading glasses and hunching over The Wall Street Journal, looks up at me. I wink, and he smirks.

  Charm has always been a big gun in my repertoire of talents, but since about this time last year, when all the End of Day billboards went up, I’ve noticed almost everyone returns my smiles. Even more so since the movie premiered July 2 to really strong reviews.

  I lean my seat back, shut my eyes, and start to run the song I’m composing through my head. Naturally, this is the moment Jamie picks to tap my arm. I glare up at her. Jamie’s gaze darts to the stewardess standing in front of the first class section.

  “Argh.” I sit my seat up just as the woman starts her yada yada yada, preparing to land speech.

  I’m eager to land, mostly so I can turn my phone on. Elvie should be setting up at the Bluebird about now, and I want to be sure I’m the only woman on his mind. I’m sure that hussy Heather is working tonight. She always works the nights he plays. I know he’d never leave me for an apple-shaped, 4’10 brunette with yellow teeth and body odor, but even I’ll admit the girl has a nice voice, and she knows just how to stroke Elvie’s XL ego.

  As the wheels come down and the plane begins to tilt, offering a stunning, white-capped mountain view, I try to tell myself that I’m good at that, too.

  With the famous duo The Wessons as parents, there was never any chance Elvie wouldn’t be both a born showman and also completely full of himself.

  I sometimes jokingly call him my sea lion, because I really think he could perform all day and night for the next sixty years and die happy. And unmarried. And childless. Probably with g
onorrhea from the groupies.

  Jamie bats at my hands. “Put that phone up, girl. You don’t need to be his babysitter.”

  I give her a long blink. “I was looking at the weather, bitch.”

  She snaps her fingers in my face. “That’s easy. Snow.”

  “And snow.”

  “And more and more snow.” She rubs her skinny hands together. “I can’t wait to ski!”

  Five hours later, we’re doing just that. I’ve got a hunter green snowsuit Elvie gave me for Christmas, “for when the paparazzi stalk you,” and by all accounts, it seems to be doing its job. It’s too dark on the artificially-lit slopes for anyone to recognize my face, but I’ve gotten three offers to head down to the bars, and two unsolicited phone numbers. This all in the last hour.

  The night ski crowd is young and horny.

  Jamie and I ski down behind a group of high schoolers, and afterward she says, “I’m going to the women’s room.”

  “Okay. Meet you back down here in 10 or 15.”

  “You should give me your phone.”

  I stick my tongue out at her, then ski over to the lifts. I wait a few minutes for an unoccupied pod, and when the crowd around me only grows, I get into one of the little pods with two guys.

  I try to ignore them, looking down at my phone. Somewhere along the ascent, I get two bars of service. I want to see if Elvie’s texted me a compliment on the ski suit ass shot I sent earlier.

  Just as I confirm there’s no text waiting in my inbox, I feel a pair of eyes on me. A second later, one of the guys says, “Hey…are you that girl?”

  Despite my lousy mood, I’m prepared, and flash a quick smile his way. “Yes. I’m definitely that girl.”

  I hear a cough, followed by rich laughter, and look up into a handsome face.

  The guy who first spoke rolls his eyes at his companion, the dark-haired, dark-eyed guy who’s giving me a lets-fuck look.