My throat clogs.
I approach Mom’s car.
I hold my breath, unable to look away from the carnage about to happen. Then the screen changes. Another angle of the store.
And a man.
There’s no mistaking his frame. His build. His height. And if that wasn’t enough for me, his face. I inhale, checking the digits in the corner. Same day. Same time.
“No,” I whisper, as James moves out of the shot. I only see a spark. Not the full explosion. Not me being flung skyward and landing in a broken, burned heap. I drop my phone. Numb. Dazed. I look around James’s bedroom. See a black T-shirt hanging over the chair. I get up and walk on surprisingly steady legs to fetch it, pulling it over my head and down my body.
Then I go to his office and pull open drawer after drawer. I find burner phones. Lots of them. Then a drawer with a laptop. And under it . . .
58
JAMES
I scrape some peeled mango from the chopping board into the blender, checking the cameras on my phone where it’s propped against the coffee machine. I see Beau in my bedroom pulling on one of my T-shirts. Naturally, I wonder how the conversation with her uncle went. And, naturally, I growl under my breath.
I watch her leave my bedroom and enter my office. She goes to my desk and starts rummaging through the drawers where I keep my phones and laptop. I lay down the knife. What is she doing? Or looking for? She pulls something out and rushes to the door, and I collect my phone to zoom in, but she’s out of my office fast. I turn my stare from my mobile to the top of the stairs.
And freeze.
My eyes travel from Beau’s empty, emotionless eyes, down her scarred arm to her hand.
Where I find a gun.
And I know the fucker is loaded. “What the fuck?” I ask, watching as she takes the stairs, her arm extended, the gun aimed my way. If I didn’t know her, if Beau was any other woman, I’d say her chance of hitting me from that distance was minimal. But I know Beau. I know she aced the Phase 1. I know she breezed through target practice and rarely missed the fucking bullseye. And here I am. The bullseye.
“You killed my mother,” she says, reaching the bottom of the stairs and edging around the room carefully, her aim never wavering. My world narrows and tunnels, every vision from that night charging forward. And my heart? That fucker slows until it feels like it could stop.
“Put the gun down, Beau,” I order, turning on the spot so I remain facing her, keeping her target in range.
“You lied to me. I saw you on the footage.” Her face is scarily impassive. Her voice worryingly steady. Her body free from shakes.
“The gun, Beau,” I say calmly as she comes to a stop by the window. “Please, put the gun down.”
Her arm jolts, the gun jarring threateningly, and I retreat a step, wary. “My mom was hunting you for years. Did she get too close for comfort?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head to reinforce it, but I really can’t deny that Jaz Hayley got too close too many times. The woman’s capabilities were frightening. I often thought it was right place, right time. But I soon learned she had a kind of sixth sense, and it was that sixth sense that earned her the respect she demanded from both her peers and the criminals she hunted down. But . . . what footage is Beau talking about, where the hell has it come from, and why only now, two years later?
“Yes,” she says calmly.
“What fucking footage, Beau?”
“Outside the store. The night my mom was killed. You’re there.”
Oh Jesus. “It’s not what you think.”
“Don’t lie to me!” Beau screams, her composure gone, her arm starting to shake. I watch as she lifts her cast to try and support her other arm. She’s aching. She won’t be able to hold her position for much longer.
I step forward slowly, my hands up in surrender. “Let me explain.” The elevator dings, and Beau swings her aim toward it as the doors open, revealing Goldie. It takes her a second to take in the scene and draw her gun, aiming it at Beau.
“No,” I yell, torn between getting between them or backing off. Beau’s gun redirects to me, and Goldie looks between us, her face a picture of What the fuck?
“Put the fucking gun down, Beau,” I demand, raising my hand in indication for Goldie to do the same.
“Take it easy,” Goldie says quietly. I know she doesn’t like it, but she slowly lowers her weapon to the floor.
“Don’t fucking tell me to take it easy,” Beau shouts, her eyes pooling, the gun shaking. “It was you in the footage. Say it was you.”
God damn it, this is not how this was supposed to go. “It was me,” I admit, my options limited.
She moves fast and fires a shot, and I flinch, ducking, the bullet sinking into a cupboard behind me.
“Beau!” Goldie barks.
“What the fuck?” I murmur, all hell breaking loose across the room. I gather myself, just as Goldie moves in, tackling Beau to the floor. “Goldie, no!” I roar, sprinting toward them as Beau lands with a thud, crying out as her arm smacks the floor. It doesn’t stop her. A second later, she has Goldie at her mercy in a choke hold and her eyes bulge, her legs flailing, as her hands wrap around Beau’s arm and cast to try and free herself. Jesus Christ.
I see it happen before Goldie has even engaged, her head flying back and cracking Beau on the cheek. It gives her the moment she needs to free herself, and she spins, pulling back her fist, ready to sink it into Beau’s face. But Beau moves fast, flipping herself over, and Goldie’s fist lands in Beau’s side, winding her. “Goldie, stop!” I bellow, grabbing her from behind and yanking her back. “For fuck’s sake, stop!” I’ve seen Goldie lose it only once. Only once has the red mist descended and sent her psycho. When that happens, she’s unmoving. Unstoppable. She won’t quit until her victim is unconscious or even dead.
“She’s pregnant!” I yell, shoving Goldie away. “For fuck’s sake, she’s fucking pregnant.” I go to Beau on the floor and start to gather her up, but I’m met with force, her hands batting me away.
She scrambles up, moving back, retreating. “What are you talking about?” she wheezes, eyes darting wildly. And it hits me. What I’ve said. Fuck.
“You’re pregnant.” I exhale, wishing for a clean outcome to this shitshow.
“You said negative.” Beau points up the stairs, as if I could have forgotten the scene in the bathroom after my apartment got ambushed. “You said it was negative.”
I did. I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was seeing the absolute terror in her eyes. Maybe I wanted to test just how relieved I thought she’d be. How much she didn’t want it. I never anticipated the level of her appreciation. How happy she was. Her smile. And then I couldn’t bring myself to utter the words that would send her relief spiraling into regret. And the truth is, I was gutted. Stunned. Not only by Beau’s reaction, but by my disappointment. Because in that moment, I saw a glimmer of hope for us both. Something to turn us both around. Something to tear us away from vengeance and bring us peace. Something other than each other, for there is nothing to save us from ourselves. Except, perhaps, a new life. Not death, not blood, not pain, not revenge. Peace in its purest form and purpose of the most promising kind. It’s something I never considered finding, and in that moment, it was mine.