The Liar

“Not any more than I married you. Thinking I did was about the only really stupid moment she had when we were together. Women, what can you do? They’re wired to be suckers. But she wouldn’t have given up, even thinking I was dead. She’d want the score. She was getting too close. I walked right out behind her, out of that dive where you were singing to a bunch of rubes.”

He shook his head, circled her while she worked. “I saved you from a life of embarrassment thinking you could ever make anything with that mediocre voice. And Mel’s face when she saw me? Priceless. I take back what I said—that was her second really stupid moment. She rolled the window down, said, ‘Jake. I should’ve known.’

“Those were the last words she said, and yeah, she should’ve.”

“She loved you.”

“See what love gets you?” He gave her another little kick. “It’s just another con.”

She sat back on her heels, then rose slowly, bucket in hand. “I’m going to need more than this to bleach out that stain. Is there more?”

“You’ve got plenty, right there.”

“Yes, but I need it to—”

She heaved it up, straight bleach with a faint tinge of blood, into his face.

When he screamed, she had a choice. Go for the gun or run for the door. And she was too fired up to run.

She kicked, aiming for his groin. The floor was just wet enough that she slipped a little, and it took the leading edge off the kick. But she made contact. Even as she tried to grab for the gun, he fired it—wild and blind.

Her ears rang. She ducked, snatching at the mop, hoping to make better contact with his balls with the handle. But his flailing hand got a fistful of her hair, firing stupefying pain into her skull.

She jabbed her elbow into the same tender area, and knew she hurt him, knew she gave him pain. But he was as wild as she was now, and flung her across the room like a rag.

“Bitch, you bitch.”

She rolled. She wasn’t sure how well he could see, hoped he was blind. Desperate, she wrenched off a shoe, flung it across the room, praying he’d follow the sound.

But he walked slowly toward her, the whites of his eyes shattered and red.

“I’m not just going to kill you now. I’m going to hurt you first.” He rubbed his left eye with his free hand.

Making it worse, she knew. Please, please make it worse.

“Let’s start with a kneecap.”

She braced for the pain, then scrambled back in shock as the door where the bloodstains ended burst open.

Richard whirled, blinking his burning, blurry eyes as the bloody mountain of a man rammed him.

Horrible sounds, the grunts, snarls, the crack of fist against bone. But the only sound that mattered was the clatter of the gun as it leaped out of Richard’s hand on impact and hit the floor.

She bolted after it, nearly dropped it again out of hands soap slick with her own sweat.

She swayed up to her knees, bit down, gripped the gun in both hands.

The big man was bleeding, and whatever force had driven him into the room and at the man who’d shot him was eaten away now. Richard had his hands around the man’s throat. Squeezing, squeezing.

“Dead. Thought you were dead, Jimmy.”

I thought the same about you, she thought, and said calmly, coldly, “Richard.”

His head whipped around. She wondered what she looked like through those burning eyes. She hoped she looked like Vengeance.

He bared his teeth, let out a short laugh. “You haven’t got the spine.”

He lunged at her.

•   •   •

THEY HEARD the first shots as Forrest spun the truck onto the dirt track. All plans to go in quiet, one in front, one in back, while backup poured in behind them, dissolved.

He floored it, fishtailed over the gravel walk as the next shots rang out.

“Go in fast,” Forrest shouted as they leaped out of either side of the truck. “If he’s standing, drop him.”

They hit the door together. Griff swung the rifle up.

But Richard was already down.

She knelt on the floor, holding the gun out, gripped in both hands. There was blood and bruising on her face. Her dress was torn at the shoulder where more bruises bloomed.

Her eyes were cold and fierce, her hair a wild, tumbling tangle of flame.

She never had and never would look more beautiful to Griff’s eyes.

She swung the gun toward them, and he saw her arms tremble. Then she dropped those trembling arms.

“I think he’s dead this time. I think I killed him. I think he’s dead now.”

Griff shoved the rifle at Forrest. His heart started beating again when he had his arms around her.

“I’ve got you. You’re all right. I’ve got you.”

“Don’t let go.”

“I won’t.” He eased back only to pry the gun out of her stiff fingers. “He hurt you.”

“Not as bad as he wanted. Callie.”

“She’s fine. She’s safe. She’s asleep.”

“He said he’d kill her if I didn’t go with him. He said he’d go after her.” She looked over at her brother, who pressed fingers against Richard’s throat. “I had to protect her.”

“You did what you had to do,” Forrest told her.

“Is he dead now?”

“He’s breathing. They both are, but they sure are a mess. It’ll be up to the doctors and God whether they make it.”