The front walk crunched under my boots. The porch was scattered with glass, and the door hung crooked, the bottom hinge a mass of splinters. I stepped over the threshold and into the stench of cordite, lemon polish, and something coppery. There was blood, but less than I expected. The foyer was a jumble of debris. I stepped over half a law journal, a broken umbrella, and two mismatched shoes.
It took less than a minute to get oriented. The living room was a disaster. The couch was shredded, the floor littered with shell casings and pulp from destroyed books. Most of the blood was pooled near the bookshelf, right where the dead man had fallen. I’d already read the preliminary report. The man had been shot twice, once through the chest, second time head at close range. An execution, not self-defense.
The real story, though, was up the stairs. If she was here, she’d be in her bedroom, the only place that hadn’t been worked over by the police. I let my feet find the silent treads, hugging the bannister, body balanced to keep my weight off the risers. On the third step, a floorboard squeaked—just a hair, but I froze, holding my breath. I could hear movement above, soft, irregular, like bodies shifting in bed. I pressed my palm against the cold plaster of the wall and waited for the noise to cycle, then crept up the remaining stairs.
At the landing, the hallway was lit only by the blue strobe from outside. The bedroom door was half open, shadows moving within. I advanced slowly, carefully, to let the next sound comefrom the furnace and not my approach. I’d learned that patience always outlasted courage.
I reached the door and paused. The air was close, thick with sweat and sex and the old residue of gunpowder. I braced myself with a hand to the doorframe and let my eyes adjust.
Seneca Wallace was asleep on his back, one arm slung possessively over Catherine’s waist, the other draped over his face as if to block the dawn. His chest was bare and marked with ink, the wounds of the night still raw. Catherine was curled into him, her hair spread over the pillow with her face buried in the crook of his shoulder. Her body was uncovered, the sheet thrown aside, one breast exposed to the cooling air. I saw the scratches on his back, the bruises on her hips. I saw the comfort in how they slept together, not apart. They were like two animals who’d survived the same storm and knew the only thing left was to stay warm until it passed.
Something in my jaw made a noise. There was a click, the echo of teeth grinding until enamel nearly cracked. I pressed my fingers to my lips to steady them, but they trembled anyway. I stared at the scene, at the two people I’d risked my job for, people who’d lied to me, who’d lied to each other, and I felt every muscle in my body go wire-tense.
He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not with her. Not like this. Wallace was supposed to be in holding. Catherine was supposed to be alone, terrified, grateful for my help. Instead, they were together in her bed, legs tangled, as if this was always the ending and I’d been too stupid to read the script.
The betrayal was so clean it burned. It wasn’t even about sex; it was about power, the way Catherine had always known what to take and how to take it. She’d fucked me the same way, years ago. It was rough and desperate, like she needed to prove to herself that no one could love her without first being destroyed by her. I’d let her, because I was the only one who understoodwhat it meant. Now she’d found a new animal, one with teeth as sharp as hers.
I held the doorframe until my fingers went numb. I considered waking them, making a scene, letting the world see what happened when you cross Jenna Smart. I considered the gun tucked into my purse, the one I’d kept as insurance since my last run-in with a client who thought “no” was a suggestion.
Instead, I made note of every detail. I memorized the placement of every bruise. Noted the imprint of her teeth on his bicep. I let the rage eat through my bloodstream, turning the cold clarity of betrayal into something diamond-hard.
I stepped back, heel catching for a second on the edge of the hallway rug. I forced my breath to slow, making each exhale a countdown. Four steps to the stairs. Three to the landing. Each one, the memory of the bed replaying in my mind, their bodies fused together like two halves of a coin.
At the bottom of the stairs, the cop was still at the front window, looking out into the dark. I moved past him without a sound, out the door, and onto the frost-crusted sidewalk. The world was quiet, not even birds were up yet, just the static of radio chatter bleeding from inside a squad car. I let myself walk to the end of the block before I let go, before I let the anger explode out of my fists and into the empty street.
I wanted to burn the house down. I wanted to call the Martini family myself and give them every last detail. I wanted to see how Catherine Bellini looked when it was her blood on the living room carpet. But I didn’t. I was smarter than that.
If you want to kill a judge and an outlaw in the same night, you start with cheap whiskey and an empty bar.
The Rusty Hinge didn’t have windows, just a strip of aluminum flashing over a door that stuck every time the temperature dropped below forty. Inside was a long smear of Formica and two busted neon signs. I parked myself in the farbooth, the one with springs poking up through the vinyl, and let the smell of stale beer and cigarettes soak into my coat. No one would recognize me here. I was just another woman waiting for a reason to drink herself dumb.
The bartender, a relic with a beard like a steel wool pad, poured the whiskey without asking. I nursed it, rolling the glass between my palms, letting the cold burn work up through my bones. At a table near the door, three men in union jackets played cards and spat at the ashtray. A girl with meth scars banged on the bathroom door, threatening to piss herself if she didn’t get in. No one looked my way, not even the bartender. I could have shot up the whole place, and the only witness would’ve been the black mold creeping up the wall behind the liquor shelf.
My phone buzzed. I let it vibrate once, twice, then picked it up. The number was masked, but I knew the format. East Coast.
I took the call outside, letting the door swing shut behind me. I leaned against the cinderblock wall and listened to the line crackle.
“Yeah,” I said, keeping my voice flat.
“You know who I am?” the man said.
“She’s still alive,” I said. “She’s sheltering a witness. He’s part of a local motorcycle club called the Bloody Scythes. Goes by Seneca.”
The voice grunted. “You got a location?”
“Still at her house. Cops are running shifts, but the house is Swiss cheese. Won’t be hard to get in if you want it done loud. Or wait two days until the cops leave and do it quiet.”
The silence on the other end was longer this time. I pictured him in a paneled office, ringed by men with guns. I could sense he was weighing the cost of another failed job. “I can make sure there are no blues around.”
The call ended without a goodbye. I stood there, watching the frost crawl up the windshield of my car, and waited until my hands stopped shaking.
Inside, the bar hadn’t changed. The card players were still at it, the meth girl had finally disappeared into the bathroom, and the bartender hadn’t moved from his post. I slid back into my booth and took a long, slow sip.
I thought about Catherine and the way her body looked in the morning light, her skin bruised and marked by someone who didn’t deserve her. I thought about Seneca Wallace, the calmness in his eyes, the way he’d looked at me—just for a second—like he saw past the armor to what I really was. The son of a bitch had fucked me in my own office and then came here and fucked my woman. This was the story of my life, having things taken from me. My parents had spent every dime on my older brother, putting thousands into a baseball career that never panned out. Oh, they'd promised me the money was there. No need for me to worry about it. When college rolled around, I heard the word sorry once, and then I applied for loans. No worries, though, it taught me something—never rely on anyone but yourself.
I drained the glass and set it on the table, reliving every fucking sad moment in my life.
"Want some company?" a suited man asked.
