I dispatched him quickly. "Fuck off!" And, he did. Minutes later I noticed him leaving with a much younger woman. I was sure she thought he would make all her dreams come true. She was about to find out the hard way.
Sometimes, you had to break things to fix them. Sometimes, you had to be the glass hammer, shattering everything soft just to see what was left. I thought about Frank, the man I dated through law school, the one who asked and I said yes and then I got a ring, only to have him run off with some whore he metstudying in the library one night. Was Catherine going to run off with Seneca? Sometimes, we have good reasons to be a bitter person.
I waited until the bartender’s back was turned, then slipped out into the night. The wind cut through my coat, sharp enough to wake the dead.
I walked to my car, lit another cigarette, and watched the sunrise bleed out over the city. Tomorrow, there’d be two more names in the paper. Tomorrow, I’d be free.
Chapter eleven
Seneca
The day started, as most of my days did lately, with a sharp edge of regret. I woke before the sun, every muscle tensed, but the body next to me was a shock to the system. For a few seconds, I forgot what I was, forgot about the blood on my hands and the ghosts lining the walls of my head, and just watched Catherine.
She looked nothing like herself with her hair loose, no makeup, and her face sunk in the pillow crease. No mask, no armor, no judge. Just a woman, her chest rising and falling like maybe, for once, she trusted someone in her bed. If you ignored the bandaged scrape on her cheek and the bruises around her wrists, you could almost pretend it was just another quiet morning in suburbia.
The curtain was half open. The desert light slipped through, gold and slicing, painting her bare shoulder. I let my fingers drift over her collarbone, tracing the angry line of a healing scratch. She didn’t stir, but I felt her breath change. Even asleep, Bellini was always listening.
I was trying to memorize the way she looked, peaceful, maybe even happy. Then, the world reset itself, the only way it ever really did in my life.
A glass pane shattered with controlled violence.
Catherine came awake before my hand even left her skin. Her eyes opened wide, pupils blown, and for a split second, I saw the kid she must’ve been before anyone told her that family was a blood type, not a choice. She didn’t ask what happened. She just looked at me, waiting for instructions.
I slid out of the bed, naked, and grabbed the Sig from the nightstand where I’d stashed it the night before. Chambered, full mag, nothing fancy. I didn’t bother with pants. If they were here for a show, I’d give them one.
I signaled her to stay. She nodded, the sheet still clutched to her chest, jaw clenched so hard I thought it might shatter. The scar on her hand was white against the fabric. I wondered, as I always did, what she’d do if I left her alone with a problem like this.
We waited. Below, there was a pause, then the measured tread of boots on tile. They were heavy and unhurried, like they’d paid for this address and wanted to get their money’s worth. I counted the steps. Three men, maybe four, moving in formation. There was the low bark of a voice, too muffled to make out, and then the soft thump of something hitting the wall. Not random. Not amateurs.
I turned to Catherine. Her knuckles were bone white against the sheet, but her eyes hadn’t left me. I mouthed, “Bathroom.” She nodded, no hesitation.
We moved as a unit. I took the lead, Sig high, slicing the air with each step. At the bathroom threshold, I motioned her in and swept the space behind us. Clear. I eased the door shut, slow, and reset the lock. It wouldn’t hold, but it would buy us seconds.
Inside, the light was still off. The only illumination came from the crack under the door, a thin line of amber that trembled every time someone moved below. I could hear them now, clear as if they were in the next room. They weren’t searching. They were setting up.
Catherine pressed her back to the tile, the sheet abandoned. She was naked, but you wouldn’t know it from the way she held herself. She was rigid, eyes locked on mine, waiting for the next move. I gestured for silence, then pressed my ear to the drywall.
There was the clatter of furniture being moved, the creak of a cabinet, and the wet sound of glass being swept from the floor.
“She’s up here. Hallway, right side.”
“Copy that.”
I counted six steps on the stairs, the weight of each footfall telegraphing how much time we had left. We grabbed clothes and quickly dressed.
I raised the Sig, checked the line of sight on the door. “Stay behind me,” I whispered. “Move when I move.”
She didn’t answer. She just crouched, arms crossed tight, lips bloodless.
The first shot was a test, a single round through the bedroom door. It punched clean, ricocheted off the vanity, and embedded in the shower tile. I tracked the angle. Not meant to kill. Meant to herd.
I took the opportunity to move to the corner beside the door and waited. The footsteps advanced, then paused. I heard the metallic snick of a slide being racked, the brief hush as a glove adjusted its grip.
They were close now. Close enough that I could smell them. They were professional, but not military. Too noisy. Probably ex-cops or private security. But not from around here. These were New York shoes, not New Mexico.
I signaled Catherine again. She moved to my side, silent, one hand braced on the towel rack. We waited, breaths shallow, as the steps reached the threshold. The doorknob turned, slow and steady. They wanted to clear the room, see if we’d panic.
I put two rounds through the center of the door, then ducked left. The wood splintered, and I heard a grunt, then the heavy thud of a body hitting the wall. They fired, and we waited. The mirror above the sink shattered and sent shards cascading over us. I let the chaos speak for itself. In the silence that followed, I heard the hiss of someone trying not to scream.
