Page 75 of Fifty-Fifty

I forwarded the videos to Sofia to check over, drained my coffee and hit the sack.

TWENTY-THREE

SHE

The echo of her guttural, animalistic roar dissipated from the walls of her apartment. A large stain on the opposite wall dripped red wine to the floor.

Below the stain, the shards of a wine glass that had shattered when she’d thrown it.

She swiped up on her phone screen, displaying the video controls. Selecting rewind, she moved the video back thirty seconds and watched again.

She’d seen both videos. Both defense teams looking around the house and the bedroom most especially. Taking photos. Making notes. She wasn’t looking for

anything that could help her defense, like she was supposed to. Instead, she was watching to make sure neither defense team discovered something in that bedroom that could tie her to her father’s murder. Because there was something

there. Something that she had overlooked. To the careful observer, the room was stained with all kinds of footprints on the rug and a large orange stain on the bare mattress. Nothing to separate her from her co-accused in the blood patterns.

That’s not the game she had been playing.

No, it was only when she’d watched this video that she had seen the single flaw in her plan so far.

It was plain and simple. And it looked like one of the defense teams might have exposed her mistake with a single photograph. The flash of their camera went off right at the very spot. If they didn’t see it right then, which she was pretty sure they had not, they would surely see it when they got those photos printed. From their reactions in the video, it didn’t look like the photographer had realized the significance of that photo. But they would, given time.

There were real risks here. Only one defense team had taken that picture. That picture could not see the light of day. If someone studied it, they would know she was the real killer. They would see. She had to stop it. There could be no one on the face of this earth who could know she killed her father. She simply could not allow it. All that she had worked for would unravel because of one stupid mistake and one lucky shot with a camera.

She needed to act. Tonight. Now.

Get the photos.

Kill the photographer.

PART FOUR

THE DARK RED NIGHT

TWENTY-FOUR

SHE

She carried a new backpack as she made her way along the dark row of houses,

avoiding the pockets of bright amber thrown on the sidewalk by the streetlights.

The pack held a Maglite, some rope, a leaf-bladed lock knife, a lighter, a small acetylene torch, a Taser and a pair of bolt cutters. This would be a quick kill. No body disposal required. She would make the crime scene look like a robbery gone wrong.

With any luck she wouldn’t have to use the door-breaking kit. If they answered the door with the security chain in place, she would need to use the Taser. Then, when they were down, light the torch and apply it to the chain. Ten seconds on the brass chain and the bolt cutters would go through it like it was spaghetti. She guessed twenty seconds to gain entry if the chain was on. That’s a long time to stand on a victim’s doorstep. No other way around it. To go in from the back would be much riskier. She had never been inside and didn’t know what kind of alarm system might be triggered. Plus, there were security lights at the rear. Probably on a motion sensor.

Entering from the rear of the property was not an option.

She circled the house.

A dog barked. It was inside. Too difficult to tell if it was coming from inside the target’s property or one of the other houses close by. She stood at the rear of the house, in the alley. A light flickered into life on the second floor. A lamp.

The light wasn’t harsh enough to be a ceiling light. This was a muted, warm glow.

Maybe the dog had woken the target.

She moved from the alley, pulled her hood down tightly over her ballcap – the brim keeping the hood from affecting her field of vision. She liked the dark. She had never been afraid of the night. Not like her sister, who would whimper and