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“We need to end this problem now, before Gwen is aware of it.” Hawk eyed her as if assessing her potential, and she straightened under his scrutiny.
“Do you want her brought to the warehouse?” She’d helped with that before. Drugged women with friendly shots at the bar, then helped them stumble to her car. This would be different. It’d be interesting to see how Robert Hawk treated a woman like Bell, who had done more than pick the wrong casino as her ticket into chains.
“No.” He shook his head. “There’s no point in training her. I need to send Dario a message, and her dead body will be more effective than her disappearance.”
She nodded at the decision.
“Do you think you can handle it?”
The question surprised her. He was a man who liked his own dirty work, especially when blood was involved. To put this trust in her… she nodded quickly.
He leaned back in his chair and eyed her. “I can’t do it. Not without Dario catching wind and ratting to the cops. But you…” he smiled. “You can be my secret weapon. He doesn’t know you at all.”
It was a reminder that stung. Gwen, whether she appreciated it or not, had been given the golden ticket of Hawk’s attention and pedigree upon birth. Claudia, she’d had to sweat, beg, and earn each and every step into Robert Hawk’s world.
“After this,” Robert continued, “you can meet Gwen. Pass this test, and I’ll set up a dinner, just the two of my girls. How would you like that?”
She nodded, emotion welling in her throat at the thought of sitting at a table with the two of them, as an equal. Finally, Gwen would know about her. Finally, Gwen would treasure her in the same way that Robert now did. “I can do it.”
He smiled at her. “I know you can. And what’s more, I think you’ll enjoy it.”
Twenty-Four
BELL
My car ate up the miles between Vegas and my parents’ house, the drive passing quickly in a mix of Beastie Boys and Sublime. I pulled up to the house around two and met my dad at the mailbox.
“Anything good?” I put my car into park and stepped out, watching as he slowly walked toward me, his hands thumbing through the thin stack of mail.
He finally looked up with a wry smile. “No Publishers Clearing House check yet.”
I shrugged. “Yeah. Me neither.”
He reached out an arm and pulled me into a hug, his shirt smelling of cigarettes and Old Spice. I lifted my chin and he kissed my cheek. “You look good, Bell. The big city agrees with you.”
“Thanks, Dad. You’re not looking too shabby yourself. Mom inside?”
He nodded, and we moved toward the house. I paused at the steps, letting him go ahead, and bent down, whistling to Rascal, who heaved himself out of the dirt and slowly made his way over, his back swaying, tail slowly wagging.
“Hey buddy.” I patted his side, running my hands over his skinny ribs and up to his ears, scratching them in a way he liked, his back foot lifting and pawing at the air.
“You coming?” Dad paused in the doorway, holding the screen door open, and I could hear the sound of water and dishes inside, the smell of fried chicken faint on the breeze. Rascal lifted his head and sniffed, and I bent down to kiss his muzzle.
“I’ll sneak you a piece later.” I straightened, patting his head and nodded. “I’m coming.”
Jogging up the stairs, I reached out and tugged at his T-shirt. “Happy Birthday, Dad.”
He grunted in response. “Nothing happy about getting old, Bell.”
I rolled my eyes, ducked under his arm, and entered the house. Across the living room, my mom turned from the stove, her face splitting into a smile, and she held out her arms for a hug.
* * *
I didn’t have an excuse, running off to Vegas to live a life of sin. I grew up right. We attended church, ignored Dad’s drinking, and prayed over every meal.
I didn’t have fancy things, but I had things. My clothes were second-hand or Walmart specials, but they were always relatively fashionable. We didn’t go on vacations, but we went to the movies on occasion, and to dinner enough times that I understood how to carry myself and didn’t look like a hick when presented with a salad fork or restaurant bill.
We were good. As good as a family could be when the father passed out by eight, missed work as often as he attended, and couldn’t get through dinner without a six-pack of Coors.
Then, that day happened.
The stable.
The police.
The statements.
The scorn.
The disbelief.
The shame.
And then we weren’t good. We were bad, for months. Dad drank more, they started fighting, and Mom and I stayed at my grandparents’ house as often as our own. There was a year where I didn’t know what was happening, a year where I met with a social worker and failed tenth grade.
