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“Gwen was never a problem of mine.” Dario’s voice broke on the truth of the words. “And neither was Nick. Robert Hawk is the only one in this lot I wished ill of. But I didn’t want that.”
He stood. “Being shot to death was too easy a death for him. I wanted him sentenced. I wanted his crimes exposed, those girls’ bodies found, answers and guilt assigned. I wanted him to answer for what he did, and for him to admit to the world that he killed his only daughter. You think I’m happy this happened? You think this is convenient for me? Fuck that. I want my wife back. I want to put her on that ranch, in that cowboy’s arms, and for her to have the life she deserved—one free of a sadistic and tyrannical man who called himself her father. I want to take my girlfriend and have a normal fucking relationship with her, one where she doesn’t have to change her cell phone number, or hide in a million-dollar suite with me instead of going on a proper date. I want the freedom, for once, to live my life without that puppet master yanking on every string.”
He stopped, his breath coming hard, repressed emotions bubbling to the surface. This was bad. He was stronger than this. More controlled. More in control. “You tell me again that this is convenient, and I’ll break your fucking neck.”
He glared at the agent, willing him to open that scrawny throat, to poke at him one more time ... but the man didn’t. He stayed quiet, and Dario turned and reached for the door handle, anxious to find a phone and call Bell.
Twelve
BELL
For three hours, I continued to channel surf and watched the same videos over and over. Nick Fentes, shoving through the crowd. Gunshots. People running. A blurry look at a fallen Robert Hawk, the camera shoved out of the way. I watched reporters go through Nick Fentes history, his arrest record, and an interview with his childhood next door neighbor. When my phone finally sounded, the Vegas area code flashing across the small black Nokia screen, I jerked to my feet. “Hello?”
I’d expected Dario’s voice, and my elation sank, then warbled back to life, when I recognized the voice at the other end. Lance.
“Hey B.”
“Lance. What’s...” I forced my voice to stay calm, tried for a sunny version of my old self, and failed miserably. “What’s up?”
“Damn, it’s good to hear your voice. Your boy gave me this number, wanted me to make sure you’re alright. He’s at the police station, but said he’d call in a few hours. I guess the danger’s passed?”
I shrugged, then realized he couldn’t see me. “Maybe. I mean, we were worried about Hawk.” I walked into the kitchen, moving away from the television’s noise.
“We’ve missed you, babe. Brit is twice as grouchy without you, Rick doesn’t know how to fetch his own fucking Sprite, and customers are blaming your absence for their bad luck.”
I smiled at the sheer normalcy of the comments, grateful for their distraction. “Their bad luck increases your profit.”
He laughed. “I know that shit, but don’t tell them. Where are you? Are they taking good care of you?”
Laurent had strips of beef jerky drying on the counter, and I broke off a piece and popped it in my mouth. “I’m in the middle of nowhere. You’d probably love it here. There’s all sorts of stuff to take your Hummer through.”
“Any single women?”
I thought of Septime and smiled. “I’ve met one. But I’m not sure you’re man enough for her.”
He scoffed and made a stupid comment about penis size. I ignored it and pulled a glass from the cabinet, filling it with water from the sink.
“By the way, your boyfriend’s a complete pain in the ass. He gave me a whole list of things to do.”
I heard the crinkle of paper and imagined him driving, squinting at the page as he wove through lanes of traffic.
“What’s on your to-do list?”
“Let’s see. Go by your parent’s house. They’re worried about you. I’m pretty sure your dad’s going to cut my dick off if you don’t get home in one piece. Oh, and I called Meredith. That chick doesn’t shut up. She’s also concerned—all of your roommates are. This week has been hell on everybody. And it doesn’t help that the police have been asking everyone questions.”
A knot formed, twisted, and yanked in my gut.
“Questions? Like what?”
He snorted. “Everything. Random shit. How long you’ve been seeing Dario. What you’re like as an employee...how much money you make...whether we think you’re capable of murder.”
Part of the beef jerky lodged in my throat. “They think I killed Gwen?”
“Who knows. I’m not exactly surprised that the mistress—no offense, B—is a suspect when the wife is murdered. Vegas PD isn’t going to miss that fluorescent yellow possibility. Just like they aren’t writing Dario off their list of suspects.”
