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Izzy faked a smile. It was less than two thousand. It would cover next month’s rent, at least, and business expenses if she stuck to fast food. She’d already had to let the office space go, which had pained her because Pop had occupied that space since before she was born. But rent on two places was too much for her to cover now that she was on her own. It was probably for the best. The place had too many memories of Pop any damn way.
She took the claim and headed for the stairs, leaving Vernita and Hugo to listen to Deacon’s diatribe about The Injustice of it All and The Tyranny of Bitches, or whatever the hell he was ranting about. She stopped at the second floor and headed down the hall to the cashier’s office. She ducked quickly into the small room as she heard voices farther down the corridor. In the cashier’s room she collected her (extremely) modest pay for three days’ work and stuffed the check into her jacket pocket.
“Another payday,” remarked Ollie as Izzy turned to leave.
She smiled and didn’t argue with him.
Back in the hall, Izzy checked to see if the coast was clear. After confirming that it was, she headed for the door to the stairs. She’d nearly made it when a sizable hand clamped down on her shoulder. Izzy stifled a noise that was halfway between a groan and a growl. She turned, grudgingly.
“I’ve been calling you.”
She smirked. She couldn’t help it. It was a dumb thing for him to say. Of course he’d been calling. She hadn’t been answering. For a detective, you’d think he’d connect the dots a little better.
“We need to talk,” he demanded.
Izzy attempted to shrug off his hand, without success. “There’s nothing to say.”
“Goddamnit, Izzy.”
She finally twisted out of his hold and shoved the door open. She might have made it down the stairs and away from him, but he drew her back by the sleeve of her jacket. He pressed her against the door as it shut behind them, sealing them off from the rest of the building and its occupants. Izzy’s heart thudded in her chest. She wasn’t afraid. Far from it. She was well-armed, not that she needed to be. She could defend herself without the Glock, if it came to it. Not that she’d need to do that, either.
The one thing, apparently, that she couldn’t defend herself against was betrayal. And it seemed she wasn’t going to be able to avoid the fallout, either. It was easier when people just disappeared from your life, like her mother, and, she supposed, Pop as well. Dragging it out wouldn’t change anything.
“I’m sorry!” he hissed but he seemed less angry than apologetic. “I fucked up, babe.”
Izzy bristled. “Don’t call me ‘babe,’ ” she snapped. That hit a little too close to home for her comfort.
“It was a mistake,” he insisted.
“It was a decision,” Izzy countered. “One that sure as hell didn’t include me.”
“Look, I’m sorry,” he replied. “I- I just wasn’t thinking. I won’t do it again.”
“You sure as hell won’t,” Izzy declared, pushing him away.
He grabbed at her again. “We can work this out!”
Izzy jerked her arm out of his reach and moved toward the stairs. “There is nothing to work out,” she told him through clenched teeth. “You crossed a line. This is over,” she said, gesturing between them.
“Izzy, come on, don’t—”
“It was never supposed to be anything in the first damn place!” she reminded. “You were the one constantly moving the goalposts, changing the rules. And when that didn’t work, you cheated.” She was aware she was raising her voice now. All her calm self-control fled from her and she was fully aware she was making a spectacle of herself, but some things were so unforgivable, such a violation…
“You didn’t cheat,” she amended, lowering her voice to a deadly timber. “What you did? There’s not a word big enough for it.”
He moved toward her, looking contrite but she wasn’t buying it. “Izzy,” he said, reaching for her again.
“Fuck off.”
She took off down the stairs, through the door to the ground floor. She knew her face was red and she shoved her shaking hands into the pockets of her jacket. She was headed for the door when she realized she was cut off by a group of cops and assorted civilians who were all watching the television mounted on the wall. Vernita had the remote in her hand and was turning up the volume.
The reporter from Channel 8 was grim as she addressed the camera. “A local convenience store owner was shot and killed just moments ago. The shooter has fled, taking a hostage with him. If you have any information…”
Izzy watched the live shot as it was replaced by grainy CCTV footage of the interior of the store. The security tape showed one gunman, scrawny with dark hair, gesturing wildly to a young woman who was behind the counter.
