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“In this context. Work Howl into the text.”
“You’re serious?”
“Every available resource. Or I can hang out until closing, take you home myself.”
“Then look under the bed and in all the closets?”
Even as she said it, she understood. He worried. Of course he worried when he wasn’t right there. Couldn’t control the situation.
“We’ll try the other way instead. Go home, sit in your turret, and answer all the texts and emails and whatever else you didn’t manage to get to in a normal workday. And if I text something like ‘Say good night to Howl,’ come running.”
“Count on it.”
In the kitchen, Olivia and Audrey dealt with the last of the dinner dishes and talked about what remained in the top of their minds.
Wedding plans.
“We can look for our dresses at the bridal shop.” Audrey hand-washed the wineglasses they’d used at dinner. “We have to look perfect when we walk Morgan down the aisle. Or whatever’s going to stand for the aisle. I still get teary that she wants us to.”
“No flounces, Audrey. The girl wants simple.”
“Simple—flounce-free—but perfect.”
Olivia picked up a cloth to dry the stemware. “They better pick a solid band because I want to dance my ass off. Who’d have thought, baby, that when she came here last winter, we’d be planning a wedding for next spring?”
“We’ll not only know she’s happy, Mom. We’ll see it. We’ll get to be a part of the life she’s building. I’ll never take that for granted. Never.”
“You’re going to get sloppy and sentimental on me again, which makes me sloppy and sentimental. So I say we knock it off and go watch a movie.”
“I’d like a movie.”
“I’ll make the popcorn.”
“I’ll just take out this trash. And let’s pick something happy,” she added as she tied up the kitchen bag, then pulled out the recycle bin.
She carried both around the side of the house, dropped the tied bag in its can, dumped the trash for recycling in its.
She never heard him, not until his arm wrapped around her throat and the gun pressed against her temple.
“Make a sound, and I’ll shoot you in the head. You must be Mom. Let’s go in the house, Mom.”
“Morgan’s not here. She’s not here.”
“Iknowthat.” Rather than press the trigger, he turned the gun, gave her a good smack with the butt. “You think I’m stupid? Did she tell you I was stupid? Move!”
Her vision blurred—tears, pain, fear—as he dragged her to the kitchen door.
“Got it going,” Olivia said. “Making two bowls since you’re fussy about the salt.” Then she turned, froze.
“And you must be Gram. Down on the floor, Grandma, face-fucking-down, or I blow Mom’s head clean off.”
His sneer widened into a grin. “Hey! Is that popcorn?”
Chapter Thirty-one
He thought about just killing them both. Not with the gun—too much noise. But he had Dead Jane’s knife, and he had other ways.
Wouldn’t it be fun to watch her face when she came home and saw their bloody bodies?
