Page 136 of The Last Close Call

The purple-haired guy behind the counter glanced up.

“Any messages?” she asked.

He just stared at her.

“Joy Kendall. In casita seven.”

“Uh. No.” He glanced behind him at the wall of wooden cubbies. “No messages.”

Joy let the door whisk shut, and he returned to whatever he’d been doing on his phone.

She trekked across the parking lot, glancing around for any new cars. No black Cadillac sedan, although she hadn’t really expected one, had she? She glanced at her watch. It was almost ten.

She dug through her purse for her key. It was attached to a carved wooden iguana, probably so guests wouldn’t forget to return it to the lobby when they checked out. Joy unlocked the door and stepped into the little cottage. The place had Saltillo tile floors and Mexican blankets on the ends of the two queen beds. She set her purse on the chair and stripped off her jacket. It was cold and drafty, but she didn’t want to turn on the heater.

Joy went into the mini-kitchen and took her bottle of Grey Goose from the fridge. She poured some over ice and added a splash of cranberry from the bottle in her purse. She took a sip and then went to check the back porch.

She’d left the light off, but she could still see the two matching rocking chairs in the moonlight. Beyond them was a lawn that sloped down to the creek. She unlocked the door and pushed it open. The creek was full from the recent rain, and her casita was close enough to hear water rushing over the rocks.

Joy left the door ajar. Then she switched on the lamp, casting the little seating area in a soft yellow light. Retrieving her purse, she went into the bathroom and closed the door. The vanity was covered in colorful tiles, and she set her purse beside the sink, then reached into the shower and turned the water to hot.

Slowly, Joy peeled off her clothes, dropping several hundred dollars’ worth of designer activewear onto the cold tile floor. Standing naked before the mirror, she took a swig of her drink.

She looked good for forty-five. Better than most women her age, and certainly better than the men. At work, she was surrounded by guys, most of them with paunches and man-boobs. But they got away with it, of course. Put a man in a Porsche, and no one gave a shit about his appearance.

Joy turned to the side and gazed at her stomach. She had scars from plastic surgery, but they were nearly invisible. No one ever noticed them, including Michael, who knew her better than anyone.

Tears stung her eyes as she studied the body she’d worked so hard for. What a waste. She’d spent her whole life hiding and lying and trying to forget. But some part of her had known it wasn’t possible.

She twisted her hair into a knot and stepped into the shower. The hot water sluiced over her shoulders and down her back. She gave herself three full minutes—just enough to warm her blood and loosen her muscles—and then she stepped out.

It was time.

She dumped the rest of her drink down the sink. Then she dried off with the white towel and draped it over the rack. She had hung her robe on the hook when she checked in, and now she wrapped herself in the cool white silk before grabbing her purse and emerging from the bathroom in a cloud of steam.

Joy glanced at the back door before crossing the suite and dropping her purse onto the floor beside the bed. The air was even colder now, but the shower had warmed her up. She stripped back the covers and sat down. Pulling her phone from her purse, she saw two more messages from Michael and one from Rowan. She flipped the phone face down on the nightstand.

Her gaze fell on the shiny pearl grip sticking out of her purse. Joy reached for the pistol. It felt cool and heavy in her hand, and she traced her fingertip over the short silver barrel. She’d never liked guns. But she liked this one. Of everything in the big display case, this one had caught her eye. Petite yet powerful. Everything about it suited her, and she’d known it was hers the instant she saw it.

Joy reached over and switched off the lamp. The room was cold and quiet and dim—the sole light coming from the lamp in the living area. She lay back on the bed, nestling her head against the pillow and her pistol beside her. She gazed up at the ceiling and waited for her eyes to adjust. She took a deep breath and tried to relax, but her heart was racing.

Forgive me, Michael. You didn’t sign up for this, I know. But neither did I.

A hot tear slid down her cheek. Then another. And another. She rested the pistol on the bed and wiped the tears away.

***

Turn here,” Rowan said as they neared the juncture.

“Are you sure?”

She studied the map on her phone. “It’s faster, according to this.”

“Okay, but I’ve never been on this highway.” Jack hung a right. “What about when we get there? How are we going to know where she is?”

“I don’t know. Look for her car? I mean, it’s a tiny little town. There can’t be many places to stay.”

“You want to try texting her?”

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