Page 97 of Hard to Kill

“So why aren’t we?”

“I’ll be sure to ask him next time we chat.”

I drain the whiskey and rinse the glass and take Rip out for one last walk, as disinterested as he seems in doing that. When we’re back inside the house, I set Jimmy’s fancy new alarm, lock the front and back doors, wash up for a second time, brush for a second time, leaving the kitchen light on, the way I always do. Rip takes his usual spot at the end of the bed. Force of habit makes me check the top drawer of the bedside table to make sure that the Glock is there, even knowing that it is.

I’m now ready for sleep, I tell myself.

It’s after two in the morning when I hear the ping of the motion detector hooked up to the front of the house. Jimmy has rigged another one for the backyard. It makes a different sound.

They’re like early-warning systems before a full-blown alarm is triggered, in case the motion is only a night creature scurrying across the property.

Rip has slept through the ping.

I have not.

I am instantly wide awake, my own inner alarms sounding, breath shallow. I take the Glock out of the drawer, slip out of bed, pad barefoot through the quiet house.

I don’t pull back the drapes to look outside, not wanting new light to spill into the yard in case somebody wants to surprise me.

Or worse.

I want to surprise whoever it is.

Maybe Eric Jacobson is enough of a dumb-ass to come looking for a return engagement.

I hear movement then on the porch. Some kind of thud, like something being dropped.

No movement to the doorknob.

I don’t shout out a warning. I just hold the Glock in my gunhand. I’m exactly like Jimmy in this moment, tired of letting the game come to me.

I know Jimmy has a key.

So does Ben.

Both know better than to show up unannounced in the middle of the night.

I hear a car engine from out front then, and the screech of tires as I reach for the doorknob and open the door with my left hand.

As I step onto the porch, I nearly trip over the body lying across my doormat.

I look down and see it’s my ex-husband, Martin.

SEVENTY-EIGHT

HIS EYES OPEN BEFORE I have a chance to call 911, or Dr. Ben Kalinsky.

It means his eyes open before I kick him awake, which I am briefly and sorely tempted to do.

But one thing between us hasn’t changed:

I’m better than he is.

So what I do instead is get him to his feet. Groggy as he is, he realizes it’s me, and though I’m not in top shape I’m still strong enough to get him into the living room and finally half lower, half drop him onto the couch.

Rip watches the whole thing, low-growling at him from the kitchen door. Clearly, Rip has a much better sense of my ex than I once did.

“Thank you,” Martin manages, his voice thick.

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