Page 27 of Choices

Dropping to one knee, he slips on his own gloves and looks through the letterbox before surveying our surroundings, making sure we’re alone. I do the same, coming up behind him.

His arm disappears inside the small rectangular hole then the door gives with a soft click. Pulling his arm back, he shakes his head at how reckless people are with their own safety. They make it too easy.

With one last check over his shoulder, he pushes the door open and we enter the residence of Wynona Knight.

Thirty-two.

Unmarried.

No family outside of a distant aunt who posts “Happy Birthday!” once a year on her social media account.

In debt and on the cusp of losing her shop.

And Eric York.

Thirty-eight.

Unmarried.

Mother in an old folks’ home. Brother serving time for a drug offense.

No social media presence but a criminal record for a violent offense and a bank balance in the negatives.

The carpeted hall dulls the sounds of our footsteps creeping through the apartment. We come to a living area consisting of a couch, a small TV, and a coffee table with a goldfish swimming around in a bowl.

Callan holds up a finger, motioning to the open kitchen.

Nodding in understanding, I take slow, measured steps across the tiled floor, surveying the countertops and then opening the drawers one after another until I find what I’m looking for.Motive.I hold up the pile of bank statements and debt collector notices for evidence and lay them on the counter, signaling for Callan to proceed to the bedroom with me bringing up the rear.

Callan opens the bedroom door, and light from an adjoining bathroom spills over the bed, highlighting our targets. Eric is outside the covers, sleeping on his back with one arm slung over his face. He’s wearing a tank top, boxer shorts, and socks. All I can see of Wynona is her dark hair spanning across a pillow and her toes peeking out from a sheet. A fan makes a whooshing sound from the corner of the room, circulating the fog of body odor and heat.

I make it to Eric’s side of the bed when Callan takes a step and a floorboard creaks. Eric stirs, moving quick for a big fucker who was asleep a nanosecond ago. Reaching for something under the bedside table, he falls off the bed, his knees thudding against the floor. I seize his movements with my gun, pushing it into the back of his head.

Jerking him to his feet, I warn, “Don’t fucking try anything stupid or I’ll throw the bitch to her death from the window.

He holds his hands up, his breathing rushed. “Okay, okay.”

I scan the room, finding Callan with his gun pointed at the small figure beneath the sheet. She hasn’t moved, but her eyes are wide open, staring straight at me. I hold a finger to my lips. “Shhh…”

She jerks her head, understanding the command.

Shoving Eric toward the wall, I keep my gun on him while reaching under the bedside table, my fingers grazing metal. Ripping the gun from its strap, I hold it up to show Callan.

We’d planned to smother Wynona then force feed Eric a bottle of pills, but this works better. Quicker for them and us.

Taking purposeful steps, I force Eric to stand by Wynona’s side of the bed. Callan backs up, keeping his gun aimed between the pair. “Open your mouth,” I order.

“No, please don’t,” Eric begs. “You can take whatever you want.”You’re broke asshole.

“You have nothing we want,” Callan states.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because we have too,” I tell him truthfully.

“What did I do?”

“Nothing,” Callan snaps, his eyes darkening. The question is unimportant. It doesn’t matter why. I want to force the gun into his mouth but need this to look voluntary. Callan eats up the space between him and Eric, gripping a fistful of his hair and grasping his jaw. “Open your fucking mouth and it will be quick for both of you,” he tells him.

---