Page 12 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name
A big one.
Terry studied him, then nodded to himself. “You’d better find her, Daniel. And deal with it.” He paused. “If you don’t, I will.”
Daniel had a vivid, stomach-turning image of what ‘dealing with it’ would look like in Terry’s hands. La Araña had been an Army Ranger for fifteen years, deployed everywhere from Beirut to Somalia, and had acquired skills even a surgeon couldn’t match. And he really enjoyed using them.
The thought of Terry applying those skills to Julia made Daniel’s gut twist. He didn’t want her hurt. But if it came down to it, he’d rather take that sin on himself than let Terry near her. He shook his head. “No. I’ll handle it.”
Terry smirked, reading his hesitation. “I didn’t say you gotta hurt her. Just scare her a little. Remind her that actions have consequences.”
Daniel nodded, relief washing over him. Just scare her. A little.
He could do that.
Terry jerked his thumb toward the Camry. “Oh, and by the way, you got a big clean-up job in there. Fucker bled all over the backseat. Hope you got a bucket. And a shitload of bleach.” He slid his sunglasses back into place. “And don’t use hot water,” he added over his shoulder. “Cooks the blood into the upholstery.”
Then he turned and walked back to his truck, a late-model Chevy Suburban. Conveniently evidence-free.
Daniel watched him go, then looked down at the keys in his hand, exhaling sharply.
Apparently, he had a lot of cleaning up to do.
* * *
Daniel held up the dainty gold chain so that it caught the fading light coming through the windshield. He’d found it under his bed a few days ago. The clasp was broken, yanked apart as if someone had ripped it from her neck. He’d fixed it with a pair of tweezers.
A ballet slipper dangled from the end. And engraved on it, in tiny words, was a name.
Julia Mikkelsen.
He looked up through the windshield at the Mikkelsen mansion. The gaps in the huge wrought-iron gates gave him a good view of the place. It was one of the fanciest in the neighborhood. And it was a pretty fucking fancy neighborhood.
The house was massive. A monolith of gleaming white stone, set back from the road down a sweeping circular drive. In front was a giant marble fountain he could probably swim laps in. The garage was at least a six-car job.
For a very long time, he just sat there, across the road from her house, his Beretta clutched in his palm.
It was a little after ten at night when a black BMW coupe came down the lane and turned into the drive. As it passed, he caught a flash of blond hair and knew from that brief glance it was her.
The gates closed behind her. She eased the car up beside the garage but left it idling, neither parking inside nor getting out. From where he watched, he had a clear view through the window. Night had fallen, but the lights of the house cut a sharp silhouette of her. Her head was bowed, like she was praying to the steering wheel.
Long minutes passed, and still she made no move to get out.
It hit him like a slap—maybe she’d seen him parked there. Maybe she was already on the phone with the cops, tucked safely in her car, waiting for backup to roll in, sirens wailing.
His grip tightened on the gun, slick with sweat.Should I go?The thought stabbed through the haze of adrenaline.
But the minutes dragged on, heavy and silent. No flashing lights. No sirens.
Still, unease prickled along his spine. This was the kind of neighborhood where a call about someone like him—brown skin, sitting alone, not belonging—wouldn’t be ignored. Not for long. If she’d called, they’d be here already.
So, no, she hadn’t spotted him. And he knew what he had to do. He had to stride up to her car door, shove his gun in her face and tell her that if she didn’t keep her fucking mouth shut about what had happened in his trailer, she’d wind up in a dumpster along with the other guy. Or bits of her would, anyway.
And yet he couldn’t coax his body to carry out that plan.
Time stretched on for so long without her moving that he reached for the door handle to get out and check if she was still breathing.
The irony struck him hard. Here he was, one hand gripping a gun that could easily end her life, the other poised to perhaps save it.
Thankfully, before he cleaved himself in half with indecision, she abruptly sat up in her seat and opened the car door. She climbed out, head still downcast, and swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. Even from this distance, it was obvious she’d been crying.
