Page 69 of Little Deaths

“I guess he could see through my empty-headed starlet act, after all.”

“That motherfucker,” said Rafe.

“There was a flashdrive, as well.”

“Well, we should see what’s on it.” Rafe helped himself to a handful of figs and cheese, eating in a distractedly ravenous way that was almost endearing. “Not on your personal computer, though. It’s very easy to put a virus on a thumbdrive and I wouldn’t be surprised if he wanted to get in one last fuck-you at your expense.” He glanced at her. “Did you know he had a safe in the living room?”

“No.”

Rafe set his water down and walked over to the Lichtenstein painting she’d always hated. After glancing over his shoulder to see if she was watching, he lifted it by one corner, revealing a solid-steel safe door. Donni’s eyes widened.

Parts of it were sporting dents, as if someone had bashed it with something heavy, trying to get at whatever was inside. Rafe thumbed them with a frown. “These are new.”

“The attacker.”

“Probably.” He folded his arms. “Which means we need to find a way to get inside before they get around to thinking that they might want to try again.”

???????

Later that night, Rafe got into his car and drove to the Welcome Back Motel. He slipped on his black T-shirt and suit jacket before bending over to tuck his jeans into his boots. The ansuz pendant swung forward briefly before falling back against his chest with a muted thump.

Check-out at the motel was 10am tomorrow but he was all packed up and ready to leave. He hadn’t planned on staying this long, anyway—one quick fuck and the satisfaction of having his revenge, that was what he’d initially wanted—but plans had changed.

Now he had a far more permanent arrangement in mind.

He tossed the suitcase and backpack into the trunk of his rental car and locked it before heading downtown in the mist. There were dozens of fancy wine and cocktail bars in Riachuelo, all of them eager to showcase the local wine. But the die-hard locals only really patronized one bar, and that was Brouchard’s.

Looking at Christophe’s geo-tags on Instagram, he knew the man came here like clockwork. Blowing his inheritance money on mediocre booze, trying to pick up the local flavor. When Rafe shouldered through the saloon-style doors, he spotted the other man instantly. He was in the darkest corner of the bar, knocking back shots of what looked like Chivas Regal.

Remembering the way Christophe had swaggered up to him at the Y-Mart, Rafe took a seat several stools down and ordered a pint of Guinness. It would serve his plans far better if Christophe thought he was the one in control of this interaction.

The bar wasn’t that crowded tonight. Instead of a live band, the radio had been tuned to a rock station. “Kryptonite” from 3 Doors Down was playing. He remembered listening to that in the aughts, windows down, doors closed, feeling empowered, even vindicated, by his solitude.

That was when Christophe finally noticed him. In the corner of his eye, Rafe saw him ask for a refill before stumbling over, red-faced and blinking, sloshing liquid over the edge of his glass.

“Raffi,” he slurred. “Fancy seeing you here, slumming with the rest of us. I thought you were just in town for the funeral.”

“Plans change.” He shrugged away the offered glass that came with his beer and picked up the can, releasing the widget with a hiss of pressurized nitrogen and foam. The Guinness was rich and coffee-dark with just the right amount of bitterness. “I decided to stay a little longer.”

Christophe knocked back his shot. “Why? You got it made. This place is a dump.”

“Donni needed some help with the house.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling her.” Christophe snorted like a bull. “Woman like that, all alone. Anything could happen if she weren’t careful.”

Rafe set down his beer. “What do you mean?”

Christophe didn’t appear to hear the warning in his tone. “Well, there’s the rumors.”

“Whatrumors?”

“Well, about nine years ago, your dad apparently came in here crazy as a fucking loon. He stayed until closing time, ranting and raving, until they threw his ass out around 2am. I heard there was a full bar that night. People around here don’t like to miss out on that kind of entertainment.”

Rafe kept his voice level. “What was he angry about?”

“Donni.” Christophe flagged the bartender down for a refill. “He apparently wouldn’t shut up about Donni. Said he’d sold his soul to a devil in a short skirt and a good pair of tits.”

“Charming.”

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