She felt as if she were swimming in quicksand. Each time she broke the surface of consciousness, she sank right back. Sleep, a voice said. Just sleep. There was really no need to get up, she thought. She could just lie here for a while. But she wasn’t comfortable. Her feet were cold. Her fingers were cold, too. And her head was so heavy. All she could hear was an ear-splitting roar. What was that noise? An alarm clock? Maybe she should get up. Yes, she had to get up.
She opened her eyes. The room was dark. What time was it? She reached one arm out to turn off her screaming alarm clock, but her hand hit something hard and rough. She slid her palm down the surface. What was that?
She pushed herself into a sitting position, and then her head erupted in so much pain that she lay back down and curled into a fetal ball and rocked herself. She remained like that for several moments until it occurred to her that something was very wrong and that she was not in her bed or anywhere near it.
Her hand moved instinctively to the Glock in her shoulder holster. Her gun was not there. This awareness triggered a warning in her brain. Adrenaline gave her a surge of energy, and her lethargic mind grew more focused and alert. She reached behind her into her IWB holster. Her concealed backup gun, a Smith & Wesson, was still there, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Think, she told herself. Put it back together.
She rubbed her eyes. She had come to Thomas Merchant’s apartment. He’d been lying on the bed. She had left him there—with the caregiver, Brandon. Now she was in the basement of Merchant’s building. How long had she been lying there?
As soon as Codella stood, the blood rushed out of her head and she saw so many pinpoint particles of light in front of her eyes that she was certain she would faint. She bent over. A tide of nausea flooded her, but she held down the vomit and stayed as quiet as she could. She lowered herself back to the floor, sat against the cinderblock wall, and waited for the lightheadedness to pass. Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness now, and at the opposite end of the corridor, she noticed a thin strip of light under a door.
She pulled the Smith & Wesson out of its holster. Then she got to her feet again, more gingerly this time, and leaned against the wall until she was sure she wouldn’t faint or throw up. Then she tiptoed slowly down the dark corridor, one delicate footstep at a time on the concrete floor, careful not to cause any sound to disrupt whatever was happening in that lighted room.
She stopped when she came close enough to hear the voices within. “Why are you doing this?” She recognized Brandon’s voice.
“You wouldn’t understand. You’re just her stupid twenty-dollar-an-hour caregiver. You thought you knew her, but you didn’t. You knew nothing about her.”
“But why would you kill her? And Baiba? What did Baiba do to you?”
“You don’t get anything, do you? You know what I found in her room yesterday? A pair of Tiffany clip-on earrings. I looked them up online. They cost him twenty-five thousand dollars. Almost six carats’ worth of diamonds. She was cashing in. Don’t feel so sorry for her. Don’t be so naïve.”
“You won’t get away with this, you know.”
“Oh, yes I will. Thanks to you. He’ll take the blame for both murders, and you can be the jealous caregiver who tried to avenge Baiba’s death. You can kill the cop who was coming to arrest him. You’ll shoot Codella in cold blood. And then you’ll shoot yourself. You made this so easy for me by showing up here. It’s a much better ending than trying to sell another suicide.”
“It’s too late. The police are on their way. You’ll never get away with it.”
“Maybe I won’t, but maybe I will,” she said. “They’ll see a bunch of dead people and you’ll be holding the gun. I might just slip through. You never know.” She laughed. “Now get up!”
“No!” shouted Brandon.
“Get up,” she said again. “You have a cop to kill.”
Codella gripped her gun with both hands. Brandon would come first through the door. She would kick him aside and shoot quickly. That was her only chance.
“I’m not leaving here,” said Brandon. “Just shoot me now.”
“Get up!”
“I told you, I’m not doing this. I’m not going to let you frame me. You’re not going to get away with it. Just shoot me if you’ve got the nerve. Do it, because I don’t really care anymore.”
Codella wanted to scream at him, Quit playing the martyr. Get out here and let me end this.
“You’re the crazy one,” Brandon said.
Then Codella heard the thud of something hard. Gunmetal against flesh, she guessed. Brandon moaned. Codella didn’t wait any longer. She kicked the door open. Julia Merchant swung her arm around wildly and fired Codella’s Glock, but the round hit the cinderblock above Codella’s head. Codella fired the Smith & Wesson once—steadily, accurately—just nicking the side of Julia’s hand and sending the Glock to the floor.
Julia fell and reached for the gun, but before her fingers closed around it, Brandon pulled her back. Julia threw wild punches until he pinned her to the ground. Codella kicked the Glock out of Julia’s reach and aimed the Smith & Wesson straight at her. “That’s enough.” Then she took out her handcuffs and fastened them around Julia’s wrists. “This is over.”