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Kate’s pulse raced, as she tried to push down her rising nausea.
Woozy from the wine, she stayed on the floor and held the cold gun in her hand. Where did Marco get a gun? Why did he need one? She shook her head and pressed her hand to her mouth. She’d believed him when he’d said he hadn’t stolen the money, but maybe he’d been more involved in Eddie’s street business than he’d let on.
Kate thought about how terrified Marco seemed that last day after his argument with Eddie. Pointing the finger at Sal for stealing; and then telling Eddie he was out; standing up to him; defying him; and how filled with rage Eddie had been. Marco knew Eddie would come after him—after them.
She recalled how Marco had been running around the house in a frenzy that evening, frantic for them to leave town. But, even before that terrible day, he had seemed troubled. And each day, he seemed more anxious. Fearful. They both knew that the only way out was to run. Why hadn’t he grabbed the gun when packing for their move? Maybe he’d planned to run up and grab it once she and Renzo were belted in the car, ready to go. Maybe he didn’t want her to know about it. Or maybe he didn’t want to frighten her more than she already was. Kate scanned her memory fighting to remember the details of that day. Still, no matter how often she’d analyzed other theories on who killed Marco and Renzo, it always came back to Eddie.
Kate stuffed the gun into the canvas bag and pushed it back into the bottom of the box. Her head pounded as she crawled into bed. Her thoughts were out of control. She fell asleep with the lights on, tossing and turning, as recurring visions of the gun consumed her dreams.
The sound of a car revving past the house startled Kate from her slumber. She looked at the clock.
Four thirty-three a.m.
Her bedroom light was still on. The furnace hummed, but her cool face told Kate the room was chilly. The warm bed and her foggy head and heavy body kept her still. The wine had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now, she was paying for it.
She forced herself out of bed and put on her heavy robe and fluffy slippers. In the kitchen, she made toast and coffee and brought them into the living room. She sat on the sofa and thought about her last conversation with Marco, right there in that very spot.
She pushed herself back and swung her legs up into a fully reclined position. As her head cleared, she began to feel more alert at that moment than she had since the night of the murders.
As she looked up at the popcorn ceiling, that sleek, silver gun and Eddie’s missing money crept back into her mind. She thought about some of her conversations with Marco and about his experiences with Eddie.
A vision of Eddie’s face flashed in her mind. His cocky smile. She recalled his vain performance at the funeral. The way he shook hands and laughed like a celebrity. His phony sympathy.
What did he say?
“Kate, I’m gonna’ find out who did this. This ain’t right. And if you need anything, you come see me. Ya’ hear?”
Kate bolted up from her prone position and paced the tiny living room.
Eddie thought Marco had stolen from him. Marco had told her as much. He’d heard it from Micola and denied it to Eddie. But Eddie didn’t believe him. He didn’t know Marco like she did. Marco would never steal from Eddie. He’d never take such a risk with his family.
Kate next thought about Marco’s role in Eddie’s circle. She assumed she’d known everything about his job, but maybe he’d kept certain things from her. Maybe he needed the gun for protection.
The other problem was that Marco knew too much. He knew things that Eddie wanted kept secret. When Marco told Eddie he was quitting, it probably enraged Eddie and worried him at the same time.
All of this led Kate to conclude that, if Eddie truly believed Marco had stolen that money from him, coupled with Marco leaving the organization and taking valuable intel with him, Eddie would want Marco dead.
Kate put her hands to her head and squeezed her eyes shut. This was all her fault. She’d introduced Marco to Eddie. She’d encouraged Marco to take the job.
Her husband and son were dead and it was all her fault.
An uneasy tingling swept through her body and landed with a sick punch in the pit of her stomach. Black spots crossed her vision as she headed for the kitchen. Once there, she bent forward, her hands on her knees as she breathed heavily, fighting for air. She tried to calm herself so she wouldn’t pass out, but as her head cleared, the nausea rose. She ran to the sink and vomited, moaning and crying as she gagged. When the lurching finally settled, she straightened up and wiped her mouth with a dish towel. She stood there, breathing heavily before releasing a howling cry into the towel.
She leaned against the kitchen counter and slid to the floor, pushing her knees up, her head buried in her arms. After a while, she dragged herself back into the living room. Spent from the vomiting, she fell onto the sofa. This nightmare was her new existence and it had blackened her heart forever.
