Calm settled over the shop, an eerie pause. Even the red, black, and white droplets on the ice machine seemed to hesitate—wobbling, swelling, before throwing themselves onto the bar mat with a squishy splat.
A blink of an eye—that’s all it was. Eardrums flinching. Heart thumping.
I pivoted to glance around the counter, and in the moments that followed, things sprang back into action. Some customers spilled out the door while others crouched in quivering balls beneath the front windowsill; cups toppled from tables and broke into myriad pieces; coffee gathered in shimmering lakes on the floor, then branched into the tile grout.
Only the victim remained motionless.
He was still alive, still breathing.
I tried not to notice the weird angle of his body, the way a primordial shadow filled his pupils and spread outward. I’d seen that look before. Years ago. Almost killed a man. Would’ve done time for it if Johnny Ray hadn’t pulled me off.
Was I getting what I deserved? Violence back in my lap?
I met the victim’s eyes, offering support and empathy. Tweaker or not, he was a fellow human being, and I tried to assess the damage without telegraphing the worst of my fears.
His mouth moved. Gurgling sounds. “Aramis?”
I recoiled. “How do you—”
“Turn your eyes from greed,” he told me again.
I couldn’t wrap my head around it. The guy would’ve been a toddler when my mom was still alive. How did it fit? Did he know about the silk memento in my pocket?
I needed to understand.
“Who sent you?”
“You need—” He winced. On his mouth, blood mixed with saliva. “You need the whip. They’re coming for you next.”
“Who?”
“Mary—” A cough cut off his answer, and his eyes locked shut.
“Who?”
“Lewis.”
Lewis? My mother’s middle name.
I rested a hand on the man’s shoulder, willing him to hold on long enough to provide the details I needed, but he was already gone—his mouth slack, his eyes dark. Watching for broken glass, I pulled myself to my knees, a sense of responsibility propelling me. This was my shop. I had to call the cops, get help. An ambulance.
Who’d shot this man? Who?
I recalled the flash of metal, the man with the slightly crooked nose. He was nowhere to be seen, his chair on its side. A pang of fear that he might still be around gave way to logic. He’d already taken down his intended victim. No reason to loiter. Plenty of reason to run like the devil.
I staggered to my feet. Customers beneath the window flinched at my movements, only their eyes relaxing as they saw me in my green apron, confused and shaken—just like they were.
I spoke out loud, I think, throwing out reassurances fished from my subconscious. Distinct in my mind was the feel of the phone in my hand, the numbers spongy beneath my fingers as I punched 911.
“Come over and sit down.”
I looked up to see the blond girl in the white Vanderbilt sweatshirt. She was one of the few remaining in the shop.
“Here, take a seat,” she said.
I was about to protest, but she led me by the arm to a booth with padded black leather seats. Her fingers were warm.
“Thanks.”
“You look pale.”
“I get like that,” I told her. “Trapped indoors all day.”
“That’s not what I meant. Are you all right?”
“Yeah. I’ll be fine.” Inside, I was shaking.
“The cops’ll be here in a few minutes,” she said. She averted her eyes from the man in the sweater, from the dark, stained section on his back. Her eyes were grayish blue, bright with fear, and she faced me in the seat, her fingers on my forearm. “Did you see who did it?”
“I saw … this other guy. In an Old Navy shirt.” I pointed at the table a few feet away. “He had a coat folded over his arm.”
“You saw him shoot?”
I shook my head. “I hit the deck as soon as the barrel pointed my way.”
“It’s so … horrible. I mean, why would anyone do such a thing?”
“Wish I knew.”
“Did the guy at the bar say anything, give any indication he was in danger?”
I shook my head, too overwhelmed to go into detailed explanations.
She pinched the bridge of her nose, lost in her own thoughts. “Why this morning of all mornings?”
“Why what?”
“I could’ve avoided all this.” She took a deep breath. “All I wanted was a job.”
“You’re the one who was coming by for an application?”
“I’m the one.”
“Brianne?”
One shoulder lifted as her eyes met mine. “That’s me.”
“I’m Aramis Black.”
“Hi, Mr. Black.” Brianne gave a valiant smile. “This job sounded like a perfect match, like it was meant to be. I really need this, and now … now look at what’s happened. I can’t imagine what’s going through your head right now.”
“You don’t wanna know.” I gazed around the dining area. “Something’s not right with this picture.”
Brianne’s eyes followed mine toward the dead man, and she broke down. I watched my hand slip across the table to cover hers, then sat frozen while she cried for both of us.
Live by the Sword … Die by the Sword.
For reasons beyond me, my past had paid a visit and claimed its first victim.
By the time the authorities arrived, my head was a mess of guilt and questions, anger and disbelief. Police lights lashed the building. Sirens warned of an approaching ambulance. Less than a half minute behind, a Channel Two news van screeched to a halt at the opposite curb. While two officers began a cautious advance, a third addressed the gathering crowd and issued media instructions.
“Metro,” announced the first one through my door.
“How long does it take to drive a couple of blocks?” I barked.
“You’re upset. I understand—”
“Upset? One of my customers got shot.”
“Please lower your voice, sir. We arrived as quickly as we could.”
While the first officer bent to examine the victim, the second came toward me with hands lifted in a show of nonaggression. “Sir, are you the owner?”
“I’m Aramis Black. I’m sorry for sounding angry. It’s just—”
“Fully understandable, Mr. Black. Why don’t we step outside for some fresh air and go over what happened?”
I followed him outside, my thoughts as scattered as the carnage at my feet.
“You’re going to be all right, Mr. Black.”
“Yeah.” I cupped my hand to the back of my neck. “It was all just so … crazy. I should’ve tried to stop it.”
“And become a victim yourself? I’m sure there was nothing you could do.”
I was unconvinced.
Psychologists say it’s natural to take the blame. Guilt transference, I think they call it. Okay, so some cold-blooded killer pulled the trigger, but I was still at fault. I had to be, in some way. Why hadn’t I called out a warning? Could I have thrown my body over the counter as a shield?
I had failed to act, and now a man was dead.
What about his last mutterings? Was there any chance of deciphering them? From Mom’s lips so long ago, the same words had sounded like parental guidelines and unfathomable truths. In the months that followed, I’d asked Dad and Johnny Ray for an explanation, but they were equally clueless.
So I had let it go.
Until now.