Jemimah walked out from the bathroom in a terry robe, a towel wrapped around her head. She felt refreshed. As she clicked on the television set to catch the late news before she called it a night, she looked around for her cell phone to call Rick and fill him in on the night’s events. By now McCabe should have dropped the glass off at the forensics lab. There was a knock at the door. Jemimah smiled in anticipation. It was probably Rick, stopping in to say goodnight or, wishful thinking, even good morning. Just this afternoon she had decided it was time to drop the barriers between them. She pulled the towel off her head and tossed her phone on the couch.
Jemimah opened the door wide, intending to put her arms out and surprise him with an embrace. Brenda barged in and shoved her back into the living room. She had a pistol in her hand. Jemimah backed away.
“Sit down,” Brenda ordered.
“Brenda, this is a mistake. What are you doing?” Jemimah said.
“Shut up. You think I had something to do with Charlie dying, don’t you?” Brenda hissed.
“I don’t have an opinion either way,” Jemimah said, looking around for Molly. Where was that dog? “Please don’t do this, Brenda. Turn yourself in. We’ll get you help, I promise.”
It was just a few minutes after midnight. Jemimah could see Brenda was a night owl. Wide awake. Alert. Nothing was going to get by her. She was holding the gun steady, pointed straight at Jemimah.
Brenda’s pupils were dilated. Probably on drugs. Jemimah wracked her brain to figure out a way to overcome her. Otherwise she was certainly going to die.
“Come on, get up,” Brenda ordered. “It’s a little too comfy in here.”
She pushed Jemimah into the kitchen and sat her on a stool in front of the granite-topped island. Brenda took out a roll of duct tape, pulled Jemimah’s hands behind her and wrapped the tape securely around her hands, winding it through the backrest of the stool.
“There, that’s better,” Brenda said, sitting across the counter and placing the pistol in front of her. She opened one drawer then another before spotting the Maplewood cutlery set next to the stove. She picked out a knife and checked the blade. “I don’t care for guns,” she said.
“They’re so noisy. Me, I like quiet.”
Jemimah started to say something.
“No, no, keep your mouth shut. I’m thinking. And remember, I prefer quiet,” Brenda smirked.
* * *
It was getting late and Rick hadn’t heard from Jemimah. She was supposed to call him when she and McCabe finished their surveillance at the bar in Madrid. McCabe had called in on his way to drop off the glass with the forensics lab. The tech was working late on the case and by now should have compared Brenda’s prints on the glass to the bloody thumbprint they found on the lighter in Charlie’s car.
Jeez. I’m acting like a mother hen, he thought—one of the many characteristics that got him in trouble with fiercely independent Jemimah. He decided it was too late to call her. He stretched out on his bed and turned off the lights. The illumination of the votive candle in front of his mother’s shrine filled the room with a subtle glow. He rolled over on his side and was asleep in seconds. Tomorrow was going to be another long day.