FIVE MONTHS LATER
Isabella
Nina wore her new red dress as if it were a badge of honor. It was brand new, and in a few days, she’d wear it on the first day of kindergarten. But now, in Isabella’s art store, she twirled in circles as Isabella made up a parcel of paints and brushes for a new student.
The student, a middle-aged woman with silver hair cut around her chin, glasses, and a kind smile, had some talent in art and more talent in meaningless conversations.
“I used to take classes from that lovely young man, you knew him, didn’t you?”
Isabella nodded sadly.
“What a shame. He was a good teacher. I loved his painting, so vibrant. I learned a lot from him, and he was nice, even if he was gay, but I don’t care about that. I’ll tell you…” the woman leaned forward, “the country is going to hell. Austin used to be a nice place. Bombings. Murders. They ever find who did it?”
“No.” Isabella said. “I’m afraid not.”
“That’s too bad.”
The student wanted to talk more, but Isabella pointed to her daughter and mentioned that they needed to go buy school supplies, which wasn’t actually true, but it was a way to get the woman out of the shop and not have to talk about Ethan. She still felt the pain of Ethan’s death and the guilt that he’d died because she’d made poor choices.
She felt no guilt and no regret over Wyatt’s death.
Nina asked about him on occasion, but not because she missed him. She wanted reassurance that Wyatt wouldn’t be coming to get her. Nina had loved Wyatt before the kidnapping, but the few days of their captivity had been traumatizing enough to destroy those feelings.
Isabella had told her that her father was dead, but had not explained everything that had happened. That would come later.
Thinking about those few days, though, also made Isabella think of the terminated pregnancy. After the explosion, which she and Nina had survived intact, she’d flown to Chicago for the necessary abortion, accompanied by David Wise, who paid for the plane because, as he had told her, he didn’t want her to face his wife’s fate.
On some level, she felt sad, even though the pregnancy risked her life. Even though the baby, had it progressed, would have been Wyatt’s. But Nina was also Wyatt’s—and that didn’t change how Isabella felt about her. Isabella would have liked another child, but not enough to gamble on whether her heart would hold out or not.
She also felt fortunate. She had another chance at life—and she would be able to watch Nina grow up.
She locked the door after the woman with the silver hair left and turned to her daughter. “Ice cream?”
Nina hopped with joy.
John
John had put in a long day, and he was happy to be at home, nursing a vodka and Kahlua and watching mindless television. With Georgina Crane dead, he’d taken over leadership of the Combatants for the Unborn organization, and currently they were dealing with the case of an eleven-year-old girl who’d been impregnated when her sister’s twenty-year-old boyfriend raped her. The parents had intended to take the child to New Mexico for an abortion; Combatants for the Unborn had contacted child welfare to put a stop to it, and the girl had been taken away from her parents. They would be in court the next day to argue that an abortion would be detrimental to the girl’s long term mental health, and that the physical stress of carrying a child at such a young age was minimal. Young girls carried babies to term all the time in other cultures.
John wished that Brenda could have been there to partner with him. He still couldn’t believe she was dead—right after agreeing to leave her husband for him. He still felt her loss, every day. It didn’t stop him from finding sexual partners, although he was now careful not to bring any of them home. Not since he’d made the mistake with that detective.
He finished his drink and paused the show while he returned to the kitchen for a second round. Then he was back in front of the television, on the couch his parents had left him. The program was one of those police shows where the police were very smart and the criminals very dumb, a premise that he found hilarious because everything in his experience was just the opposite. The police had suspected him but had never been able to prove that he’d done anything illegal—not the bombings of the clinics, not the running down of the pro-choice activist, not the kidnapping of Isabella Ramirez, which as far as he knew remained an unreported crime, and not the bombing of the Vaughn Investigation office building. He was the master. No one could catch him.
He finished his second drink and thought about a third, but he was starting to feel unwell. His heart was racing, and he was starting to feel a little dizzy, even nauseous. Maybe he was just hot. The air conditioning didn’t work that well. And maybe he’d picked up a virus. He tried to stand, but he realized that his legs couldn’t hold him up, and he fell back onto the couch.
Every minute, he felt more ill.
Then he realized he wasn’t alone.
A very pretty woman with short black hair was smiling down at him, and he knew her from somewhere. But who was she?
“Hi John. Not feeling so good?”
His mouth moved. “I’m feeling sick.”
“I’m sure you are.” With a gloved hand, she picked up his glass from the coffee table. Then she picked up his phone. “I’ll just put this in the other room. If you can get to the phone, you can call for help. But first, you’ll have to find it.”
“What…? Why…? Who are you?”
“My name is Lisette. I’m hurt that you don’t remember me. After all, we shared a night of incredible passion. Auf wiedersehen, John.” She disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
He tried to get to his feet, to follow her and get his phone back, but his legs weren’t working properly. This time, he toppled over onto the carpet.
His last conscious thought was that maybe he hadn’t gotten away with everything after all.
Lizzie
She washed out the glass, emptied the bottle of Kahlua and washed that out too. She’d thought of putting the aconite into the vodka, but the Kahlua’s sweetness made it the better choice. Then she placed the glass in the ancient dishwasher and the empty bottle in the garbage because John didn’t have a recycling bin—too politically correct.
She walked out the back door into the darkness and circled around to the sidewalk, and then she walked two blocks to a black Ford pick-up, two years old, and slid into the passenger seat. It was the new company car, not as comfortable or as cool as her Lexus, but it was a hell of a lot less conspicuous.
“I’m a little conflicted about this.” Murphy put the truck into gear and did a U-turn, driving in the opposite direction from John Petersen’s house. Murphy had parked in an area where there were no cameras, so there would be no images of her getting into the pick-up.
“Too late.” Lizzie peeled off the gloves and removed the wig, transforming from Lisette back to her current Austin self in more than appearance.
“I know.”
“You also know how many murders he’s gotten away with? And would have continued to get away with?”
“I know that as well.”
“So?” Lizzie pulled down the mirror to unpin her blonde hair that had been trapped under the wig and shake it loose. Then she inspected her face. No, the scar on her cheek from the explosion didn’t show through the makeup. She had more scars on her body from surviving the explosion, but they were hidden under her clothes. The hair and the facial scar, though, were two distinctive features that could identify her if anyone had glimpsed a woman entering or leaving around the time that Petersen died.
Murphy pulled over to a trash can on a corner. Lizzie stepped out, dumped the wig and gloves, and then returned to her seat.
Murphy moved into traffic. “So—as long as it’s a one off. That you don’t make this a habit.”
“Not planning to.” Those days were over. Lizzie the investigator had reverted to Lisette the assassin for one special case. Not just out of revenge for his bombing her office, either, but to stop Petersen from continuing to kill.
“Fine.”
“Okay then.” She wondered for the hundredth time if Murphy knew that Petersen wasn’t the first person she’d killed. If she did know, Murphy kept a strategic silence. So did Lizzie. “You got plans tomorrow night? How about you and Cleo visit my horse with me, and then have dinner with my mother and stepfather?” Lizzie still couldn’t bring herself to call the two of them her parents, although they were getting along better now. Her mother had stayed at her side in the hospital for days, relieved only by her stepfather or by Murphy.
Murphy, who’d been ten feet behind Lizzie when the door exploded, had only had a few minor injuries. Lizzie was lucky to be alive.
“Can’t. Cleo and I have a French lesson and then choir practice. But give your mom and stepdad my regards. They’re good people.” Murphy shot a sideways glance at Lizzie. “You should invite David. Time for things to progress, don’t you think?”
“He’s just a friend. I keep telling you that. I don’t want to ruin a friendship.”
“Honey, you need to try sex with someone you don’t despise.”
“The men I don’t despise tend to be unavailable.”
“Your friend in Washington may be. David isn’t.”
Lizzie’s phone buzzed, and she checked the caller ID. “Speaking of.” She clicked the phone on and heard David’s voice.
“Interrupting anything?”
“Murphy and I were having a debate. Otherwise, not doing anything.” Not anymore. She’d finished business with John Petersen.
“We’ve got a case. And, yeah, I know it’s ten o’clock at night. She just showed up at my door. This one’s is a little dangerous and a lot illegal. You interested?”
Lizzie glanced over at Murphy with the question—you okay doing this now? Murphy nodded. “We’re coming.”