A light rain misted the car where Val and Max waited at the base of the rolling hillside that composed Lakeview Cemetery, five minutes late for their meeting with Dean at Robby’s gravesite. She wanted to be sure they’d arrive after Dean, in case he saw them and bolted.
“Come on, Max, just put it on.” Val held the tube of black lipstick out for him. “When someone looks at you, all they’ll see is a beat-up, overgrown Goth kid.”
He pushed it away. “I’d rather be raped in prison.”
A line of cars with their headlights on filed past, then began to park around Max’s car. Mourners in black exited their vehicles and loitered for a moment, popping umbrellas open, then shuffled up the hill. Max and Val sank into their seats and lowered their heads together.
“Do you know you’re still on Seattle’s Twenty Most Eligible Bachelors list? That baseball cap and hoodie combo is not going to cut it if someone gets a good look at you. Put on the damn lipstick.”
“I’ll do it if you beat me at rock-paper-scissors.”
“No. You always win.”
“Then it’s settled.”
Val sighed. “Okay, fine.”
They put their fists together and shook them one, two, three times—Val had paper, Max had scissors.
“Dammit!” she said. “You’re jerking off so you can look into the future and know what I’m going to throw, aren’t you?”
He snickered. “Actually, you have a really obvious tell.”
“That’s still cheating.”
“Interesting observation, coming from the world’s biggest Go Fish cheater. I’m not wearing the lipstick.”
Val scowled at him, then gave up and slathered the lipstick on herself to complete her Goth Girl disguise before letting it drop into the cup holder. She checked her watch, adjusted her gun in its chest holster underneath her hoodie, drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, and glanced at Max. He watched the rain streak down the windshield as he chewed his thumb, lost in thought. The patchwork of bruises on his face made his already sharp jawline even sharper. The shadow of facial hair left by the cheap hotel razor contrasted with his pale skin to give him a gaunt, heroin chic look, though he probably wouldn’t appreciate the observation.
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” she asked him. “You still don’t look one hundred percent, no offense. It’s okay if you want to stay here. I won’t think of you as any less of a man.”
“I feel fine,” he said, like she knew he would.
“Suit yourself.” She tried to squelch her worry that he was pushing himself too hard, though they didn’t have much of a choice at this point. With every cop in the city looking for them, they wouldn’t get far if his strength failed and she had to drag him away from trouble again.
She rechecked her watch. “Dean should be here by now. You ready?”
He nodded. They flipped their hoods up over their faces and got out of the car.
The last of the day’s sun cut through a wisp of clouds on the horizon as they hiked up the hill together, side by side, heads down. Despite Max’s previous assurance that he felt fine, he walked up the incline with effort and steadily slowed as they ascended. At the crest he stopped, put his hands on his knees, and leaned forward, breathing hard. Val put a tender hand on his back while she waited for him to recover. She looked around and spotted Dean, alone at Robby’s gravesite on the far side of the funeral party. He stood with his back to them, facing the gravestone, shoulders slumped in a black trench coat. Max touched her arm and straightened, recovered enough to continue. They walked around the group of mourners, all quiet as a priest recited a eulogy for the dead, and approached Robby’s father from behind.
“Dean,” she said when they reached him.
He turned his head toward them, but otherwise didn’t move. “I figured as much,” he said. “You just don’t give up, do you?”
“Your son was murdered,” Val said, struggling to keep her voice low, “and you know it. You’ve known all along, haven’t you?”
Dean turned to face them, and Val stifled a gasp. He’d lost at least fifteen pounds, his skin pulled taut over a skeletal face, dark circles under his eyes. The smell of alcohol wafted off him. His gaze cut from Val to Max and stayed there for a long while, studying the Carressa heir with an intensity that made Max squirm.
“Yes, I know,” he said, still staring at Max. “I guess I’ve always known.”
“Was your friendship with Barrister worth more than Robby’s life?”
The corners of his mouth twitched into a mirthless smile that quickly fell away. “No. But it was never about friendship.”
Val stepped closer. “Then what?”
“Revenge.”
She grabbed the collar of his trench coat in her fist. “I hope it was worth it, you son of a bitch,” she hissed. “You managed to kill your own son, ruin my life, and ruin Max’s life. Do you feel better, now, huh? Do you—”
“Val.” Max gently pulled on her arm from behind. He made a subtle nod to the funeral party only thirty feet away.
She forced herself to let Dean go, her hand still clenched in a fist. “Revenge against who? For what?”
Unaffected by Val’s simmering rage, Dean’s eyes wandered to Max again as the crowd of mourners launched into a group prayer. “You have her eyes,” Dean said to Max. “And my nose, I think.”
Max froze. “What?”
“I loved her, but we were young and stupid then. I had Robby to think of, and you didn’t want for anything. Who was I to take you away from that?”
Val’s eyes widened. “You’re talking about Lydia Carressa, aren’t you? Holy shit, you were the one having an affair with Max’s mother! Did you kill Lester over her?”
“I didn’t kill that bastard,” Dean said, “but I let it happen. For what he did to Lydia.”
“So Barrister killed Lester?”
“Yes.” Dean wiped tears from his bleary eyes with the palms of his hands. “He told me he could make it happen if I made a donation to his campaign using the money Lester stole from Carressa Industries over the last couple decades. It was easy, since the offshore account was already in my name, because what’s a little embezzlement between friends?”
So that’s how the three men were connected—Norman wanted Lester’s money that only Dean had access to, and Dean wanted Lester dead. Then another connection clicked into place.
“The accountant at Carressa Industries—he helped you embezzle that money, didn’t he?”
Dean answered by rubbing his face and mumbling something incoherent into his hands.
“What’s his name?”
“Doesn’t matter. He’s probably dead by now.”
“Goddammit, Dean—” She was close to yelling again, or punching him. Forcing herself to calm down, she concentrated on optimizing the little time they had left before Dean took off or someone recognized them. “Lydia’s been gone for twenty years. Why wait until now to get revenge?”
He scoffed. “What was I gonna do, hire a hit man? Smother him while he slept? I’m a lawyer, I know how this shit works. The more you plan, the more likely you are to get caught. And I had Robby, Josephine, and my firm to think about.” He nodded toward Max. “And keeping an eye on you, making sure he didn’t hurt you, too.”
“Don’t forget your cushy business deal with Carressa Industries,” she said. “Wouldn’t want to give that up, right?”
His unsteady gaze met hers again, and his mouth twisted into a snarl. “All these years I’ve wanted to punish him, thought about how I might do it, waited for the right time. Norm finally gave me the opportunity without putting my own family at risk. But Robby”—his face fell—“God, Robby…”
Dean put his head in his hands and sobbed. A softer person might have felt pity for the man who’d only wanted to avenge his lost love and ended up losing everything he had left. But Val wasn’t a sucker for tragic irony, nor was she soft.
“Why did Robby have to die?” Val asked, her voice like a knife.
“I don’t know!” he cried. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I know one thing at least,” Val said, “He died because of you.”
Val folded her arms and turned away from him in disgust. This whole mess revolved around a two-decades-old revenge fantasy? It was almost too pathetic to accept. She considered laying into Dean some more, until she saw Max. He’d been silent through Dean’s confession; now she saw why. His already pale face looked completely drained of blood and he swayed half an inch from side to side, like he’d done in Lester’s study right before his freak-out. He stared at Dean with a roiling mix of emotions.
Crap—Max was about to have another panic attack. That was their cue to leave, fast.
She turned back to Dean one last time. “I hope Robby’s life was worth it.”
“It wasn’t,” Dean said.
Then he pulled a gun from the pocket of his trench coat, put it in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.