Ice cream. Cake. Ice cream. Cake. Maybe Roxy should have gotten an ice cream cake. Or maybe she’d make an ice cream cake and then she could eat both. Compromise rocks.
She sat a scoop of ice cream on top of the chocolate cake she’d bought. The chicken fingers were long gone. So was an episode of Outlander. Bingeing Jamie Fraser and eating junk food was a good idea.
She grabbed her bowl and glass of wine. Might as well bring the bottle. But she’d run out of hands. She put the bowl on the counter and slid the bottle into the front pouch pocket of her sweatshirt-pajamas. She picked up the bowl and, with her hands full, she headed back through bear country into the living room.
She’d spoken with the bear, and they had a truce thing going. If she didn’t go near him, he wouldn’t give her the dead-eye. In the living room, though, an owl stared at her from the right side of the fireplace, a raccoon on the left. She might have a truce with the bear, but the other animals were more than happy to glare their bad juju onto her.
She scurried past them—careful not to spill her wine or drop her ice cream and cake— and wrapped herself in a blanket after plunking her loot down on the side table. She’d made it. The animals couldn’t surprise her if she was on the couch. At least that was what she kept telling herself. It was either that or hide under the bed upstairs. And under the bed didn’t have Jamie Fraser.
Jamie. Roxy snuggled into the couch with her bowl of ice cream/cake and glass of raspberry shiraz. She clicked play and the screen came to life with the long-haired Jamie. Num.
Winston finally accepted her in his house and showed his cute kitty face.
“You’ll protect me. Won’t you, Winston?” She rubbed under his chin with her free hand.
He moved closer, circling the couch cushion, finally settling into a ball at her hip. His purring vibrated against her leg but she couldn’t hear it over the sound of Jamie’s voice. But then again, who could hear anything over him calling Claire “Sassenach”.
It made her lady bits happy. Maybe a bit too happy. Where was Rafe when she needed him? She spooned ice cream and cake into her mouth and watched as Claire and Jamie got married. More happy bits.
Something thumped on the front porch. Thank goodness. He’s home. She set her bowl on the side table. Winston glared through half-open eyes as she jostled his happy bed. “Sorry, Winston,” she called as she jogged to the front door, turned the porch light on, and whipped the door open.
Nothing.
“Hello?”
No one. Damn it. She was hearing things. Great. Next, she’d be wandering around the house with her mace—which she’d left in her car—checking corners and under beds for ghosts.
She closed the door and settled back on the couch, checking the time on her phone before she started the show again. Ten p.m. Rafe should be home soon. How long could a robbery investigation take?
She restarted the show. It might be the second time around, but she didn’t want to miss one minute of Scottish goodness. Hugging her bowl close, she picked up the spoon and returned to her happy place. More Outlander sexual tension. More happy. The cat nuzzled in closer as she brought the spoon to her lips.
Another sound. Louder. This time, she was sure she’d heard it.
She looked toward the front door, but all she saw was the side of the giant bear. Thankfully, he wasn’t moving. Who was, then?
Roxy quietly slid her bowl onto the side table as the sounds of 1743 Scotland filled the house, making it hard to hear anything else. She hit pause and waited. Nothing.
She would swear she’d heard something.
Snatching the poker from the fireplace, Roxy gave the owl a second look before shooing Winston off the couch. If she believed in ghosts or reincarnation, she would swear the stuffed dead animals were coming after her. But she didn’t. That didn’t mean she wasn’t creeped out.
Another sound, and then loud pops. The cat disappeared in a flash of fur. The front window shattered. Roxy dropped the poker and ducked in front of the couch. Another shot. More breaking glass. She crab-walked to the hallway, inching her way to the kitchen, where there didn’t appear to be broken glass.
Pop.
A bullet pierced the front door, hitting a hall lamp and cracking it into bits. She slid behind the kitchen island and prayed. A lot.
Pop.
She covered her head with her arms and thought about how she could use a cop about now. Or maybe an ex-cop. She searched her pants for her phone. Dammit. It was on the side table. In the living room. Where there were gunshots.
Or had been gunshots.
The house was eerily quiet. Not one creature was stirring. Which meant Roxy needed to stir. She needed that phone.
She peered around the island. The front door was closed, but bits of the lamp were all over the hall floor. Maybe she could go around the other way, through the dining room.
She crawled next to the dining room table and peered around the wall into the living room. Not a sound, inside or outside.
She stumbled across the carpet, glass shards poking her feet. Not that she cared at this point. A few cuts were better than dead.
She dialed Rafe just as the front door swung open. His voice came through the line. “Amato.”
“Rafe.” Her voice shook and then stopped. She couldn’t say another word. She couldn’t do anything as she watched a gun appear. She saw the black barrel before she saw the person holding it. She swore it was smoking.
“Roxy, are you okay?” Rafe’s voice faded as Roxy’s arm dropped to her side.
The gun was aimed down the hallway. She had time. Sliding the phone into the kangaroo pocket of her pajama shirt, she backed toward the shattered front windows. She hiked her right leg over the bottom of the frame and a jagged piece of glass tore at her skin. She bit her tongue to keep the scream inside.
“Roxy, I know you’re here,” a female voice called out.
She wobbled, glass tinkled to the floor, and she froze on one leg, closing her eyes and willing herself invisible.
“Where are you?” The voice sounded familiar. And it was getting closer.
She tipped forward until her right foot landed in the front yard. Glass scraped along her left leg as she pulled it out of the house. Tried to, anyway. Her toes caught, and when she freed herself she fell forward onto her knees.
Bright light flowed from the busted windows, streaming onto Roxy as she knelt on the ground. Her hand lifted to her squinting eyes as they tried to adjust to the beam from a flashlight in the window. She needed to get up. To run.
“I found her,” the voice said. “She’s in the front yard.” A figure approached Roxy. No gun. Just black clothes and a black hood. “Let’s go.” Plastic-gloved hands helped Roxy to her feet—which was not an easy task because the gash on Roxy’s thigh blazed when she put pressure on it.
“Lean on me. I got you.” The woman seemed so nice. She was helping Roxy get inside.
Probably to kill her, but that fact didn’t match the voice. Roxy leaned on her shoulder to keep pressure off her leg. “Who are you?”
“Just come inside.” The woman helped Roxy into the house and closed the front door before leading her to the couch. Roxy collapsed onto the cushions. The stranger took off her mask and leaned over Roxy. “Looks like you hurt your leg.”
Mandy. Roxy knew it. She wanted to gloat. But there was no one to gloat to. And given the fact that the woman had sprinkled the house with bullets, Roxy didn’t think gloating was in her best interest. “Mandy, what are you doing here?”
“We should probably get you something for that,” Mandy said, peering at Roxy’s leg.
“Mom, leave her alone.” Gretchen came out of the kitchen. She had a gun in one hand and a can of spray-paint in the other. She shook the can and handed it to her mother. “Start writing.”
“Do we have to do this?” Mandy glanced at the bare wall and then the can.
Gretchen waved the gun. “This has to look gang-related. Tag the wall.”
“I meant, do we have to kill her?”
“We talked about this. We can’t just let her go. She’s getting too close and she’s going to call her cop friends. Hurry up.” Gretchen pointed at the wall.
Getting close to what? Roxy wasn’t sure what the hell was going on. It didn’t help that her leg hurt like hell and she was still gawking at the gun in Gretchen’s hand. “I’m not getting close to anything. And I have no cop friends. If I did, why would I be hiding?”
“She has a point.” Mandy stopped tagging the Schmidts’ wall with jagged block letters. “She’s not going to the cops. She’s here. Hiding.”
“Until they catch her. And they will catch her. Then what? She’ll start talking.”
Mandy moved toward her daughter. “They’ll catch her and think she did it. I put the weapon at her work. Everything points to her. We don’t have to do this.”
“Shut up, Mom. Get back to work.” Gretchen pointed the gun at the wall. “Get that done, so we can go.”
“I’m the prime suspect,” Roxy pointed out. “They’re coming after me. If you kill me, it’ll look suspicious. Detective Geary doesn’t believe in coincidence.” Thank God for that. He might actually catch these two. Unless she could find a weapon.
The fireplace poker glinted in the flickering light from the television. She needed to grab that before Gretchen pulled the trigger.
Gretchen turned the gun on Roxy. “I’m sorry, but we need this to end. With the money Donnie owed to the gangs, and the fact that you killed him before they could get it back, there’s no coincidence.”
“Donnie owed money to gangs?” Keep them talking. Roxy inched to the right, hoping it looked like her leg hurt.
“He owed money to everyone. Having him owe money to a few gangbangers isn’t a stretch. Nor is it a stretch that the woman he screwed over when he complained to her bosses killed him.”
Roxy was being set up. One of the gangs were being set up. Given Geary’s hatred of Roxy, it wouldn’t be hard for him to believe. MacAuley might go along, because he’d probably believe it, too. The only one who might not believe was Rafe. But hopefully he was smart enough not to say anything. She didn’t want him getting in the middle of this.
None of that answered why they’d killed Donnie—or better yet, why Gretchen killed Donnie. Mandy didn’t seem to have a deadly bone in her body.
Roxy shifted another inch. “But why did you kill him? If it was an accident, the police would understand.” It had to be an accident. Gretchen was a sweet mother with two little kids. Suburban moms didn’t kill. They brought snacks for Little League.
Gretchen made a noise that had Roxy rethinking the “sweet mother” thing. “He wanted money. The creep actually tried to blackmail me. He said he’d tell my father that he wasn’t really my father. That sleazeball wasn’t my father. No matter what the DNA test said.”
“You’re Presley.” Roxy eyed the fireplace poker. She inched over a little more. She’d need to dive two feet. Two feet didn’t seem all that far, unless there was a gun pointed at you, a gun with bullets that could travel a hell of a lot faster than that.
“My mom and dad legally changed my name to Gretchen when I was a baby. Apparently Donnie always wanted a daughter named Presley. My mom was trying to get him back—not the best idea, given she was married to another man at that point. But she was young and dumb. We’ve all been there. Anyway, it didn’t work. Donnie didn’t care and Steve became my father.”
Gretchen smirked. “Donnie actually invited me to the hotel. I lied when I said he wasn’t there. He was. When he said he’d tell my father, I lost it. He had already taken everything from my dad. He wasn’t taking me too. He wouldn’t take my mother’s mistake and rub it in his face.”
“When I was pregnant,” Mandy said, “I thought Donnie and I would run off with you after you were born, but he changed his mind. I never should have trusted him.” Mandy finished tagging the wall. “But what you did to Donnie was an accident. We can go to the police.”
“The police won’t see it that way.” Gretchen looked around. “Did you forget anything? I don’t want you leaving anything behind this time.”
The jacket. Roxy turned to Mandy. “That was your jacket. You were there.”
Mandy shook her head. “I was there earlier when Adelaide dropped off the keys. I ran up to the room and tried to talk him out of what he was doing. I tried to get him to do the right thing.”
Except he didn’t. Given everything Roxy had learned about Donnie, she wasn’t all that surprised.
“There’s no other way.” Gretchen cocked the gun. “Mom, go outside. I’ll finish up.”
“But—”
“Go!”
This couldn’t be how things ended. Roxy was being taken out in a fake gang fight. She was too young. There were things she had to do. There were things she had to see.
Tears slid down her cheeks. This was it. She’d never get to feel Rafe’s touch again. Never hug her parents. She’d never get dragged to a horrible club by Sarina. Or get chased by servees again.