She looked down at the business card in her hand. Turning it over for the hundredth time, she stared at what he'd written: I'm sorry. She believed that -
The ring tone that lit off beside her scared the hell out of her, making her jerk so badly the card flipped from her hand and went flying.
Catching her breath, she reached for the cell phone that was next to her on the sofa, but the call failed before she could see who it was and answer it. Just as well - she didn't feel like talking to anyone and it was likely just a wrong number.
The little Nokia was the only phone she had. The one in the kitchen that was wired into the wall didn't have a dial tone because she had never activated the line. The thing was, however private you could make a residential phone number, people could still penetrate the identity shield more easily than they could a mobile, and she was all about anonymity - which was why she had looked only at rentals that had utilities included in the monthly rate: It meant that the bills remained in her landlord's name, instead of being switched to hers.
As she put her phone down, she thought of the past, to the way things had been before she'd tried to leave Mark. Back then, her son's name had been Sean. Her name had been Gretchen. Their last name had been Capricio.
And she was actually a real, live redhead. Unlike Gina at the club.
Marie-Terese Boudreau was a total lie, with the only thing she'd kept true being her Catholic faith. That was it. Well, that and the debt with the lawyers and the private investigator.
At the time, after everything had gone down, she'd had the option of entering into the witness-protection program. But cops could be bought - God knew her ex and his capos had taught her that. So she'd done what she'd had to with the district attorney, and when Mark had pled out, she'd been officially free to run east, getting as far away from Las Vegas as she could.
God, she'd hated having to explain to her son that they were going to change the names they went by. She'd been worried that he wouldn't understand...except when she'd started to explain, he'd stopped her. He knew exactly why it had to happen and had told her it was so no one could know who they were.
That facile knowledge had broken her heart.
As her cell whistled again at her, she picked it up. There were few who had the number: Trez, each of the sitters, and the Center for Single Mothers.
It was Trez and the connection was bad, suggesting he was traveling. "Everything okay?" she asked.
"Did you see the news?"
"I've been watching HBO."
As Trez started talking, Marie-Terese grabbed for the remote and went to the local NBC station. Nothing but the Today show -
The local update chilled her straight to the bone.
"Okay," she said to him. "All right. Yes, of course. When? Okay, I'll be there. Thanks. Bye."
"What's wrong, Mama?"
Before she looked over at her son, she gathered the reins of her face and reeled her expression in. When she finally turned toward him, she thought he seemed closer to three than seven in his pj's with his blanket dragging on the floor.
"Nothing. Everything's fine."
"You always say that." He walked over and shuffled up onto the couch. When she handed him the remote, he didn't change the channel to Nickelodeon. Didn't even glance at the TV. "Why are you looking like that?"
"Like what?"
"The bad time is back."
Marie-Terese reached over and kissed his head. "It's going to be okay. Listen, I'm going to have Susie or Rachel or Quinesha come over and sit with you for a while. I have to go in to work for a minute."
"Right now?"
"Yes, but I'll get you breakfast first. Tony the Tiger?"
"When will you be back?"
"Before lunch. Just after, at the latest."
"Okay."
As she went into the kitchen, she dialed the Center for Single Mothers' babysitter service and said a prayer as the ringing started up. When she got voice mail, she left a message and went through the motions of filling up a bowl with Frosted Flakes.
Her hands trembled so badly, they actually helped the cereal out of the box.
Those two college kids from the club were dead. Shot in the alley behind the parking lot. And the police wanted to talk to her because the clubgoer who'd found the bodies had reported seeing the pair harass her.
As she took out the milk, she told herself that it was just a coincidence. People got violently mugged downtown all the time, and those kids had clearly been on drugs. Maybe they'd been trying tomake a buy and the transaction had gone south.
Please let it not have anything to do with her, she thought. Please let her old life not be catching up with her.
Vin's voice rippled through her head. He's coming for you...
Resolutely shutting that part of things out so she didn't lose her mind with fear, she focused on the fact that in less than a half hour she was going to be sitting down with the police. Trez had seemed confident that her cover was going to stick, that the whole I'm-just-a-dancer was ironclad. But God...what if she were arrested for what she did?
See, this was another thing she'd learned from her husband: If you lived a life with a shaky foundation, the walls could cave in on you pretty damn quick once the cops got to asking questions.
It had turned out that was really why he'd had to hit the road. He and his "friends" had killed one too many of their "clients" in the "building" trade and the feds as well as the locals had come after them. The one saving grace for her was that as a mere wife, she hadn't had a clue about the way the mob had worked. His mistress, on the other hand, had known much more and been brought up on charges as an accomplice.
What a mess it had been. What a mess it still was.
Marie-Terese took the bowl of cereal to her son and got him one of their two TV trays. As she walked around, her heart was pounding so hard it was a wonder Robbie couldn't hear the thing, but she did her best to remain calm on the surface.
Clearly, he didn't buy the act. "Are we going to move again, Mama?"
She paused in the process of flipping open the tray's legs. She didn't lie to her son - okay, not about the majority of things - but she wasn't sure how to coach her words. But then there was no way to do that, was there.
As her phone rang again, she looked at him before she accepted the call from the sitters. "I don't know."
Chapter 17
As Vin drove through Caldwell's outer reaches, his efficiency was autopilot more than awareness, and it was hard to know what was riding him harder: the shit with those dead boys or that hideous dream about Devina.
The cops were absolutely going to show up at the Iron Mask for a hi-how're-ya-what-the-fuck, and if anyone said a peep about what had gone down in the hallway, they were going to want to see what those security cameras had caught. Which wouldn't be good news. Sure, neither he nor Jim had thrown the first punch or pulled a knife, but then, they were still breathing whereas the other two had had a matching set of lead pacemakers implanted in their chests.
And that horrible nightmare...it had been so real, he could still feel those bony hands locked onto his shoulders. Hell, as he thought about it, his c**k shriveled behind his fly like the thing wanted to hibernate in his lower intestine.
You made a bargain and you've taken everything I brought into your life, you've eaten it, drank it, f**ked it - I'm responsible for it all and you owe me.
Bargain? What bargain? As far as he knew, he'd made nothing of the sort with her. Or anybody else.
Whatever, he was arguing about what had been in a dream. Which was nuts.
Bottom line, he was going to end things with Devina as fast as he could - and not because his subconscious clearly had issues with her. The thing was, their relationship wasn't based on love and it wasn't even based on passion. Passion was sex with soul, and no matter how many times she'd made him come, only his body had been in it.
He'd thought that would be enough. He'd assumed that was what he wanted. But his first clue that something was off was when he couldn't even ask her the big question. And then looking into Marie-Terese's eyes had sealed the deal.
Of course, it didn't mean that he and Marie-Terese were going to ride off into the sunset together; his reaction to her just told him there was a whole lot missing between him and the woman he'd thought he was going to marry.
God, the past tense in that was as jarring as a slap in the face.
Refocusing on the road, he cursed when he realized where he was. Instead of driving to his office, which was what he'd intended, he'd ended up on Trade Street, and as he passed by the front entrance of the Iron Mask, he slowed. There were two cop cars parked across from the club and a uniform by the main door.