Page 15 of Bram

I tried to sleep, but the night wouldn’t let go. Not the fight—that was just motion, training, something I’d done before. Not the pain, either. It was the moment after: Julie standing in the parking lot, her sleeve stained with my blood, her eyes bright and angry and not backing down. It was the way she didn’t flinch, didn’t break, just watched and waited. Most people looked at me and saw a problem. She looked and saw a man she could keep alive, at least long enough to finish the job.

It bothered me more than the knife.

I stared at the stain on the ceiling, let my eyes find the old rivers and dry beds. I tried to follow them somewhere, anywhere, but my mind kept doubling back to her, to the look on her face, to the feel of her arm around my back when I’d let myself lean on her, even for a second. To the way she’d thanked me, even though she knew I hadn’t done it for her. Or had I? This is what women did to a man when he started to obsess over her. Just fucking confusion.

Would I do it all over again? Yeah, I would. I’d killed for her and would do it again if another man touched her. She needed to know that. I didn’t like the way I let her leave. She needed to know that, too. Fuck, was I in love with her?

The hallway outside stayed bright, voices coming and going, the business of the club grinding on. I listened, waiting for the world to shift, for something to tell me when it was safe to get up again.

I waited a long time.

seven

Julie

The headlights cut off a foot from the garage door. I shut down the engine and let the dash clock tick. In the rearview, my own eyes looked reptilian: slit and glassy, reflecting the sodium burn from the porch light. I stayed in the car, engine pinging, knuckles whitening and unwhitening on the steering wheel.

There was a light burning in the kitchen window.

I didn’t leave it on. I remembered—one, two, three clicks: stove, overhead, hall. Everything was dark when I left for the office this morning. I always checked twice, sometimes three, especially since the first time the Scorpions tagged my fence line and left a crushed beer can on the doorstep. I made a habit of it, the way you make a habit of counting your own teeth after you get punched.

Now the kitchen glowed like the only safe house on the block.

I sat a minute more, listening. The old neighborhood had a signature noise: wind, dog chain, distant train. All present and accounted for. Nothing extra. I considered calling Bram to see if he’d send someone over to check the place out before I went inside.

Bram. I liked the way his name sounded on my tongue. I liked thinking about him. When was the last time a man had saved my life? Never. Men in suits didn’t do that. They protected themselves and their money. Was I going to have to prosecute him for murder? No, I wouldn’t do that.

I waited longer. You learn to do that after a while. Let the world come to you. I thought about the last time I’d been surprised and decided I didn’t want tonight to be a repeat.

I got out, heels smacking concrete, and left the briefcase in the passenger seat. The night was still, a little too cold for this time of year. I moved up the walk slowly, left hand in my purse, right free. The porch light was just a bulb, no fixture, and it made me feel naked. I stopped at the door, pressed my palm to the glass, and waited for my own breath to fog it. There was nothing but the orange rectangle of the kitchen, and a thin edge of movement, barely visible.

I pressed my thumb to the latch, made a note to get it replaced with a real deadbolt, and eased the door open.

There was the smell of ice and spilled bourbon, sharp and immediate. I stepped through, toes touching cold tile, and shut the door behind me. It clicked too loud.

She was at the table, right where you’d expect her: jacket still on, close-cropped silver hair perfect as always, hands steady on a tumbler of my best whiskey. Sally Sparta. My mother.

What the fuck. That was the one statement that pretty much summed up our relationship.

On the floor, by the back door, was a body. Denim jacket, black boots, the wrong kind of hands: knuckles tattooed, two fingers taped together, blood oozing slow through the webbing. The face was buried in the tile, caved in just above the ear. The dark halo under the head had already started to congeal, thick and glassy, branching toward the drain under the sink. Beside the corpse: my cast-iron skillet, handle snapped clean off, the pan itself streaked with blood and a scallop of scalp.

I looked at my mother.

She looked at the whiskey.

For a long time, nobody said anything.

Then, without looking up, she said, “You keep the Blanton’s behind the cleaning supplies. Not even locked.”

I let my purse drop, keys still in my hand, and stared at the body. It was younger than I expected. Not even thirty. Bad haircut, cheap leather, the kind of face you didn’t have to memorize because nobody would ever ask for it in a lineup. The jaw slack, tongue out, eyes staring at the floor, seeing through it to whatever came next.

I pulled a chair. Sat. Crossed my legs. “You could have called.”

She raised her glass, sipped, and then set it down with deliberate care. “Wouldn’t have made a difference.”

My brain started cataloging the scene: entry wound, weapon, blood spatter, direction of fall. I could see the path he’d taken through the yard, the point where he’d hopped the fence (grass scraped off the toe), the careful way he’d picked the lock on the back door (not careful enough—she’d put in the chain, like always). The break-in was textbook, but the response was not.

“He had a knife,” Mom said, voice flat as concrete. “In his boot. Didn’t even get it out.”