“Yeah, I got that part.” He pushes against the door, testing if I’ll give. I hold firm.
“Why are you here?”
His smile is all teeth, predatory. “Got some business with your husband. Roman’s been giving him special treatment, and I’m getting tired of it.” He spits tobacco onto my porch again. “Made me look like a fool at that fancy rodeo, parading you around while I’m still cleaning up after his messes.”
My throat tightens. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do. I helped him dispose of a body. Martin Everett. Remember him? And now Calder’s getting all the glory, all Roman’s trust, while I’m still taking out the trash. Not to mention he’s gotten real interested in my routes all of a sudden.”
The memory of Martin’s blood on my porch flashes through my mind.
“That’s between you and Calder.”
“No, it ain’t.” Wayne shakes his head. “Roman’s watching me like a hawk since your husband started whispering in his ear. And I know what happens to people Roman doesn’t trust.”
“You should leave. Now.”
His expression darkens. “Not until I get what I came for.”
“And what’s that?”
“Leverage.” He pushes harder, making me step back just enough that he can wedge his boot in the door. “And maybe a little taste of what Calder’s been keeping all to himself.”
Fear spikes through me, followed by a cold, hard anger. I’m not the same girl who was taken from her home that night.
“Move your foot,” I say, voice low, “or I’ll make you move it.”
He laughs. “You’re gonna make me? That’s rich. What, you gonna?—”
I slam the door against his foot with all my strength. He howls, pulling back just enough that I can slam it shut and throw the deadbolt.
His fist pounds the wood. “You bitch! Open this door!”
I back away, heart hammering. The pounding continues. The door won’t hold forever. I need a weapon.
My eyes find the shotgun above the fireplace. Calder didn’t say a thing about it, but I’m hoping he keeps it loaded and ready. I learned how to fire something similar when I was thirteen, so this shouldn’t be so different. I grab a chair and climb up. The shotgun is heavy in my hands, but the weight is reassuring. I check if it’s loaded. Of course it is. Calder is always prepared.
The pounding stops, and for a second, I think maybe Wayne has given up. Then the glass shattering in the kitchen makes my heart stop in my throat—he’s breaking in.
I position myself in the hallway where I can see the kitchen entrance but still have cover. The shotgun feels awkward in my hands, but I remember my father’s instructions from way back then: stock against shoulder, finger along the trigger guard, aim for center mass.
Wayne’s boots crunch on broken glass, and I try to pinpoint his trajectory by the sound.
“Come on out, preacher’s daughter,” he calls. “I just want to talk. Maybe have a little fun.”
I stay silent, heart pounding. The shotgun grows heavier in my trembling hands.
“Your husband’s been real slick lately,” Wayne continues, closer now. “Playing both sides. But I’m smarter than he thinks. Found out some interesting things about his comings and goings. And you, little Mrs. Bishop, might be just the leverage I need.”
He rounds the corner and freezes when he sees me, the shotgun aimed at his chest. His eyes widen, then narrow.
“Now, now.” He raises his hands, a mocking gesture. “What are you gonna do with that, little girl? You ever even fired a gun before?”
I don’t answer, just tighten my grip, and cock the slide. It echoes loud between us. More of a threat than anything I can say.
He steps forward. “Put it down before you hurt yourself.”
“Stay back.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
