Your worst nightmare
I snorted. Whoever this asshole was, he had no idea of the nightmare I'd already lived. The nightmare two people in masks saved me from. People who entered the hotel room I was sharing with my late, unlamented asshole of a husband. Somehow they knew what he was doing to me.
They killed him for it.
I owed them one. At least one. Maybe a lot more than one. Probably ten or eleven.
If I had any idea who they were, I'd send them a huge gift basket to say thank you.
Unknown caller
I'll see you soon, bitch
"Sure you will," I said to the screen.
I looked around. Watched for anyone watching me.
Apart from a couple of funny looks from people who wondered why I was looking around the way I was, no one seemed to be paying me much attention. Either they were a good actor, or they weren't here. I decided it was the latter. Someonewith the guts to send threatening messages, but not to show up in person. I should report this to the cops.
I had the direct number of a detective who investigated my husband's murder, along with instructions to call him if I thought of anything else. Any detail I hadn't already told him.
I wouldn't.
I'd told him everything I could think of. Everything except one important detail. One of my husband's killers was a woman. I'd heard her voice when she spoke to her accomplice. Feminine and confident.
For some reason, I couldn't bring myself to mention that. It seemed important, relevant enough they might actually find her if they knew what they were looking for.
I didn't want her found.
Killing Wolfgang Taylor-Francis was a service to the world as far as I was concerned. A service to me, and women like me. Women forced into a situation they wanted no part of. Women who couldn't walk away. They'd done what I couldn’t. End him. I was too scared to do it. Or pay someone to. I would have left a money trail. The cops would have traced it back to me. He wasn't worth going to jail for.
I startled as someone bumped into me as they walked past. Flinched.
"I'm so sorry," the tall blonde said over her shoulder as she bustled past.
"Yeah, me too," I said more softly, giving her a nod before I turned away. I didn't want to flinch every time someone touched me, but the text messages put me on edge. Okay, more than usual. She could have slipped a knife between my ribs before hurrying on. Or stolen my phone. Would that be so bad? It would if I wanted sushi at three in the morning.
I checked my pockets. My phone was still there.
Itwasanaccident. I reminded myself. Nothing more.
I hurried on toward my apartment. It would be warm in there, but I'd be alone.
The brisk walk, down a few blocks and back again wasn't just exercise. It was to remind myself I still lived in the world. I still existed. Locking myself away in my apartment and never leaving would be too easy.
For some reason I couldn't explain, it'd be a win for Wolfgang. He'd wanted to hide me away. He would have loved me to retreat from everything after he died, as if somehow I was spending the rest of my life grieving the prick.
Fuck that. He'd been dead for months. It was past time that I reclaimed my life. Got back to doing the things I enjoyed.
What was that again? Hobbies seemed like a distant memory. Another life. I could always take up new ones. Right? Maybe I could learn how to knit. Or write the great novel I'd always wanted to write. The one Wolfgang would have laughed about if I'd mentioned it to him.
"No one would read it," he'd say. "Stick to what you're good at. Looking pretty on my arm."
I would have jabbed my fork into his eyeball if he said that, but like I said, going to jail for him wasn't worth it.
I walked past Angel's Rest, the renowned restaurant owned by chef Harlow St. James.
The smell drifting through the open doorway made my mouth water. One of the diners laughed at something their companion said. The sound made me smile.
