CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Julia rolled up both paintings and slid them back in their tubes.
She looked at the young, unshaven man in the suit and tie.
He was handsome beyond belief, but he’d been eyeing her up and down like he owned her since he’d walked in.
And now he’d shifted that same look to the tubes holding the paintings.
“As promised, two Grandma Moses paintings,” she said, taking a seat in front of Angel’s computer. She logged into Angel’s bank account and looked up. “They’re all yours after you transfer the money.”
“Where’s Angel?” the man said. “I thought I was doing business with him.” He smiled and walked over to the tubes on Angel’s desk.
“Don’t touch those,” said Julia.
The man tucked the tubes under his arm. “Tell you what. I’ll settle up with Angel later.”
Julia stood. She was a foot shorter than the man, but she grabbed his tie and pulled until he was face to face with her. She talked through clenched teeth.
“Put those down until you pay what you owe.”
She let go of his tie, her eyes blazing. The man straightened his tie. He eyed her. Julia’s stomach knotted, but she stared daggers right back. The man chewed the inside of his lip. He put down the tubes. Julia grabbed them. He took out his phone, pressed a button, and put the phone to his ear.
“I have them,” he said, sneering at Julia. “Do the transfer.”
She turned toward the computer. It took a tense minute, but the numbers finally appeared. Three hundred grand. She handed the tubes to the man.
“Have a nice day,” she said, smiling. She followed him through the garage to the parking lot and watched him get into his glossy black Rolls Royce. Cinders crunched under its tires as he drove into the street toward the brightening horizon signaling the approach of dawn.
Julia leaned against the door, exhausted.
She had been up all night at the hospital, waiting to hear about Angel, watching over Conor’s dad, and worrying about Conor.
That was the worst, worrying about Conor.
She went back inside the garage. Angel had been nip and tuck for a while last night.
Something about a clot. But he’d survived.
Conor’s dad was hungover to the point of death, but after they got back, he’d fallen into a fitful sleep in the back seat of an old yellow Monte Carlo in the garage.
Conor said he’d be back by sunrise. It wouldn’t be long before she’d know if he’d come through on that promise.
Just enough time to take a shower, brush her teeth, and get ready to leave, because one thing was certain.
If Conor didn’t show, she had to run.
Before he’d lost consciousness, Angel had made her promise to leave if Conor didn’t make it back.
To take a hundred grand out of the account, take the work truck, and drive so far away no one would ever find her.
She walked downstairs to the bathroom, turned on the shower, stripped, and stepped under the hot water, knowing that if Conor didn’t show, that was exactly what she’d do.
Leave and never look back.
* * *
Her hair dripped as she walked out of the garage into the parking lot, holding a cup of coffee.
She was barefoot, wearing jeans and an oil-stained work shirt she’d found in Angel’s office.
The coffee steamed, matching the fog rising from the scrub grass across the street.
A slice of molten orange sun peeked over the horizon.
She couldn’t hold off anymore. It was time to go.
She sipped her coffee, dumped the rest on the ground, and went inside, grabbing the keys to Angel’s work truck.
It took a few minutes to transfer the hundred grand into her bank account, then she logged out, slipped on tennis shoes, and walked to Angel’s truck parked on the side of the garage.
It started right up. She pulled out, stopping at the edge of the parking lot.
A pair of sunglasses were stuck in the passenger visor.
She slipped them on, the truck idling while she stared at the sun.
She looked both ways down the street. Empty, except for a cat darting into a field across the street.
She pulled into the street and started driving.
Then stopped.
She backed the truck into the parking lot. She put it in Park and ran inside, leaning into the open window of the Monte Carlo.
“Mickey, wake up,” she said.
He sat up. Pasty-eyed, hair sticking straight up, and with breath that could kill, but he was awake. He moaned, holding his head.
Julia opened the door and helped him out. “I just wanted to say goodbye,” she said, hugging him.
Mickey stepped back. “Hang on,” he said. “Let me get cleaned up and get some aspirin and coffee in me before you leave.”
“I can’t,” she said. “I have to go. I promised Angel.”
Mickey nodded. He held out his arms.
She hugged him. Tears welled as she walked away, but she didn’t look back, even though she could hear Mickey following her. She got in the truck, put on her sunglasses, and pulled into the street.
“Take care of yourself,” shouted Mickey.
She looked in the rearview mirror as she drove. Mickey walked into the street and waved. She lifted her hand to return the wave.
She stomped the brakes.
The truck screeched to a standstill. Her gaze locked on the rearview mirror.
She put the truck in Reverse, draped an arm over the back of her seat, and sped backward, zipping by Mickey, the engine whining as she backed up toward the figure in jeans and a white T-shirt.
He was blocks away, walking down the street with a red gym bag slung over his shoulder.
Waves of heat shimmered off the blacktop, giving him the wiggle of an illusion.
He turned into hard reality as she got closer.
The truck squealed to a stop. She threw the door open and jumped out, her feet pounding the street.
She leaped into Conor’s chest and hugged him.
He dropped the gym bag and grunted in pain, but he didn’t stop her.
He held her with one arm, lifted her, and gave her a weak twirl.
She kissed his neck, tasting blood and sweat.
“You did it,” she said, burying her face against him.
“Can’t believe I made it,” he croaked, setting her down. “The chain on Angel’s bike snapped five blocks back. I can barely walk, but I promised you I’d be here.”
She stopped hugging him but couldn’t take her hands off him. She had to touch him. His arms. His shoulders. His bruised and bloody face. She kissed him and looked him over. He looked terrible. Beat to hell. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw his hand and said, “Oh my god. What happened?”
His right hand was covered in blood. A thick, wet drop dripped from his closed fist to the street, followed by another. He lifted his bloody hand and opened it. Something dark and wet with blood dropped from his grip. It slapped the blacktop.
Julia looked at it, then shifted her gaze to Conor. “Is that—"
“Someone opened his big mouth at the wrong time,” he said.
Julia swallowed. “Is he still—”
“He’ll never bother us again,” said Conor.
She helped him into the truck and then walked around to the driver’s side. Conor put the gym bag on the seat between them as she slid behind the steering wheel.
“Did the money for the paintings come through?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Are Angel and my dad okay?”
She nodded again.
“Good. Did you tell my dad about the money?”
Julia smiled, the rising sun painting her face in a warm, yellow glow. “No. Let’s go tell him right now.”
Conor nodded, then said, “I got something else he’ll want to hear.
It took a little work, but I got Duck to fill me in on how he and my dad used to work together.
Turns out the thing that turned my dad into a bum wasn’t his fault—it was Duck.
He killed my dad’s partner.“ He patted the gym bag.
“So, I took this, as, you know, payback.”
Eyes narrowing with a grin, he looked at Julia.
“Open it,” he said.
She unzipped the bag. A pair of busted glasses lay on top of stacks of money spattered with blood.
Conor picked up the glasses. “Wonder how these got in here—they look like Duck’s.”
He tossed them out the window, leaned toward Julia, and kissed her. Then he settled back and pointed at his father standing in the parking lot of Angel’s garage. “Let’s go see my dad.”
Julia slipped the truck into gear and drove into the blinding glare of the rising sun. She felt like she was floating. Weightless. As if she could rise out of her seat, fly through the window, and lift into the sky until the clouds were at her feet. Only one thing tethered her to the ground.
Conor’s hand holding hers.