25. Juliette
Chapter 25
Juliette
T he Lyft dropped her in front of the rainy building. She’d waved the driver down on the street, offered twice what the ride was worth in cash. She’d gotten lucky.
Hopefully, her luck would hold.
Juliette knew Daniel’s tricks—after a decade of life-and-death maneuvers, she’d gotten pretty good at predicting his actions out of necessity. She had known what he was up to from the moment she’d seen that message come across Ronan’s laptop… at least she thought she did.
Twice—once in New Orleans, and again in Virginia—Daniel had committed crimes while wearing one of his stupidly distinctive coats, only to pass the jackets to people on the street in the aftermath. He’d worn a similarly brazen coat the night of Jason’s murder—he’d never wear it again.
Whoever those flatfoots had seen wasn’t Daniel. And if they’d seen that person leaving the club… maybe Daniel was still inside. Perhaps talking to Waylon about how to make her life more miserable. Or doing something terrible to Brittany.
Her mouth went dry, but she forced herself over the sidewalk, head ducked to avoid the downpour.
Are you really going to do this, Juliette?
Yes. She was.
She couldn’t kill him. He’d be armed, and even if she had a gun, she was a terrible shot. And she wouldn’t win in hand-to-hand combat.
But she could stall him, buy Ronan enough time to gather his team. The message thread made it clear that they needed more manpower to pull off the sting. And once he had enough people… Daniel would be at a disadvantage.
Daniel knew it. That was almost certainly the point of that ruse with the coat: Daniel was pulling the department’s resources elsewhere. Leaving Ronan vulnerable. Once he was sure the squad cars had left the area, he’d be on his way to kill the man she loved.
If he hadn’t left already.
Juliette cut her eyes left, then right—no one on the street. No cars that might be unmarked police. Just an old jalopy sitting on blocks. Shit .
Please let him be here.
Part of her expected the front door to be locked, but it swung inward with no resistance—so easily that she stumbled over the threshold. She’d worked here for a year, and while the dancers sometimes left the back entry open between cigarette breaks, Waylon had never left the front door ajar.
He’s here. Right?
“Waylon?” Her voice trembled.
No response. She could hear the music, though, a low throb from the main room. Much softer than usual.
Juliette pushed through the beaded curtain. The stage lights glowed pink, but no one stood at the poles. The lights in the main room were off, the space swathed in shadows. But as her eyes adjusted, she could see that she wasn’t alone. Someone was sitting in the chair near the corner beside the one where Ronan had sat just yesterday.
“Hello?” Juliette called, stepping toward him.
It wasn’t Daniel—his shoulders were too thin. Perhaps a homeless man, someone seeking shelter from the storm? She’d seen that happen twice in the last year, and that would have made him easy pickings if Daniel needed someone to wear his coat. Though… why would he come back?
But as she stepped closer, she knew she was wrong. Gray hair glimmered softly in the hazy light from the stage. And now she could see the paunch of his belly beneath his dark shirt, the saggy skin of his jowls.
“Waylon?” she said, but the man did not move.
She hadn’t really expected him to. Juliette touched his shoulder, and his hand flopped off the armrest to hang limply against the side of the chair.
His shoulders shifted. Then his head tilted back just enough for her to see his wide, glassy eyes… and the glint of the paring knife still lodged in his throat.
“What did that poor man ever do to you?”
His voice turned her blood to ice.
“The knife is from our kitchen set,” Daniel went on. “I’m surprised you’d use something with your prints all over it. It’s like you’re trying to get caught.”
Juliette stood, eyes on Waylon, frozen to the floor. This was what she’d been hoping for, in theory—a reunion, just her and him. But actually being here, hearing his low, nasally voice behind her…
He’s here—he’s right fucking here .
“Clever of you, saving that knife all this time,” she managed. Juliette forced her feet to move, turning slowly, her fists clenched so he wouldn’t see the way her hands trembled. Daniel was nothing more than an amorphous shape in the gloom, but she could feel the animosity—rage coupled with haughty satisfaction. The room crackled with horrible energy, vicious sparks snapping against her flesh.
“I kept lots of things you touched over the years,” he said, voice barely discernible over the music. “At least what I could salvage after you destroyed our home. You’re lucky I didn’t burn your mother alive the way you tried to do to me.”
She forced air into her lungs, trying to keep the panic at bay— Mom’s okay, she’s okay, she’s okay . If he killed her mother, he had nothing to hold over her. But Juliette didn’t really believe that. He’d find some way to keep her in her place, just as he had before he’d taken guardianship of her mom.
She inhaled more softly, more slowly, her breath a quiet whisper against the tension in the air. She’d expected this—his threats, his gloating. And she was here on a mission.
Stay steady. Stall, Juliette. Stall.
“The police aren’t stupid,” she said quietly. “Why would I run away from home with only the clothes on my back but pack our kitchen knives?”
He stepped closer, still too deep in the shadows to see him clearly, but her heart leaped into her throat. Air—there was no air. She swallowed hard, trying to force her lungs to work. Stall. Stall. Stall.
Ronan and his officers would be here soon, wouldn’t they? No, she hadn’t told him she was here—he’d have kept her from coming at all, would have risked Daniel leaving here and killing him instead. But he’d surely figure out where she’d gone. Even if his team went to the motel first, they’d end up here within fifteen minutes… probably less.
But even five minutes couldn’t save Waylon. Even now, she could feel the dead man’s eyes on her back. Watching her as his flesh cooled.
Daniel stepped closer. Her mouth went dry at the dull metallic glint in his hand, hazy pink in the stage lights—the gun aimed straight at her chest. But guns had never been his weapon of choice, and they both knew it.
Fifteen minutes, Juliette. Probably less. Let him think he’s won.
Juliette let her shoulders sag. “I don’t want to run anymore,” she whispered, just loud enough to be heard over the music.
“You don’t have a choice. You’re a fugitive.” He stepped out of the shadows.
The bloodlust in his eyes was exactly as she remembered it, his smile cold, smug, as if he’d just murdered her pet and couldn’t wait to tell her how they’d screamed.
How had she once thought him handsome? How had she ever loved him?
But she had. She had.
She raised her hands, palms up at her sides—supplication. “You can clear me of any charges. I mean, you’re the one who set me up. Just fix it to prove that I didn’t do those things, and I’ll come home with you. I’ve learned my lesson.”
“Nice try.” He slunk nearer, gun still trained on her, and then it was pressing into her chest, against her scar, his sick heat raising clammy gooseflesh along her spine.
Every muscle in her body tightened with the urge to run.
“Don’t move,” he hissed against her neck.
He smelled sour, bitter, sharp—like pure hatred. His fingertips slid over her waist, around her ribs, the barrel of the weapon pressed hard enough to bruise. Her skin crawled everywhere his hand came into contact with her flesh.
“There’s no wire if that’s what you’re looking for. I know you’re too smart for that, Daniel.”
“I have to make sure. You’ve tried it before.”
He wasn’t wrong. She’d tried to trap him on three other occasions—cameras, bugs, her phone set to record. She’d failed. Sanchez had, too. And he’d paid with his life.
Daniel ran his palm over the front of her stomach, beneath her breasts. “You remember this, Juliette? It wasn’t always so bad, was it?” His thumbs brushed her nipples on their way past, his pinky finger lingering on her scar—itching, stinging.
“No. It wasn’t all bad,” she lied, her voice shaking. She couldn’t help it—her entire body was trembling, her heart beating much too quickly as he frisked her. “I remembered that, too, being so far away all these years. We did have good times; I wouldn’t have married you otherwise. And if you clear me, we can have more good times. I can come home, be with my mother. And… you.” The words burned like acid on her tongue.
“You know what I’ve realized?” he hissed into her ear.
Her mouth was stuffed with cotton, but she forced out, “What?”
“I like you better like this.” His fingers traced her hip, the belt line of her jeans, dipping behind the button. “I like you running. Scared. Degrading yourself, working in shit-hole clubs where they refuse to let you dance because even they see how disgusting you are.”
Shame twisted in her chest, her eyes burning, but then she saw Ronan’s eyes in her mind, the lust in his gaze, heard her name—her real name—on his tongue. The shameful heat fizzled out. She blinked her tears away.
“I don’t have anywhere else to go, Daniel. Just that awful motel.”
He stepped back suddenly but kept the gun trained on her chest. “You weren’t at the motel last night,” he said, dark eyes boring into hers. “Were you fucking that detective?”
Her ribs tightened. Did he know where Ronan’s second home was? But then he finished, “Tell me where you went, baby.”
Relief edged through her belly— thank god. “I thought that if I walked around, you might see me. Pick me up so we could talk.” She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, inhaling deeply as if she could draw courage from the air.
Five minutes now. Probably less. But…
What if Ronan didn’t show? What if he was still working in his office? What if he hadn’t yet realized she was gone?
It’s okay—Daniel won’t kill you. That would ruin his game.
But there was something in his eyes that unsettled her more than his smugness. A dull kind of listlessness. Was he… tired of this? That’d be bad— very bad.
But she forced out, “I can’t run anymore, Daniel. Please take me home. I don’t want to go back to the motel.”
Ronan believed he could trick Daniel into going to the motel, lured by the promise of killing him. But Daniel’s motivations were more nuanced than that. Guessing what she might do was one part of the game. Inflicting the most suffering was another. And if he knew where she’d be… would he try to hurt Ronan there, in front of her? Take the game to the next level, soothe his boredom?
It was a long shot. But it felt true.
Daniel cocked his head as if waiting for her to act. Utterly still. Almost as if he wanted her to attack him. Wanted her to say she was done with this shit so he could finish her off, then go home and finish her mother.
Not today, asshole.
Juliette stepped backward.
He smiled. “Don’t run away from me, baby. Not yet.” He said it as if he was a hunter waiting for the start of big game season.
It was easy to be a predator when you were the only one with a gun.
“I’m not running.” She resisted the urge to add, and I’m not your baby , biting back her rage, her fear. “I just don’t want him… looking at me.” She gestured to the dead man and sidled backward to the arm of Waylon’s chair.
“But… you are going to run again. Aren’t you?” He cocked an eyebrow, no longer bored—the glee in his face turned her stomach. Bile rose in her gorge.
“Yes,” she whispered. “As soon as I get my stuff from the motel, I’ll go.”
“You aren’t going to say goodbye to your detective? You didn’t say goodbye to Sanchez, either.” He edged closer, eyes tight. “Maybe you should go now. How much more desperate might you be without a dime to your name?”
Juliette rested her left hand on the back of Waylon’s chair.
“What would you do for a meal, Juliette?” Daniel smiled. “Are you going to hitchhike to your next location? Let some trucker pick you up? Let him do nasty things to you so you don’t starve to death?”
Her eyes burned, and this time, she let the tears stream down her face. “I doubt those truckers will want me,” she said, bringing her right fingertips to the scar.
“But the ones who do…” The leer on his face was straight out of a horror movie. “They’ll put you in your place. Even that detective is just having a little fun before he arrests you for killing Jason. You have to know that.”
Daniel closed the gap between them, expecting her to run—he always expected her to run. Instead, she ripped the canister from the back of the chair and released a stream of pepper spray straight into his eyes.
Daniel stumbled back, shouting—“Goddamnit, you fucking cunt!”—but she was already leaping backward, head ducked low as the first shot rang out. The bullet cracked off the table to her right. She zigged left. Another bullet hit the chair.
Her eyes watered, her throat burning, but she managed to lurch through the beaded curtain, and then she was outside, racing through the freezing rain.
She raised her face to the sky, but it only seemed to make the burning worse. Juliette stumbled across the road, breath ragged, eyes on fire, her throat half-closed—choking. In the distance, sirens squalled. About time. She’d only been in the building for ten minutes. But would she make it back to Ronan before Daniel?
Juliette blinked, swiping at her watery eyes, running as fast as she dared over the cobbles. She cut a right at the next alley just as the police cars squealed onto the road.
She already knew what they’d find: Waylon with a blade in his throat, her fingerprints on the handle, the caustic reek of pepper in the air.
But no Daniel.
He had a way out of there. Same as he had the night he’d killed Jason. A hidey-hole in a nearby building, a way into the warehouse. He always had a way out.
But this time… she had Ronan. This time, she knew who Daniel’s next target was. And Daniel was the one on a time crunch—she could tell by the tension in his eyes when he’d said she should go now .
The sirens were already fading in her ears. Juliette ducked into a doorway and put her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath, her lungs resisting the fresh air—irritated by the pepper.
The rest of her life hinged on what happened in the next few hours. Her mother’s life. Ronan’s life.
Please , she thought to herself, suppressing a cough as she pushed herself from the doorway and raced off through the rain.
Please let this work.
Please let it be enough.