Chapter Twenty-Six
We slide into cushioned chairs around an outdoor circular table with a tiny firepit in the middle, flames rising up like an oversized candle from smooth, white rocks.
A waiter comes around with glasses of chilled water, leather-backed menus, and a wine list. Overhead, wooden slats provide shade, as well as a place for grapevines to grow.
Fans are tucked into corners, keeping the space from being hot and sunny on this early Texas evening.
Moments later, champagne arrives in flutes.
Jesus, he went all out.
“Surprised?” Brian raises his glass, offering a gentle clink against my own.
“Uh-huh.” An understatement. I thought he knew, that he’d planned some showdown. Now, with an anniversary band added to my wedding and engagement rings, and a grinning husband—he really is delighted with himself—I feel like an idiot.
Brian, of all people? Planning a showdown with his wife? He cracks dad jokes for his own entertainment, for god’s sake.
Then I remember the real Brian Davis is buried next to his parents, his tiny skeleton alone in an equally tiny coffin.
I take a gulp of the sweet sparkling liquid and remind myself I don’t know who he is; he certainly can’t be trusted, romantic dinner or no. Vague text messages that could have two meanings are going to set me on guard, and that’s a good thing.
“I forgot.” I give him a sheepish smile—That’s what was on the edge of my mind all day.
“Sorry.” While he talks about how it’s fine—of course I forgot, I’m such a busy, loving mother to our girls!
—I identify three escape routes, two people who look like they might be carrying weapons, and two men and one woman who look as though they could be someone like me—or worse, police, CIA, or FBI.
My heart beats harder than usual, my fingers twitch anytime there’s a loud noise. I’m not rattled; I’m ready.
I want to tell myself to relax, to enjoy the champagne, to soak in this one evening with a man I may have to kill soon.
Even the worst men in history have been able to charm their wives; anyone can pretend to be normal for a night.
Or—I take another sip—for a decade. I’d say it’s not possible, but then I’d merely need to look in the mirror to prove myself wrong.
“Graham and I planned this last month,” Brian is saying, reaching for my right hand.
I pull it back—never tie up your shooting hand—and offer him my left.
He takes it without missing a beat. “It’s not every day you celebrate a big milestone like this, you know?
I wanted it to be special. You work so hard to keep our family going. ”
I meet his gaze, try to focus.
“I want you to know I recognize that. That being a mom and a wife—especially to someone who’s gone all the time—it’s work. Real work.” He squeezes my hand. “And I appreciate you.”
My mouth opens to give the automatic response someone expects in this situation: “It’s a team effort,” I murmur.
“We have to work together. You do a lot too.” I say the empty phrases almost without thought, like I’ve rehearsed them a dozen times.
Maybe I have. Brian smiles—he loves hearing that he does his part.
It’s another one of his love languages or whatever bullshit that book says.
“Do you remember what you ordered the first time we came here?”
I hesitate. “I got the salmon salad. You got fish and chips because you always get fish and chips.”
A long-suffering sigh, and he pats his belly.
“Ah, yes. Not any longer, but that’s it.
” Like Graham, Brian’s cholesterol has crept up as he’s approached forty.
Not because he doesn’t keep himself in good shape, but because one of the reasons he works out is so he can eat whatever he wants. And he does.
“It is a special occasion,” I say. At this rate, his cholesterol will be the least of his worries; he won’t need to worry about dying of a heart attack if I kill him first.
“I know, but—” He gives my hand another press, and I hate how my fucking hormones make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Once, that wouldn’t have happened. Damn him for making me fall in love. “I want to be around for a long time. For you, for the girls.”
He should have thought of that before whatever crimes he’s committed.
Someone catches his attention from across the way—two men, seated at the edge of the outdoor area.
“Excuse me one moment, darling, I see someone I did some consulting for last year. I should say hello.”
I wait until he leaves the table, then turn and crane my neck, trying to see who it is. Two men with graying hair, one with a mustache. Weathered skin, like they’ve spent too much time outside and didn’t bother with an SPF moisturizer. I cluck my tongue and reach a hand to touch my own dewy skin.
Once he’s at their table, shaking hands and talking loudly, as men do, I reach for my phone.
Snap three photos, capturing the images of his companions, more reverse image searches to sort out what Brian’s up to.
I turn back to the table—and refreshed glasses of champagne—when a flicker of light from the roof of a nearby building snags my attention.
But I don’t look at it.
Don’t squint or take a second glance or so much as acknowledge I’ve noticed.
I do pick up my champagne and Brian’s, and I do step into the shadows of the pergola, calling to him. “Darling, I’m sorry, something out here is flaring up my allergies. Do you mind if we move inside?”
I don’t have allergies, but Brian’s gentlemanly ways are triggered. He bids his friends farewell, grabs my purse, and signals to the waiter.
It’s only once we’re inside, seated safely behind a wall, that I press a kiss to Brian’s lips. “I’ll be right back. I need to freshen up. Would you mind ordering for me? I’m starved. I’ll have the salad again.”
He happily agrees, and I stride off, assured he has a reason to stay at our table—he must put our order in. After all, his wife is hungry on our anniversary.
Once I’m out of his sight, I yank my gun from my purse, hide it beneath the shawl I’ve draped over my shoulders. I slip down the hall toward the back entrance to find the sniper I have no doubt was ready to kill Brian.
That motherfucker can get in line.