23. Melody
Melody
W ith my stance as perfectly aligned as humanly possible, I exhale slowly and squeeze the trigger. The recoil rocks through my shoulders, but I don't falter. A perfect bullseye.
"Fuck yes! Did you see that?" I shriek as I yank off the earmuffs. Helena snags the gun from me and quickly engages the safety.
"You did so well! This is amazing improvement, Melody! Really—I'm so proud of you," Helena gushes and squeezes my shoulder.
The grizzled man on the lane next to us huffs out a breath and grumbles something, most likely misogynistic.
Yes, we absolutely could have practiced in the basement, but I'm free!
With Dante's blessing this morning, I begged Helena to take us to a shooting range.
She quickly obliged, and I'm damn near giddy.
So Mister Second Amendment over there can just fucking cope.
"Should I go again? I think I should go again!" I squeal and shuffle on my feet.
"Yes, absolutely. Remember. Square up, steady grip, feet apart, hold tight. Don't let the recoil spook you." She hands me back the gun, and I nod, following her instructions. She groans and pops the earmuffs back on my head, and the other shooters on the range muffle out of focus.
I focus on the target at the end of the lane, envisioning the bullet before it leaves the barrel.
My shoulders try to tense, but I force them back down.
I take in another breath and pull the trigger with my exhale.
The recoil doesn't shock me as much, not anymore.
I've done it again—another bullseye, not even an inch from the first one.
Feeling lucky, I fire again. And again. And again. I fire until the magazine is empty, and the trigger clicks uselessly. Even though the gun is empty, I flick on the safety—Helena trained me well—and gently lay the weapon on the wooden ledge of my lane.
"Helena, will you bring the target up?" I ask, still focused on the tattered piece of paper. She clicks a button, and it whizzes forward. My heart leaps with joy—I've fucking done it. The grouping is immaculate. The only stray is in the second ring of the circle.
I'm a deadly weapon, and I know how to use one.
"Oh my God, Melody! I'm so proud! You're incredible!" Helena laughs and pulls me in for a hug. I wrap my arms around her and feel a brief pang of jealousy at her muscle tone.
"Thank you! Thank you so much for teaching me—you're amazing, this is amazing, ah!" I shriek back, and we are definitely irritating the shit out of the guy in the next lane over.
"Hey. Girly. You wanna learn to shoot for real? Come by my place; I'll show you a real gun." The guy leans over and looks us up and down with a sleazy grin. Ugh, gross. I miss when he just mumbled sexist shit under his breath.
"Disgusting. Helena, pedicures?" I turn back to my friend without another glance at the leering man.
"Sounds lovely, Mel."
We pack up and leave the shooting range, arm in arm. I'm just absolutely bursting with joy—for my aim, my stance, and my friend. This is the best day of my life.
Helena and I burst into the house, still giggling with childlike glee at our girls' day out, when I see Dante sitting quietly on the sofa. Roman stands at the window, hands behind his back in the stoic repose I've come to learn so well.
"Helena," Roman grunts.
"Hello, sir. Mr. Lyons." Helena nods to both men.
"There's been an unfortunate incident." Dante stands and faces us.
My heart drops. He looks so… broken. I drop my bag to the floor and rush over to him, pulling him in close.
He melts into my embrace but stiffens before standing back up straight.
"I'm sorry, love. I need to tell you. Valencia, my office manager, my business manager… is dead."
"No," Helena gasps and the blood drains from her face.
"Oh, honey. I'm so sorry—was she sick? Was there an accident?" I run my fingers through his hair and cup his cheek.
A single tear wells up and trails down his face, dripping from his angular jawbone. "No. It wasn't an accident. Someone wanted to send a message. Well, message received."
I furrow my brow, momentarily confused, before I understand his words. His office manager was murdered? An office manager? "Who the fuck would do something like that?"
"That, Mrs. Lyons, is exactly what we're trying to find out," Roman speaks up and turns from the window. "This was personal, though."
"Don't mince words, Roman. She was strung up from the ceiling fan in our break room, Melody." Dante's ashen face looks so haunted, so hollow.
"Jesus Christ," Helena whispers. "Poor Valencia."
"Is that… is that why you had to go in early today?" I ask. Dante and Roman exchange glances.
"In a way, yes. But I was under the impression that Valencia called Roman in a tizzy." Dante leans forward with his elbows on his knees.
"She did. Or I thought she did." Roman sniffs. "I'd like to think she was alive this morning, but we reviewed the security footage. There is no evidence of her leaving the office last night. At approximately six in the evening, the elevator doors open, and the cameras cut out. All of them."
"What about on other floors? The lobby?" I ask with furrowed brow.
"All of them. I spoke with the building manager, and every single floor cut out around six. They didn't turn back on until we arrived and… found her." Roman rubs the side of his face.
"So, who did you talk to on the phone?" Helena pipes up.
"That's the problem—we have no idea. An elaborate recording, someone who sounds like Valencia—and using her phone—or one of those AI voices?" Dante shudders. "I hate them in general. They're dangerous, obviously."
"Clearly. We've shut down operation for the next week or so. Allow the staff to grieve her loss, and GoCon is sending their own investigators to the site." Roman plunks down in his usual armchair with a heavy sigh.
"When is the funeral?" Helena asks. "Has her family been notified? Her brother?"
Their conversation continues as I focus on calming Dante's shot nerves.
I feel his heart rate decrease and his muscles relax as I position myself beside him, gently massaging the knots out of his shoulders.
Valencia's death is weighing heavily on him; I can see the guilt and grief in his eyes.
He's so different from what I once thought of him.
Cold and aloof, indifferent to my suffering.
But for the past few weeks, I've been able to see the man behind the mask.
I can see the man who is fiercely loyal, the man who always plans two steps ahead.
He's practical, not shrewd. He's thoughtful and kind to those he loves.
And, in some platonic way, it seems he loved Valencia.
She had two brothers, one younger and one older.
The funeral will be held on Monday. I may not have known Valencia, but I'll be there.
I'll stand by my husband and offer sincere condolences to her family.
I honestly can't imagine a worse way to go: brutally murdered in her office. She must have been terrified.
To be fair, I am also a murderer. A few times over, really. But I've never hurt anyone who didn't deserve it. And I never fucking will.
Roman and Dante have set up shop temporarily in his home office. I don't quite know what they're doing up there, but Helena and I are free to go about our day. She's a little morose, understandably so, but shooting in the basement with me is putting a smile back on her face.
And she brought me a new toy. It's a big, matte black rifle.
She told me the actual name, but I don't remember, and quite frankly?
I don't care. I feel like a video game character about to wreak havoc on an alien world.
And it is loud . Loud enough that I yelp in surprise when the shockwave reverberates through my shoulder.
"Oh, try these under the muffs." Helena holds out little silicone earplugs. "Some people like to double up on the hearing protection with these big boys. I recommend it, anyway. We're in an enclosed space—soundwaves bounce around. You only get two ears."
I thank her and insert the plugs, adjusting them until they're comfortable, and pop the earmuffs on top. Much better. Helena gives me a thumbs-up with a questioning look, and I nod enthusiastically.
Turning back to the target, I feel like it's not far enough away.
The house itself is around fifty feet deep, give or take, and the basement matches it.
I re-engage the safety and cock my hip out.
Helena raises her eyebrows and cocks her head to the side.
Shifting the earmuff from one ear, I yell, "Feels a bit small? "
"What does?"
I wave my hand around. "This room. This space. Too small for one of the big boys, you know?"
She purses her lips and thinks for a beat. "We could try going to the range?"
"Yes! Yes. Let's get out of this house—after lunch? We could bring the fellas some snacks?" I rest the rifle against the steel table that usually holds murder implements. Well, it still does, just a much louder, faster one.
"Sounds like a plan," she smirks. "But I think you're forgetting something."
"What?" The safety is on, so it can't be that. I pat my pockets and look around the room, but come up empty. "What am I forgetting?"
"It's Friday." She gives me a pointed look. "You've got a date with a pee stick, as you love to call it."
Motherfucker. It is Friday. My time is up. "You don't have to look so excited about it."
"I just have a feeling, that's all! A very positive feeling," she chides, and her wide smile is contagious. She's really a very good-looking woman. Tall, toned, and a slightly crooked nose that gives her bad girl vibes.
"Fine. Fine, you're right, it's time. But…." I drop my voice. "Not here, okay? If it isn't positive, I don't want to, I don't know, give him false hope?"