Chapter 13
Julie sat on the floor of the expansive room, the last bands of the setting sun streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Wood floors were stained a modern black, the walls covered in warm gold paint.
An equally modern kitchen ran along the short wall adjacent to the windows, a hefty island and barstools rounding out the space.
Barstow had called her at the hospital this morning. “It was a textile manufacturing plant in the seventies. Being converted to loft apartments. This is the first unit that’s come up for sale.”
“Really, you don’t have to…”
He cut her off. “It’s an investment. You’ll rent it from me, once you get on your feet. I’ll have someone drop off the keys.”
She had packed an overnight bag with the essentials, including a pillow and blanket. These she set up on the floor next to containers of Chinese take-out and a bottle of cheap Chianti from a liquor store down the street.
The only thing she put in the kitchen was the pistol Gwen had given her. It was in the drawer to the left of the sink, and in her mind it seemed to take up all the cupboard space and every square inch of countertop.
Isn’t it just like Gwen to give me firepower?
Julie sipped her wine from a plastic cup as she let her eyes glide from one side of the space to the other, bumping up and over the square surfaces of the kitchen until they came to rest on the heap of her own belongings.
They didn’t fit in here any more than she did.
Barstow’s offer of protection seemed like a godsend at the time, but sitting in the emptiness made it clear that more had changed than her address. Hank was gone, and she was completely alone.
She had sent them away, of course. Becky and Gwen would never abandon her. A part of her needed this solitude, like an injured animal wandering away from the pack to lick its wounds.
The bottle in her hand was heavy with wine, and she rubbed her fingers against the woven basket that covered its smooth glass bottom. She loved these bottles as a child, their dark glass artfully drizzled with a rainbow of candle wax.
Tomorrow, she knew, she would move on without even unpacking.
The gun from Gwen was a sign. She was in charge of her own protection now. Barstow was as unnecessary to her as the boxes of detritus Becky had so carefully hauled here from Julie’s condo this afternoon.
None of it mattered without Hank.
Maybe she’d go south, just until it got warm, then rent an old house and plant a garden. Watch it grow. That would beat the hell out of the damn snow and ice and writing computer programs she didn’t even care about.
The sun slipped below the skyline as Julie reached for the Chinese food bag. Two fortune cookies rattled in the bottom and she pulled them out, slicing open their wrappers with her teeth and slipping the papers from their crunchy folds.
Believe in love and it surrounds you.
She scoffed out loud—a bitter, desperate sound—and flipped to the second fortune.
Enemies and friends have similar features.
She thought of Barstow. He had been an enemy in her mind for so very long, only to be an ally in the end.
A loud clang of metal on metal came from the entryway and she started, adrenaline quickly shooting into her bloodstream. She slowly rose to her feet and strained her ears to hear, unable to see past an eight-foot high divider that separated her from the foyer space.
The silence that followed mocked the original clamor, and she fixed her gaze on the kitchen drawer some ten paces from where she stood. The path to the kitchen was visible from the doorway, and she hesitated, unsure of what to do next.
“Julie? Are you here?”
She exhaled the breath in her lungs, recognizing the admiral’s voice. “Tom, you scared the shit out of me.”
He walked into the space wearing a black leather jacket and aviator glasses, carrying a pizza box. “Sorry. I didn’t think.”
Julie watched as he put the box on the granite counter top and pulled out a cell phone, checking his messages. Crisp jeans landed on black leather boots, adorned with simple silver chains. She wouldn’t have recognized him, were it not for his voice.
“You hungry?” he asked.
“I already ate. Chinese.”
He shrugged out of his coat, revealing a gray T-shirt underneath. Julie was surprised by how muscular his upper body appeared in this outfit, compared to the polo shirt he had worn to the hospital. He turned back to the kitchen and began opening cupboards. Her gut clenched, thinking of the gun.
“Got any plates?”
“No, there’s nothing.”
“Oh, well.” He picked up a piece of pizza and took a large bite.
Julie tugged at the hem of her sweater. She thought he brought her pizza to be kind, but it looked like he was making himself comfortable on a barstool at the kitchen island.
Oh, please, go away.
She debated whether or not to offer him a glass of wine, neither wanting to be rude nor encouraging him to stay. Rubbing at the back of her neck, she decided rude was preferable. At least he might take the hint and leave.
An image flashed in Julie’s mind, a picture of her firing the gun at Barstow. It was so real, more like a memory than anything, and it scared her. She looked beseechingly at the admiral. Was she losing her mind?
He met her eyes as he masticated, the muscles of his jaw working as he stared with eyes void of compassion. Gone was the affable and empathetic man who had visited her in the hospital, the stark contrast unsettling and dark.
Fear began to hum in her belly as the image returned. This time she could see the bullet entering his body, his head jerking back and to the side, blood splattering the taupe wall behind him. Her eyes traveled to look around the loft—failing to find any such wall.
“Would you like some wine?” she asked.
“Sure.”
From her camp on the floor she retrieved her overnight bag, digging a bit before finding another plastic cup. She poured him Chianti and delivered it to his side. In one quick twirl, she caught the cup with her elbow and sent it to the floor, spilling its contents on his pant leg as it fell.
“Damn it to hell,” he said, standing quickly.
“Oh, no. I’m so sorry,” she said, hands splayed in mid-air. “There’s a towel in the bathroom. You can rinse it out.”
He stormed away, his body hulking from side to side like a much younger man. She positioned herself in front of the silverware drawer and waited until he was out of sight before grabbing the gun and tucking it in the waistband of her jeans.
Grateful for her bulky sweater, Julie pulled the yellow and green yarn down over the weapon and began to pour Barstow more wine. He reappeared the instant she picked up the bottle, making tiny beads of sweat pop out on her forehead.
“I am sorry, Tom. Did it come out?”
He walked up to her and grabbed her by the elbow. “How about we cut the bullshit, shall we?”
“What do you mean?”
In one move he reached his other hand under her sweater and pulled out the gun, then held the side of it against her nose. “Bullshit, Julie.”
He pushed her away, making her lose her footing and stumble onto the floor.
“You want to play games? Let’s play a little truth or dare, shall we?” He worked to dislodge a piece of food from his teeth.
Julie got her feet beneath her, crouching on the floor beneath his imposing form. “Why are you here?” she said.
“Waiting for your father. I sent him a text message with this address an hour ago.”
Her skin prickled hot and cold. “Why?”
“Oh, sorry. My turn.” He was smiling like the Cheshire cat, clearly enjoying himself. “I dare you to stand right here in front of me,” he gestured to the floor, “and tell me you haven’t been in contact with your father in all these years.”
It was ridiculous, but she felt her own desire to challenge him as she rose before him and raised her chin, speaking the truth. “I haven’t been in contact with my father in ten years.”
The slap met her face with such force, her head whipped around.
“Liar! The game is truth or dare. Nothing but a cunning little opportunist, just like your mother.”
Hatred dripped from his voice, coating the words in ugliness. If he hated her mother, why had he gone to see her in the hospital?
Something clicked in her memory, a doctor in a white lab coat saying her mother would be going home tomorrow. Julie had gone to the chapel to give thanks for prayers answered, and found Henry Goldstein in her mother’s room upon her return.
Thomas Barstow.
“You killed her!”
“She left me no choice.” He raised arms at his sides. “She was going to name me in the lawsuit about the radiation. It would have destroyed my career, just like you are trying to destroy Jared’s. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, now does it?”
There was no statute of limitations on murder. Barstow had no intention of letting her walk out of here alive.
Too bad it’s not his decision to make.
The courage roared up inside her, the will to fight for herself and win. She deliberately focused on the scene in her mind, Barstow’s blood splattering on the wall. Confidence swarmed through her as she watched him fall, knowing that her premonition would become reality.
Her fingers itched to hold the cold metal of the gun, which rested on the granite next to his half-eaten pizza.
Déjà vu wafted over her like a cloud shadowing the sun.
She had already lived this moment in the kitchen of Systex, her father standing before her, her opportunity fading as she hesitated.
I will not hesitate again.
“This is so much fun. I’ve often dreamed of what it would be like to talk to you. You’re the only person who can really appreciate all that I’ve done.”
Cold sweat lingered on her back, her underarms. “What else is there?”
He puffed his chest. “Pour me a glass of wine. And don’t spill this one, you clumsy bitch.”
She retrieved his cup from the floor and filled it, bringing the bottle back with her to the island. She took a seat at a barstool across from Barstow and her gun.