Chapter Four
Ava Anderson
I stare at a flyer with a silhouette of Monique Gruber facing a large stage, a violin, and a fiddle in her outstretched hands.
It’s a concert that’s scheduled to happen soon. Exactly what I need.
It's been almost two weeks since the day of my performance…
I feel a heavy ache in my chest whenever I think of Lynn Watt. Something clogs my throat whenever I remember the sweetness of her voice over the phone.
But who knows if her killer isn't just some trigger-happy fellow in search of a thrill? It wouldn't be the first time someone got killed on Broadway. It wouldn't be the first time someone was killed by a fan with excessive— sick, yes —but excessive desire for some sort of buzz that would make them feel powerful .
Regardless, Lynn did not deserve that. To be targeted like a shabbily drawn bull's eye on the bark of a tree.
I remember the words of the Captain and I wonder. Why would anyone want to target me?
I am the most peaceful, all-in-my-business, conflict-avoiding opera singer you could ever meet. At least I think so. I hardly raise my voice at anyone, and I don't remember having any kind of beef with anyone.
Certainly not one serious enough to warrant seeing the bullet cannon straight out of a gun’s barrel, moments before I die, my life flashing like a movie before my eyes.
It makes no sense why anyone would want me dead.
Still, I can't live like this anymore. Cooped up like some chicken whose eggs are some police officers’ billion-dollar ticket.
What if Lynn's death is some unfortunate coincidence and the killer’s fled the country already? I mean, what sort of killer leaves their gun at the crime scene?
My phone vibrates on the coffee table and the screen lights up. It’s Gray Neanson, my voice trainer.
“I know your flu is gone, sweet little bird. Now tell me you're out of quarantine, too,” his voice echoes on the other end. “Remember that show you've got at the Jiggy, next Saturday? You haven't picked a song you'd like to perform yet. ”
Gray is a man who likes nail polish and has multiple piercings. The sort of man who would pick one fry at a time and savor each bite that went past his glossed lips with eyes closed.
I sit up on my bed and glance at the open door to see if I can glimpse Wade.
“I don't know, Gray. You should talk to Dayton about it. He mentioned I wouldn't be able to go about my normal routine for a while, right?”
“Sadly, yes. But Dayton still hasn't canceled these reservations. That means he's holding a light up till you're able to.”
I huff. “Maybe I could…”
I glance at the door again.
There has to be something I can do.
“Gray?”
“Yes, little birdie?”
“I’ll call you back.”
I hung up and got to my feet. The concert flyer is lying on my bed right where I'd just tossed my phone. Monique Gruber’s show is only a few weeks away. I'd been anticipating it for years. It’ll probably be her last show before she retires. And somehow, I am going to attend.
I marched out of my room and find Wade standing with his attention trained on the large wall in the living room where there was a picture of me and DJ. My son has the sweet smile his father had—the same one that had made me fall thousands of feet and land smitten in his arms, only to end up with a broken heart and a child I consider my greatest treasure.
There is a picture of me and Lynn Watt laughing while at work in the studio where we practiced. Just beside it, a picture of me in junior and senior years and a picture of me after college—some with me standing alone and others with my family.
He is so engrossed in them, so I simply turn around and walk back into my room. With a soft snick, I shut the door.
My chest puffs with determination.
I will go out today, whether he likes it or not.
I step into the bathroom for a quick shower, enjoying the warm spray on my skin so much that I spend double the time in there.
I spend minimal time in front of the mirror. My makeup is just some lotion and lipstick. It is all I need to look like I spent thousands to get my soft skin glowing. I run a brush through my hair, and let it cascade down my back in a straight, glossy black waterfall.
After that, I picked out a white shirt and a jean pinafore dress with an elaborate flare and a pair of sneakers.
There.
I grab my keys from my dressing table.
He’s still facing the wall when I walk out of my room .
He’s probably asleep, on his feet. I make a guess as to why he stands there, motionless.
“It’s interesting how this place you're going to is more important to you than your life,” Wade breaks the silence in a dark voice as I attempt to sneak past him.
The triumphant celebration in my heart snuffs out like a candle in the wind.
“Don’t you think that story is a little old? Who could want my life so bad that I'm forced to deal with you as a new shadow?”
He turns around. His eyes are dark and unreadable. His stance, unyielding. I held my breath and his gaze. Crossed my fingers.
No one could be that cold . I think. Right?
“You’re not going anywhere.” He steps forward. “I will lock you in and hold you hostage if I have to.”
“That’s it. There's no way this is professional.”
“You fancy being shot?”
“And stop telling that lie,” I fume. “I’m calling the precinct. And I'm going to make sure you lose your job, so you can survive on food stamps and charity for a couple of months till you get another one. And that's if you have enough savings to survive, as it stands.”
I flipped my phone out of my purse and began to dial a number. A crisp male voice answered at the other end .
“Hello. I'd like another bodyguard, please. This one's lost his mind.”
The call is direct to the captain, who'd made sure I had his number before they left the evening they were here a couple of weeks ago.
“On what grounds, miss?”
“He won't let me leave my house.”
“He's doing his job well, then.”
“What do you mean by doing his job well? He won't let me go out. I need another bodyguard.”
“I’m sorry, miss. Wade Cooper is the best you can get. Probably the best in the whole country. We don't have anyone that can replace him.”
“How is that even possible?”
The man hangs up.
I look at Wade, who has a calm expression on his face. His arms are folded across his chest.
“Look. Maybe this was all a misunderstanding, and you can't do anything about it until you get instructions from your superiors, but I have a schedule that existed before any of this happened. I can't jeopardize that any more than I already have. So, please. Just let me do what I have to, and I'll be back, safe and sound.”
“You’re not going anywhere. ”
“I have to,” I raise my voice, desperately willing him to understand.
“You are not going anywhere, Miss Anderson. Do yourself a favor and find something else to do. You won't have a problem with me as long as you don't step outside.”
“Should I take that as a threat?”
He steps even closer, that dark look still on his face. “You can take it as one. You're not leaving this house.”
My chest swells with anger and I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to hold myself back.
“I will make sure you lose this job,” I say through gritted teeth.
A smug smile appears on his face. “I have no objections.”
I go back to my room and shut the door, sit on my bed with my face in my palms. I blink back the angry tears struggling to the fore and clear my throat.
Gray might call me a little bird, but I'd grown some pretty big wings ever since I started making it on my own.
I wiped my eyes, got up from my bed, and stood by my door. I opened it with just a crack and peeped out.
He was nowhere in sight. But I could see the beautiful bronze vase and the door to the cleaning room.
It’s almost too perfect .
I step out, heading straight to the cleaning room where I retrieve a mop handle.
Wade looks fed up with me.
I held it up and charged him.
He grabbed the stick and wrenched it out of my hand. I aim a kick at his groin, but he catches my ankle and shoves me back.
I crashed on my butt, right beside the vase. Exactly as intended.
Jumping to my feet, I pluck out the long raffia flowers from the vase, then whip them at him. He dodges the assault, but it blocks his vision.
Then I whip them at his head so that he bends low to dodge.
In that tiny window, my hands let go of the flowers and pick up the vase to swing it around heavily, banging it against his head while he is halfway up.
His head is whipped to the side, and he loses his balance.
I run to the door, burst through it, and shut it behind me. Then go to my car, clicking the button on my keypad so that the doors are already open before I get to it.
I am struggling with the ignition when I see him burst out after me.
A second later, my car roared to life, and I sped out of the driveway and onto the smooth, clean neighborhood road. My next stop is the highway and after that, the studio .
If the best bodyguard in the whole of the United States is unable to stop me, I think to myself with a smile, then nothing else can.
When I get to the T road that leads to the highway, I step on the brake pedal so I can turn onto the road, but nothing happens.
I step on it again and again. Nothing happens.
“What the—”
My heart goes into overdrive.
I swerved dangerously onto the highway, narrowly missing being hit by a speeding truck.
I try to settle in a lane, but I am moving so fast that I have to swerve away from any car that’s in front of me before I hit it.
Cars honk and voices are raised in alarm, which I hear through the open window as I get closer to a traffic light where only a handful of cars are waiting for the yellow to change to green.
There is no way out of this. I am going to crash into one of the cars.
The traffic light turns green just then and the cars take off in different directions. I speed ahead onto a lonely road.
In a panic, I stepped on the gas and the brakes at the same time.
My car roars and rushes faster down the highway .
I scream. “Help!”
But I don't know who I expect to hear my cry and come for me.
Just then, I saw a familiar car speeding behind me. It’s closing in.
When it gets to my side, it inches even closer and slams into the side of my car. I scream as my vehicle swerves sideways and then continues driving straight ahead.
The car swings past mine.
I watched as it turned, forming some sort of barricade right ahead.
“Get out of the way!” I scream.
I don’t want a collision. But I am too close to avoid the car. And then I crash right into it with a loud bang!
Glass shatters. The other car's tires scraped the road as we slid for a few meters and then we come to a stop.
An airbag explodes out of the steering wheel, and I am struggling to not suffocate from the protective material when the door is pulled open, and I’m dragged out by Wade Cooper.
He takes one glance at my tear-stained cheeks and asked, “Are you injured?”
I just shake my head .
I can't feel anything except the shakiness of my limbs.
He lifts my arm where there is a large streak of blood. I'd been cut by the glass. But the wound isn't very deep.
“Come.”
The man pulls me away from my car and to his car—the one that had intercepted me. Then he offers some first aid and dresses my wound.
Once the bleeding stops, he goes over to examine my car.
I can see people coming towards us.
“What happened to it?” I ask when he emerges from under the car expressionlessly.
“Someone severed your brake lines,” he says. “Someone just tried to kill you.”
A second assassination attempt in less than a month. They were right. This couldn't be a coincidence.