She Can Kill (She Can Series) (8 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

They say you always remember your first. First kiss. First love.

First murder.

But how many people can say they experienced those three things all in the same night?

Cristan remembered so clearly; the rush of images nearly stole his breath. Eva was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, though at thirteen and coming from a life on the street, he didn’t have many comparisons. If he closed his eyes right now, he could see her just the way she’d looked that evening.

He’d been standing in the doorway of his small room in a building behind the house, the scent of warm, wet grass in his nose, the first strains of party music drifting across the lawn, a sharp spark of suspicion in his mind. Why was he here? Nothing was free. Franco Vargas wasn’t a do-gooder prone to random acts of kindness. He was a gunrunner, not that Christopher had an issue with lawlessness. The only laws he respected were those of survival. A month before, in Buenos Aires, Franco had approached Christopher on the street and offered him money to deliver a message and bring back the response. Orphaned and homeless, Christopher had jumped at the opportunity. But when the task had been complete, Franco had offered him a job and brought him back to his
estancia
. Surely, a man like Franco would want something in exchange for this new life, payment of some sort.

Across twenty meters of grass and the lighted expanse of a swimming pool, she walked out of the house onto the patio. High cheekbones and an aquiline nose attested to her Spanish blood. Dark hair tumbled down her back in a sable wave. A white sundress showed off long, tan legs that ended in flat sandals. She looked cool and fresh in the Argentine summer night.

He’d washed after finishing his chores in the barn, but that night, heat hovered in a steamy layer over the pampas. A fresh trickle of sweat dripped between his shoulder blades. No matter. He could never be good enough for her. That must be Franco’s oldest daughter, Eva. Franco might have opened his home, but no doubt his daughter would be off-limits.

The soft strums of guitar music floated from the house at her back. A patio door opened, and a voice called, “Eva.”

She turned and went inside, and Christopher remembered how to breathe.

Christopher had learned several important lessons since his arrival. Franco was the indisputable head of the Vargas household. If he brought a stray teenage boy home from Buenos Aires, no one asked questions. Without so much as a shrug, the staff had prepared a room and scrounged up some clothing. Christopher adjusted his belt. The pants were still too large for his hollowed waist, but the cook pledged that condition would be temporary.

He’d spent the first week waiting for Franco to come to his senses and send him back. But that hadn’t happened. Instead, he’d been fed, clothed, and given chores, as if he belonged. Learning to care for the sleek horses was more pleasure than work. He wasn’t sure why, after years of backslapping him, fate had decided to play nice, but he knew how to live in the moment. This evening, instead of curling up on a cardboard pallet in an abandoned warehouse, he was preparing to attend a homecoming celebration for Franco’s daughters, home on vacation from boarding school.

He had only faint recollections of family gatherings, from before his parents had become victims of Argentina’s Dirty War. From a cupboard under the stairs, six-year-old Christopher had watched the soldiers drag his parents from the house in the middle of the night. Like thirty thousand other people suspected of being dissidents, they’d simply disappeared. With no family, Christopher had been on his own.

Shaking off the memory, he watched as guests arrived and people flowed onto the patio. He left his small room, his insecurities trampled by his need to see her again. The smell of grilling meat drifted over the lawn as he crossed to the main house. He spotted Franco’s bulky frame standing by the pool. Surviving on the streets, Christopher had learned how to be invisible, an essential skill for a thief. He skirted the guests, his eyes sweeping the small groups of people for the only one he wanted to see.

Where was she?

A young girl, a smaller and childish version of Eva, waved at him. The sister. Her yellow dress bounced as she skipped over to him. She dipped her chin and gave him a shy smile. “I’m Maria. I’m nine.”

“I’m Christopher.”

“I know.” Her grin showed a missing tooth. “Papa told us about you.”

Heat seared Christopher’s cheeks. He was the poor orphan boy.

She leaned close and whispered, “Don’t be embarrassed. Papa says Argentina has too many orphans, and you’re not the first he’s brought home.”

That explained the staff’s ready response. Gratitude welled in Christopher’s chest, and he vowed to earn his keep.

She smiled and looked up through her lashes at him. “Do you want some food? Cook makes the best empanadas.”

Though Christopher was tempted to stuff his face once again, the habit of filling one’s stomach at every opportunity ingrained, he resisted. The girl in white tugged at his attention. He wanted to find her.

“Where is your sister?” he asked.

Her smiled faded. “I saw her walking toward the barn.”

“Thank you.” Christopher turned away. The music quieted as he moved away from the house, and he could hear insects in the deep grass of the pasture. She wasn’t in the barn. Walking through, he scanned the fence line and spied a slim figure on the other side of the barnyard, her white dress glowing ethereally in the moonlight. She leaned on the fence, watching the horses graze in the pasture beyond. At his approach, she turned and smiled at him, and his heart stumbled.

“I’m Christopher.” He rested his forearms on the top rail.

“I know,” she said without looking at him. “And I suspect you know who I am as well.”

“Why aren’t you at your party?” he asked.

She made a disgusted sound. “I have no time for such foolishness. I don’t even want to go back to school. I want to stay here. But Papa insists. He promised Mama before she died.”

Christopher studied her profile. He’d been told she was the same age as him, but the grave purpose in her eyes made her seem older. Perhaps, like him, she hadn’t been a child in a long time.

His gaze swept the dark forms of horses grazing in the pasture. Above, stars glittered in an ink-blue sky. “I can’t blame you for not wanting to leave here.”

She glanced sideways. Consideration drew her brows together. “I suppose this is heaven for you.”

“Yes.” His feelings were a jumbled mess he couldn’t explain with words. He looked away, but the darkness didn’t supply any answers.

“Do you like to talk about the past, Christopher?”

“No,” he said honestly.

“Good. Neither do I.” She turned back to the horses. “That one is my favorite.”

“The bay gelding?”

“Yes. He can follow the ball as well as most riders.”

Christopher drank in the sound of her voice as she described each animal and its merits on the polo field. He wasn’t sure how much time passed before she pushed away from the fence. “I had
better make an appearance at my party. I don’t want to offend Papa.”

They turned to walk away when a soft scuffle caught his attention.

“No. Stop,” a small voice cried from the barn.

In unison, they moved toward the dark building, their footsteps silent on the packed earth. In the shadow of the doorway, they paused. Christopher waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the relative darkness. He saw a dark shadow and a brighter, smaller form.

Shoes scuffed. Fabric rustled.

“Please,” a child’s muffled voice pleaded.

Eva stiffened. She reached for a switch on the wall. Light brightened the aisle, revealing an older man and Maria. The man was at least twenty-five. His body pressed Maria against the wall. Her patent leather shoes kicked, seeking traction. His head swiveled, and he saw them.

Christopher lunged forward. Though smaller and lighter, he’d learned to fight to survive. He used surprise to his advantage, kicking the man in the back of the knee and punching the man in the kidney. The man dropped to his knees, and Christopher yanked Maria behind him. She sobbed quietly into the back of his shirt.

He turned to Eva. “You’d better get your father.”

But she wasn’t running for help. She raised a shovel over her head. Rage contorted her features. She swung. The shovel hit the man’s skull with a dull, metallic
thunk
.

It wasn’t the violence or the blood or the death that made the deepest impression on Christopher. He’d seen death before, and a man who preyed on children deserved the worst of fates. It was the gleam of angry satisfaction on Eva’s face that branded itself into his heart. With her fierce eyes and white dress, she could have been an avenging angel. Her gaze met his, and he realized her beauty was the least important of her qualities. In a world filled with selfishness, deception, and greed, there was nothing more compelling than loyalty.

“We protect our own,” she said.

“I understand.” And he envied their bond.

“Good.” She prodded the man’s body with her toe. He lolled, dead and limp. With a nod, she tugged Maria out from behind Christopher’s back and pointed at the dead man. “You never have to fear him again.”

Maria’s breath hitched over and over as she fought for control. “I-I-came to the barn to s-spy on you.”

“This is
not
your fault.” Eva smoothed the wrinkles from her sister’s dress. “Go back to the party. Act as if nothing has happened.” When Maria continued to cry, Eva dried her sister’s eyes with gentle thumbs. “You must be strong. If Juan’s boss finds out what happened, there will be retribution.”

Maria’s head snapped around. Her gaze locked with her older sister’s. Understanding passed between them. With a final sniff, Maria pulled her emotions in with a huge lungful of air. Her chin rose and she nodded. “I can do it.”

“Good girl,” Eva said. “If anyone asks why you are sad, just tell them you are missing Mama.”

With a solemn nod, Maria left the barn.

“Help me hide him.” Eva bent and took hold of the man’s ankle.

Christopher took the other foot. “Who is he?”

“His name is Juan Menendez. He’s a lieutenant in a local militia. His boss is one of our best clients.”

Together they dragged the body down the aisle. They hid him behind a cabinet in the wash stall.

“Now what?” Christopher asked.

“We get Nicolas. He will know how to make the death look like an accident. It won’t be difficult. Everyone knows how much Juan likes his tequila and cocaine.” Brushing the dirt from her hands, she rose onto her toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you.”

Heat filled Christopher. At that moment, he would have done anything for her.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Sarah turned off the engine of the minivan and stared up at her childhood home. The old Cape Cod, with its peeling paint and torn window screen, looked depressed. A beat-up sedan sat in the cracked, stained driveway. Thursdays were slow at the inn, and she’d finished early. Troy wouldn’t bring the girls home for a couple of hours. Now was a good time to check on her father, though her visits home were getting harder and harder.

She reached across the console and lifted the takeout container from the passenger seat, some lasagna left over from the inn’s lunch menu. Her father didn’t answer the doorbell, but then she hadn’t expected a greeting. She used her key and went inside.

The smell hit her like a slap, a combination of rotten food and mustiness. Covering her nose and mouth with one hand, she walked through the dingy living room. The wide bay window couldn’t let in enough light to offset the shroud of depression that smothered the house. She found the source of the odor in the kitchen: a sink full of dirty dishes and an almost empty quart of milk left to sour on the counter.

Worried, she deposited the takeout on the table and opened a window. “Dad?”

Apprehension raised goose bumps on her arms as she approached the den. Wooden blinds over the three windows blocked the daylight, and the light from the twenty-year-old console TV flickered over the room. Her father lay in his recliner. She walked closer, dread gathering in her belly, her eyes focused on his thin chest. At the first rise and fall of his ribcage, she exhaled in relief.

He wasn’t dead, just drunk.

Ironically, the realization weakened her legs. Her father had been drinking himself to death since her mother died seven years ago. It was only a matter of time until he got his wish.

The darkness closed in on her, and her lungs constricted. She went to the windows and started opening blinds, letting the sunlight pour into the room. Dust floated from the wooden slats.

“What the hell are you doing?” Blinking, her father struggled to bring the recliner upright.

Ignoring him, Sarah opened the last blind, then fought with the window lock until it gave. She pushed up the sash. Cold, fresh air flooded the room, and Sarah inhaled. “I bought you some food.”

He was on his feet and moving toward her on shaky legs. He pushed her out of the way. She stumbled sideways, grabbing for the arm of the sofa to steady her legs.

One rough hand slammed the window shut. An arthritic finger pointed at her nose. “Leave me alone.” He closed every blind until the familiar gloom settled over the space.

“Fine.” She backed away. Sadness tightened her throat. “You win. I can’t keep doing this.”

Returning to his chair, he lifted a glass from the end table to his lips. “You know where the door is.”

“You have two grandchildren you’ve never met. If you decide you want to live, call me.” Sarah glanced over her shoulder on her way out. “You have my number.”

“It’s a shame,” he said in a slurred voice. “You were the good girl. Did too much time with your sister give you that smart mouth?”

He wasn’t too drunk to try and manipulate her.

Sarah left without responding. There was no point, but guilt plagued her all the way home, where she decided she couldn’t sit and wait. She changed her clothes, grabbed a plastic container from the fridge, and leashed her dog. “Let’s go see Rachel.”

Bandit rode shotgun. Fifteen minutes later, she parked her minivan in front of her sister’s farmhouse and checked her messages. Her phone had beeped several times during the drive. Her phone showed three missed calls and messages, all from Troy. Though she suspected nothing was wrong, she pressed Listen with a nervous hand.

His voicemails accelerated from “You didn’t answer my message” to “Are you fucking that guy?”

Instead of responding, Sarah phoned her attorney and dumped the situation in his lap. He’d mostly behaved while they were separated, but now that the divorce was final, he was ignoring the rules.

She got out of the van and collected her bowl. The dog jumped over the console and out of the car like a mountain goat, and Sarah slammed the door shut. Straining at the end of his leash, Bandit ran to the back door and barked. There was no need to ring the bell when she brought him along. She rubbed her aching arm. Though the sun shone from a clear sky, the March chill lodged in the knitted bone, a permanent reminder of Troy’s temper.

“Hey.” Rachel let them into the mudroom and used a towel to wipe Bandit’s feet. “Where are the girls?”

“With Troy.” Sarah stripped off her coat and carried her container through to the newly renovated kitchen. She set it on the island, and tossed her handbag on a counter stool. The little dog bolted past. His furry paws slid on the hardwood as he rounded a corner and ran out of the room.

“How did it go?” Rachel washed her hands at the white-aproned farmhouse sink.

“Troy picked them up at eight. Alex yelled, and Emma cried. By nine I had a call from my attorney that Troy is accusing me of spousal alienation, or turning his kids against him.”

Rachel snorted. “Like he needs any help with that.”

“It’s been a long day.” Sarah rubbed her forehead. “They’ll be home in two hours. Then I can relax. I really don’t want to talk about it right now.”

“I’m sorry. He’s a bastard. That’s why you divorced him. Want some coffee?”

“Please.” Sarah accepted a full mug and wrapped her cold fingers around it. Bandit trotted back into the kitchen, tail drooping.

“Sorry, buddy, Mike’s not here.” Sarah leaned over and stroked his head “I had to lock him up when Troy picked up the kids. He caught Troy’s scent at the front door and went ballistic.”

“Good dog.” Rachel tossed him a piece of cheese. “He’s a good judge of character.”

“He hasn’t forgotten what it’s like to be on the angry end of Troy’s boot.” Sarah straightened. She hadn’t forgotten what it was like to be on the wrong side of Troy’s temper either. But she couldn’t let her fear stunt the progress she was making. She’d made a lot of mistakes, but she was damned if she’d let them define her. She’d thought moving forward would be easier once the divorce was final and custody settled. But why was Troy so determined to control her? Every time he looked at her, she could feel hate emanating from his body, as toxic as a radiation leak. If she wasn’t careful, it would bloom into something malignant.

Sarah peeled the plastic wrap from the bowl and opened Rachel’s utensil drawer for a couple of spoons. “Taste this.”

Rachel gave it a suspicious sniff. “What is it?”

“It’s a lemon pepper dipping sauce. Just taste it.” Sarah waved the spoon. “I promise. No vegetables.”

Rachel tasted the sauce with the tip of her tongue like a child. “Oh, it’s good.”

“Why are you always so surprised?” Sarah asked.

Rachel licked the spoon clean. “I don’t like fancy food.”

Sarah said, “My three-year-old has a more sophisticated palate.”

“True.”

“What do you think about serving this with the chicken-skewer appetizers?” Sarah rooted through her handbag for the notebook she was using to plan the food for her sister’s wedding reception. “After everything you and Mike have done for me, I want your wedding to be perfect.”

“I wish you wouldn’t worry about it so much.” Rachel crossed the oak floor to the stainless steel fridge and opened it. She pulled a plastic container from a shelf. The fact that her sister had a container of actual food in her kitchen spoke volumes about how much her life had changed since she’d met the local police chief, Mike O’Connell. “We moved the wedding back. So there’s tons of time.” Both the barn reconstruction and kitchen remodel had taken longer than anticipated.

“What is that?” Sarah nodded toward the container her sister was opening.

“Chicken breast.” Rachel removed the plastic lid and made a face. “Mike cooked it last night. No fat, no salt, no taste.”

“Mike eats to fuel his body.” Sarah laughed. Her sister’s fiancé was a former athlete.

“He sure as hell doesn’t eat for enjoyment.” Rachel took two plates out of a drawer in the island. She forked some sliced chicken onto a plate and topped it with a spoonful of sauce. She ate a bite and offered one to Sarah. “The sauce helps. I bet it would be great with potato chips or hot wings.”

“Good. I’ll add it to the menu.” Laughing, Sarah flipped through the notebook. Rachel retrieved a box of Pop-Tarts from the back of a cupboard and held it out.

“God, no.” Sarah waved away the box.

“To each his own.” Rachel opened a foil pouch and sniffed the pastry as if it were the cork of an aged bottle of merlot. “Now tell me what’s up with Troy.”

“He’s been difficult lately.”

“Why? Custody is settled. You didn’t press for alimony or take anything except personal stuff from the house.”

Troy had taken out a second mortgage to keep the sporting goods store out of bankruptcy. There hadn’t been any marital assets to fight over.

“I don’t know.” Sarah took a long sip of steaming coffee. Troy was going to a lot of effort to harass her.

“I still can’t believe any judge gave him unsupervised visitation.” Rachel washed her pastry down with a glass of milk. “Troy shouldn’t be allowed to raise livestock, let alone children.”

“Troy can be charming when he wants to be.” In high school, he’d been good-looking and athletic. He’d partied hard with the baseball team, but she’d thought he’d grow up eventually. Instead, he’d just grown bitter. “On the bright side, he’s been clean and sober at every meeting, and he’s required to attend AA and the anger management support group regularly. Maybe getting arrested really did change him. I’m hoping he really wants to connect with his children.”

Rachel’s expression disagreed.

“Please, Rachel.” Sarah looked to the window. Flurries drifted across the glass. “I don’t have any choice, so I might as well be optimistic. It would be best for the girls to have a relationship with their mother
and
father.”

“You’re right, but he hurt you. I can’t forgive him for that,” Rachel said.

And on the subject of family drama . . .

“I stopped to see Dad today.” Sarah didn’t meet Rachel’s eyes. Her sister wanted nothing to do with their father. Sarah couldn’t blame her.

But Rachel never judged her. She gave Sarah’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “You’re a much nicer person than I am.”

Their own parents had been too consumed by their dysfunctional marriage and their mother’s mental illness to tend to either of their children. And that was the real reason Sarah had married Troy: to escape. At the time, any attention, even the controlling kind, had felt like love. Her mother had just died, and her father had sunk deeper into depression. Troy’s proposal had seemed like a lifeline. Their marriage had been all right at first. Sarah had been thrilled to start a family, though Troy’s disappointment in having two girls had stung. Sarah thought he’d grow to love their children as much as she did.

He traveled during the baseball season, seemingly happy playing for a minor league baseball team, waiting for his big break. But no scout ever drafted him for the major leagues. Instead, he was cut from the team. With two babies to support, he’d gone to work in his father’s store, something he’d sworn never to do. Bitterness drove him to drink, and drinking made him mean. When he’d pressured her to try for a boy, she’d refused. Another baby would only stress their troubled marriage further. And her defiance had proved to be Troy’s tipping point.

“I only stopped by to make sure he was alive and take him some food,” Sarah said. “But I told him this was my last visit. I can’t do it anymore.”

“You’ve done more than anyone else.” Rachel wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

“He’s getting worse. He’s going to die alone in that house.”

“That’s his choice,” Rachel said. “But it’s time you moved forward. You should start your own catering business.”

“I couldn’t do that,” Sarah protested.

“Why not? You’re a fabulous cook. You’re organized and motivated.”

“There are lots of reasons.” Sarah didn’t know where to start. “I don’t have the space or the money or the clients.”

Rachel waved away Sarah’s argument, but that was Rachel. Full steam ahead. “So start small. I’m not suggesting you take on formal dinners for five hundred, but you’re handling a buffet for fifty.”

“I don’t know.” But what was she waiting for? She needed more income than her job at the Main Street Inn provided. She wasn’t optimistic about getting money from Troy. “Do you really think I could do it?”

“Why not?” Rachel gestured at her new appliances and acres of counter space. “You can use our kitchen. Mike’s at work all day, and I’m outside. The place is empty.”

Sarah pressed a knuckle to her lips. The idea of starting her own business was equally scary and exciting. “I’ll think about it, but if I’m going to do it, I’ll use the kitchen I have.”

“Maybe we can upgrade it,” Rachel said.

“No!” Sarah said firmly. “You and Mike already let us live there for free. I won’t have you spending more money on me.”

“We don’t mind.”

“But I do.” Sarah softened her voice. “I appreciate everything you have done for me and the girls, but I have to be independent. It’s important to me.”

Rachel nodded. “Believe me. I understand that. But we’re here if you get in a jam.”

“Thank you. Knowing that helps me sleep at night.” Her new job and independence were great, but knowing your kids had people they could depend on in an emergency was priceless.

The sound of car tires grating on gravel caught their attention. Rachel went to the window over the sink.

“It’s Cristan and Lucia.” Rachel headed for the mudroom. “I have to go out and check on Lady.”

“No sign she’s ready to foal?” Sarah asked. Her sister’s favorite horse was two weeks overdue with her first foal.

“No.” Rachel stepped into her boots. “What’s up with you and Cristan?”

“Nothing’s up. We’re friendly. Lucia babysits my girls.”

“Are you sure? The way he looks at you is more than friendly.” Rachel’s voice lowered.

Sarah’s face heated. She played it cool, but when Cristan turned those dark eyes on her, the only word that came to mind was smoldering, and after the embrace they’d shared Tuesday night, she’d felt a shift in their relationship.