The Good Kind of Bad (48 page)

Joe turned and spat on the floor beside Evan. ‘Every night I sat in my cousin’s bar in KC thinking about you, about you with this piece of shit. It wasn’t long before I knew what I’d done wasn’t worth the money he’d promised.’

Not able to look at Joe, I eyed Evan’s lifeless corpse again until I couldn’t bear to look at either of them.

‘Joe . . . I, I wasn’t
with
Evan. We weren’t together. You know that, right?’ There was so much more to say, yet it was the only thing that came out.

‘I know. I know you wouldn’t do that to me, even if you did think I was dead. You need to know, this was all Vic’s idea. It was his plan. He said he had this personal beef with you, something I was better off in the dark about. I didn’t ask who Mr Heller was, why he needed my brother to follow you night and day . . . He promised me five hundred grand – half a million – to treat you “like shit”. I thought it’d be some name-calling. I didn’t think it meant I’d have to . . . It was just one more punch, one more slap, and
then
I’d get the money. We’d get the money. He was watching, the whole time. He said he bugged the apartment, hid cameras everywhere. Don’t you see? I did this for us. When it was over, when I had the five hundred grand, I could provide for you, put a down payment on your Summer Bay apartment; hell, with half a mil I could buy you a whole damn house. I knew you’d understand when I explained, or maybe I was just hoping you’d forgive me. I kept thinking, kept convincing myself, no more Armanti. It kept me focused, that and the Dutch courage. I knew in the end we’d be rich, like you always wanted. But I had to make it convincing. I’m sorry, but I had to. Like I said, he was watching.’

I looked skyward, the tears collecting. I almost smiled at the irony. If only I’d told Joe about the money, none of this would have happened. If only I’d been happy with Armanti Square and not so desperate to change Joe, or maybe, if he’d never dropped to one knee in Galvin’s I wouldn’t be staring at the husband who’d abused me for money. Money we already had.

‘Please. Forgive me. I love you. I know that now. I have since the first moment I saw you. You were too good for me. I felt . . . like I had to make something more of myself, just to be around you. Now I can. Now I can take you to K2 every night. They won’t have to give me a jacket; I can buy a whole closetful. What do you say, wifey? Can we start over?’ His smile was weak, testing the water.

I’d already seen it, when Evan was telling me how much of a bitch I was. It was in the foot well, where it must’ve landed during the crash. All it needed was one leap forward, one calculated reach, and I could grab it.

‘Here, let me help you out of the car,’ Joe soothed. ‘Then we can get back to how things were, before Vic ruined our lives. You and me, together; you, me and the money. We never had chance to see what we could be. Now the future can be anything we want.’

Joe grinned wildly, his face bloody and jacket torn as he staggered on the spot, method acting his way through what he wanted me to hear; even if his words didn’t, his greedy eyes told me all I needed to know, all I already knew. His hand hadn’t been forced. From day one, Evan had said punch and Joe had asked how hard.

As Joe stepped towards me, I jumped forward, wrapped my fingers around Evan’s gun, pointed it at Joe and fired once, right between the eyes.

One bullet. One. And it was done.

I moved over to the sink to wash the blood off my hands, leaving the blinds drawn in the musty motel room. By the window I checked the front; a young couple dragged a screaming toddler behind a wall of suitcases, an elderly gentleman hovered above his walking stick; but that’s all there was. At least, so far.

In the motel room off I-88, I sat waiting for the cops, until my eyes refused to stay open.

I slept upright in the chair, one hand on my survival kit removed from Evan’s car, and one eye supposedly trained on the window, searching for car headlights, faces by the window, or the clunk of a safety being removed; but when morning came I was surprised, relieved and almost a little guilty, though I knew the last part would waiver soon enough.

After bandaging the wound on my leg with a piece of bed sheet, next door, in Sneckworth’s Diner, I sat by the counter, like I used to in Bemo’s, fanning my face with the napkin, on it my father’s new account details. Next to me sat a grey bouffanted lady, an overly smiley great-grandmother from Iowa City, who was heading to Milwaukee to meet the new addition to her brood. Hope and Serendipity. Twins. Of course she could drop me in the city to collect my suitcase and my dog. She said I looked like a nice girl, even if the hundred bucks I gave her was edged with the faintest traces of blood.

It was hardly Easy Rider, me and Mrs Tulley trundling along in the rickety station wagon, but with Van Halen on her radio (who knew?), we were soon heading east, checking the mirrors all the way through the flat cornfields of Kane County.

THE END

With thanks to Laura Kingsley and Rachel Winterbottom.

Cover by Jamie Keenan

Rita Brassington was born in Staffordshire, UK in 1983.

The Good Kind of Bad is her first novel.

www.ritabrassington.co.uk

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