The Kiss of Death (2 page)

“The gun,” Lisa started to say, but Claire interrupted her.

“The gun’s not registered. Anyway, I’ll toss it somewhere along the road, far enough away from here that even if it’s ever found, no one will connect it to you. Or me.”

Lisa squared her shoulders, summoned up a trace of the old Lisa, brash, confident, almost arrogant. It was, Claire thought, an admirable performance, under the circumstances.

“Surely you don’t really mean to kill me,” she said. She gave Claire a disbelieving smile, her head tilted in that way she had, and took a step in Claire’s direction. “Over one lousy little kiss?”

Claire smiled too. “It was lousy, wasn’t it?” she said.

The log cracked again in the fireplace. Claire started, and pulled the trigger. The bang was louder than she expected. She winced and jerked her hand, but as close as she was there was no possibility of her missing.

She stood, looking down at the dead woman on the floor, the pale yellow silk splashed now with scarlet. She thought she ought to feel remorse, but to her surprise, she didn’t. An eye for an eye. Lisa had killed Jason, as surely as if she’d shot him. Fair was fair, wasn’t it?

There was a clatter of footsteps on the stairs and Will, Lisa’s ten-year old boy, charged into the room. “Mom, I heard…” he said, and stopped short, staring. His eyes, his expression, reminded her of Jason’s, that other time. When he’d barged in unexpectedly.

“Will,” she said, astonished. “I thought you were spending the weekend with your father.”

“My dad’s got the flu,” he said. He looked from her to his mother, and back to her. His face was ghost white. “Are you going to shoot me?” he asked after a long moment. His voice cracked a little but he stood his ground, arms at his sides, at attention.

She had turned toward the door when he dashed in, had forgotten the gun in her hand. She realized now she was pointing it at him.

“No,” she said. She lowered her hand, took a step backward, and dropped into the chair by the window. “No, I’m not.”

Outside, it had started to snow again, a furious wind whipping the big flakes against the pane in waves. She thought of the waves in California, the way they seemed to pause for a second or two—translucent in the afternoon sunlight, like they were carved from jade—just before they rolled up onto the beach.

“You’d better call the cops, Will,” she said.