Darker Than Any Shadow - By Tina Whittle Page 0,97

at the threshold, a white cloth bag in one hand and a little black pot wrapped in a dishtowel in the other. Healing crystals and miso soup. Her usual offerings in times of trouble.

“Trey said I was to keep you company.”

I tried to sound calm. “No need. I’m fine.”

“He said you might argue, but that I was to ignore you. He made me promise.”

Seconds ticked. Gabriella saw the uncertainty in my face.

“Are you okay?”

No, there’s a madwoman with a gun on me, I thought. I chanced a glance left. Gabriella’s eyes followed, then returned to mine. Her pretty mouth twisted, but she indicated no comprehension. Damn it, of all the people to show up at my door, it had to be the useless French massage-chick ex-girlfriend.

“Sure,” I said. “I’m fine. Just not in the mood for company.”

“Trey insisted I come over.”

“And you have.”

She was still frowning. Maybe she would realize something was off and call Trey, which would trigger that search-and-destroy brain of his. Gabriella moved forward, and I blocked the door. I couldn’t think straight, but I knew one thing—the second she crossed that threshold, we were both dead.

“You can’t come in.”

Gabriella looked confused. “If you insist. But at least take this.” She handed me the cast iron pot.

I took it with both hands and caught the smell of miso. I wondered if she’d bring more to my funeral, if Trey would find comfort in it. She’d no doubt offer whatever he needed.

I stood there, that image galloping through my head—me in the casket, Gabriella’s delicate French hand on Trey’s shoulder. It was one of those life-passing-before-my-eyes moments. Gabriella in front of me, beautiful and confused. Frankie two feet away, relentless and cool.

Hands down until you need them, hands up until it’s over.

So I took a deep breath. Pivoted. And then, in one swift upwards toss, I chucked the whole pot of semi-boiling mess right in Frankie’s face.

She screamed, her hands flying up reflexively to protect her eyes. She squeezed off a shot, but the bullet went wild. I ducked, snatched the crutch, and swung it like a baseball bat, smashing it into Frankie’s gun hand, sending the pistol skittering across the floor. I saw it skid under the sofa, heard Gabriella screaming.

“Get the gun!” I yelled as Frankie bulldozed me into the wall. I grabbed hair and yanked, mashed my thumbs into her eyes, and we crashed to the floor, spitting, cursing, dripping with soup, me kicking, Frankie choking me, my body rebelling, no breath, sinking, darkening…

And then my fingers closed around the pot. And I slammed it with all my might against her skull. And I kept slamming it until Frankie collapsed on top of me.

She was deadweight. I sucked in air, one lungful, then two. Finally I got the strength to roll to my side and shove her body off me. My horizon tilted and my stomach heaved, but I stayed conscious.

Gabriella stood with the gun pointed at Frankie, her finger on the trigger, red hair flying wildly from its disheveled topknot. She looked aflame in my flickering vision, and the whole room smelled like onion broth and soy sauce.

I pulled myself upright. “Gabriella?”

“Yes?”

“Take your finger off the trigger.”

She obliged.

I made a little gimme motion. “Now hand it to me.”

She did. I ejected the magazine. Almost full. I slammed it back inside and closed my eyes until the room stopped spinning. I could barely hear, as if my head were stuffed with oatmeal.

Frankie wasn’t moving, but I kept the gun pointed at her nonetheless. I deliberately positioned my index finger along the barrel, keeping the trigger clear. The thought of a little “accident” was too damn tempting.

“Now get something to tie her up and call 911. She’s got my phone in her pocket. Get it.”

Gabriella did as I asked without saying one word. I was still shaking, but not throwing up. I swore I was not going to throw up. Not this time.

And I didn’t.

Chapter Forty-seven

By the time the first responding officer arrived, Gabriella had bound Frankie with a dozen of Trey’s ties, including one that acted as a gag. She had been surprisingly efficient at this, executing several knots that even a former Girl Scout like myself didn’t recognize. She’d muttered extravagant Gallic curses while she did so, stringing the sibilant vulgarities together like rough pearls on wire.

I held a package of frozen peas to my head and tried to speak coherently to the uniformed cops standing in front of me. I explained what had