chance?”
She nodded frantically. “Yes.”
“Then ask me.” His voice was barely a whisper.
“I am,” she whispered back. “I’m asking you for a second chance.”
He smiled. “Ask me to let you kill yourself.”
She tried. “Please,” she said. She choked on her voice as she began to sob. She slumped to her knees. “Please…”
“Say the words,” he insisted, “or I’ll field-dress your little girl right there on the sofa.”
She tried again. Really tried, but the words wouldn’t come. “Please…”
“Say the words!” he boomed, his voice shaking the glass on a curio cabinet.
She was helpless now. Terrified. Fear and sadness flowed from her soul like a raging river as she finally croaked out the words. “Please. Let. Me. Kill myself.”
Wiggins stood over her, admiring his handiwork. Finally, he stooped down to her level and used one finger on the point of her chin to raise her eyes to meet his. “I don’t normally give second chances,” he whispered.
“That’s it!” Nick yelled. “The white mailbox on the right. That’s my driveway!”
Thorne hit his signal and slowed to make the turn. All very legal. All very slow.
“Goddammit, Thorne, move it!”
“Look!” the driver snarled. “If our target is already there, I’m sure as hell not charging up the driveway into a trap! It won’t make a difference, anyway…”
Jake saw the words cut divots out of Nick’s heart.
“… and if he isn’t there yet, then we’ve got nothing to worry about.” He cleared the mailbox and began inching his way up the long driveway, scanning the horizon for threats.
“Whose van is that?” Jake asked, pointing to the end of the driveway. The block lettering on the side read “Mike’s Plumbing.”
“Oh, shit,” Nick breathed. “Step on it, Thorne.”
Thorne hesitated, then stopped. “This isn’t good.”
It was three-twenty now, and the boys’ bus would arrive out front at any minute.
This time the note was short and sweet. “Good-bye.” She’d addressed it individually to all of her family, and she’d signed it without objection. With her children’s lives in the balance, her own meant nothing.
Wiggins led Melissa to the little balcony overlooking the foyer and handed her the rope. It was clothesline, really; an eight-foot nylon tube with little tufts of white stuffing sticking out of either end. “Tie this onto the railing,” he instructed.
She moved mechanically, like her hands were suddenly a couple of sizes too big. Much to her surprise, though, they didn’t tremble. She was terrified, yet resigned to her fate. It was for her children.
Wiggins watched her work, observing every detail.
She tied the knot carefully, making sure it would hold, even as she feared that the railing itself might not stand the strain of the jolt. Probably wouldn’t matter, anyway. Once her neck snapped, the rest would be academic.
“Very good,” Wiggins praised. “Now, you see that little loop I tied on the other end?”
She looked at him quizzically, then nodded.
“Good. I need you to pull some rope back through the loop to form a noose.
She did what she was told, looking up for confirmation that she was doing it right.
“A little bigger,” he said.
And bigger it grew. She knew that a single screwup would kill her children. She had doubted that once, but not anymore.
He backed away now, putting some distance between himself and his victim. “Okay, Melissa,” he said softly. “The rest is up to you now.” He walked down the stairs to watch the action from the foyer.
She looked at him strangely; like she suddenly didn’t know who he was. She still didn’t understand why, but the time had come to kill herself. She prayed it wouldn’t hurt too much. She eyed the rope in her hands, then slowly and deliberately slipped the noose over her head, adjusting it just so on her neck, with the knot lined up to her spine.
She was crying now, though still amazingly calm as she slung one leg over the railing, and then the other, moving carefully to keep from falling. As if it would matter. The tiny ledge beyond the white wooden rail spindles protruded just enough to support Melissa’s heels; and even then, she had to jam her Achilles tendon into the spaces between them. With her hands behind her, knuckles white against the dark wood of the banister, she looked like the bowsprit of a great schooner. The tears flowed freely now as she looked down at her murderer.
“You’re doing great, Melissa,” he coaxed. There was now an easy gentleness to his tone that she found more frightening than his anger. “You’re almost there. Just take a step.”
She looked down at him, wanting to beg; hoping to tap into a tiny vein of compassion. But there was no pity in those eyes. There’d be no reprieve. She tried to speak but found her throat packed with sand. She swallowed dusty air and tried it again. “Promise me you won’t hurt the children,” she croaked.
He put his fists on his hips and shook his head. “We’ve already been over this.”
“Promise me.”
His eyes narrowed as his features hardened. “Jump, Melissa. End it. Now. They’ll be home soon.”
“Promise me!” A fierceness returned to her voice. It wasn’t a request anymore. It was a demand.
He found it amusing. He stared at her for a moment longer, then finally shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “I promise. Now jump!”
She glared down on him, trying to kill the bastard with the strength of her hate alone. When he refused to break eye contact, though-when he chose instead to smile up at her-she knew the battle was lost. Out in the family room, she heard the mantel clock chime the half hour. Nicky and Joshua would be home at any minute. She had to get this done.
Forgive me, she thought, and she adjusted the rope one last time behind her. Then she let go. And jumped.
“He’s in there,” Thorne whispered, and he climbed out of the car.
Jake followed, sliding out of the backseat. “How do you know?”
“Because that’s what I’d drive if I thought I might have to dispose of a couple of bodies. Call it intuition.”
Nick stayed in the car as Jake and Thorne played commando, sneaking quietly up the grassy slope toward the house.
“Screw this,” Nick spat. In one smooth motion, he slid over to the driver’s seat and slammed the gas pedal to the floor. The rear wheels dug trenches in the grass as the big boat of a car launched forward, the acceleration slamming Jake’s door shut.
He passed his partners in a blur, rocketing straight toward the front of the house. He covered the three hundred feet in no time at all, destroying a dozen azaleas and a thirty-year-old boxwood as he slid to a stop on the front walk.
Stealth be damned, he jumped out of the car and dashed full speed up the two steps to the front door. When he found it ajar, he panicked and flew into the foyer. “Mel-oh, God!”
Melissa saw the door fly open, even as she leapt into the air, and the reality of her rescue hit her like a bolt of lightning. Her body jerked and arced wildly as she abandoned her suicide and turned in midair, clamoring for a handhold on the railing. Her left hand nicked it but missed, and she brought her right around in a giant overhead arc, catching the polished banister in her palm.
She slammed heavily into the ledge and the spindles. A splintering crack! startled her, and for just a fraction of an instant, she feared that the wood had snapped. Then the bolt of agony reached her brain, launched from her ruined shoulder. Suddenly, the railing felt white-hot in her palm, and as her grip started to slip, she said another prayer for her children.
Nick had never seen the man before in his life, but he knew from his eyes exactly who he was. The entire scene registered with the speed of a camera flash. The murderer in the foyer. His wife struggling overhead.
Little Lauren, looking sleepy and disheveled, took it all in from the kitchen doorway.
Wiggins moved toward Nick with viper-speed. But for an extra two feet of separation, Nick would have died
